"hooky" poems
A whole new spiral,
Trees upon a coil,
Ink from leagues,
Written feathers,
Drizzled down as oil,
Evermore,
Nevermore,
Less is more,
All.
Reverse inside-out,
Springs before fall,
Trojan powered horses,
Mother Nature's fickle,
In life we really are all,
Trapped within a pickle...
Steal the base,
Capture the flag,
Always run the risk,
Chess played on a checker board,
Hands turned into fists...
The endless stairs,
Rise & fall,
Chutes & ladders,
Poles,
Elevated,
Reciprocated,
Orbital magnetic pull...
This way,
That way,
Three rights make a left,
Two of either,
Horizontal shift,
Four times,
Stuck in circles...
Full Moon,
Half Moon,
Crescent Moon,
**** cheeks...
Face cheeks,
Two lips,
Uranus,
**** facts...
The Owl asks "Who?"
Not how many licks,
Cracked.
Tongue twister,
Riddle fister,
******* fcking dcks...
Creation.
Destruction.
Under construction,
Living life,
Chasing death,
Don't forget to function...
Playing hooky,
Hooked on phonics,
Telephone,
Hello?
Lose the "O",
Cheerios,
Rolled away,
Hell.
Pacific Bell,
Pack Bell,
Liberty Bell,
Cracked.
Xs,
Os,
Hugs,
Kisses,
Followed crumbs,
Smacked...
Cacophony of words,
Magnified to deaf,
Pantomime,
Mr. Mime,
Jynx,
Hypnotic crest...
Abra,
Kadabra,
Apply directly to the forehead...
Water your brain,
Fertilize,
Extra fries,
Exercise...
A to Z,
1, 2, 3...
F*cking A,
We say...
Today is here,
The end is near,
All come here to stay...
Escape rope untethered,
Weather altered sky day.
Gaze at stars,
Hollywood floor,
Rich,
Poor,
More...
Life is great,
Life is crap,
You decide,
Not me...
Cause all I see,
Is cacophony...
No sense inside of "we"...
Here we are,
We've come so far,
RELAX...
Have fun at last...
Half full,
Half empty,
Shattered...
At least we have the glass......
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
I knew there was something wrong with her when I was 10
I found a magazine report about borderline personality disorder
I was reading in the school library and I started crying
I could never have put a word on what was different about my mother
But there it was, plain as day
The way she could stay in bed till 3 in the afternoon with the blinds closed
The way some days we would laugh as she asked me if I wanted to play hooky and skip out on school
We would go grab frappucinos at Starbucks and rummage through countless thrift store shelves
But some days, some days I would be screamed at until I cried
Some days I would lock myself in the bedroom until I needed to come out
Some days I would stay at school extra long and just put off going home altogether
Some days my brother and I were burdens
Some nights we would get to order pizzas and drink Coke and some nights we were told to find food for ourselves
Always with the paranoia and the headaches and the inability to do anything
Consistent with the anger and the depression
Consistent with the exhaustion and the impulsive natures
The pills never helped, the pills never made things better
Fourteen years later and things are no better, things are no easier
Things have made no progression
Fourteen years later and we don’t speak
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
There are those down the bookies and them in the butchers and they're all a bit hooky, a right bunch of wrong 'uns,
young guns.
The police don't have a clue, but you know what?
they're all tooled up too, and what for?
for a war on the streets
blood down the drains,
making widows of wives who'll spent the rest of their lives looking through the curtains on lonely window panes watching blood down the drains.
Reminds me of what's behind me,
back in the days when crazy paving was the craze and the grass was covered in cartoon concrete,
I'd take a seat by the bow front and look out on the car, a Singer Chamois which was green, seen it parked in front of the house on crazy paving where there used to be grass through which no water was able to pass into the water table and so having to go somewhere it went down the drains, a waste of an element because we had no brains.
Hooky's not new it's what some people are and what some people do, we try and we die or we thirst for and win, but I always did think that to waste was a sin and now it is blood down the drains because we've all been trained, it's an army out there and they've got to go somewhere and the drains are open to all.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 6:59 AM UTC
with the lust
of a 14 year old ***** boy
playing hooky
eyes blink orbs
riding the bumpy
**** grind yields
a mental representation
*her ***
a Coney Island ride
reciprocity of tongue and groove
a big dipper
and a hot dog
in a bun eating contest
i eye the shape of her legs
brahmana of form
**** cake butter scallops
with a prune skin ****
***** dark little sister
going along for the ride
with hidden talents
*om shakti om
holy donut with a zit*
rubbing myself
a peripatetic command
like I had the junkies itch
in a bearded clam sea
of black nail claws
like musical notes
that tear flesh
hegemony of *** art
*make me bleed *****
Tangula The Exotic Shake Dancer
moves infallible hips
and dancing hands like octopi
tickling bloated *****
ta-ting go the finger cymbals
smiling she called pip squeak
colossus of her dreams
flick tongues the meringue
licking the
shimmering tantra pistol
finger up the **** hole
brings a prostate exclamation point
and a throat gag lyric
for a wagon train
of wrap around lips
zooming spit and spray
wet like scungelli
her *******
like cloud cookies
****** my mouth
gasper boy
chokes on
a marshmallow fire
i kiss her feet
and work my way up
the slippery slope
a starved dog
…
Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 8:54 PM UTC
A black and white film
About an old man and his dog.
There is no dialogue.
Just ambient sounds -
First, of the alarm clock’s
monotonous song.
Followed by an abrupt
cutting silence as his hand slams
down on the snooze button
Then, the sound of a coffeemaker
spitting and burbling.
The coffee, pouring into a chipped mug.
Sugar, then milk,
the clink of the spoon against the ceramic
as he stirs
the long first sip
As the man looks curiously
at something on the fridge,
just out of frame.
A bag of dogfood opening.
hard kibble ringing against the metal dish.
The dog grumbling - impatiently waiting.
Tupperware opening
The hum of a microwave, and the beep.
Last night’s stew poured into a bowl
the rest, over the kibble.
The closed caption reads:
[Enthusiastic, sloppy eating noises]
The sound of water running
as the bowls are scrubbed clean.
The door closing as the two leave
for their morning walk.
The old man and the dog
are now sitting on a park bench.
The grass, still wet from the morning dew.
There is a beautiful sunrise
over the nearby lake.
The camera pulls away,
as music overtakes the diegetic sounds
of nearby parkgoers, birds and runners,
and teens playing hooky.
The camera cuts back to for a beat
to the kitchen
in the empty house.
The camera zooms in on a weathered
and well loved piece of paper
held up by a rainbow magnet
on the refrigerator door.
Fade to a black screen,
with white letters:
Fin.
Sep 12, 2022
Sep 12, 2022 at 9:43 PM UTC
Dear mind
Please remember you are not meant to be perfect, there are cracks in you like an antique porcelain glass, you are still useful and beautiful but sometimes things leak
Dear mind
You are a soldier
You have dealt with so much in the past it's a wonder you aren't shell shocked. Trauma is the worse, the world around you is so full of pain you can't imagine confiding your hurt with anyone but yourself and for this you suffer
Dear heart
You will survive, you have been shattered like a clay pigeon, blasted away by the shotgun shell of betrayal. You have been broken so many times it seems easier to find a formula for time travel to reverse the damage then to piece you back together, but here you are beating in my chest with so many scars you look like a road map of Manhattan
Dear soul
Speak up there are times when my mind is lost and my hearts playing hooky,
If my mind could hear you it would find true north and my heart would start its engine. Pressing forward to what we all want
Dear voice
Be kind, sometimes in life this is impossible but in those times promise to always be honest,
Dear voice
Hold steady, my mind may be hectic and my heart may be racing but it is you who must stay the course. For all our sakes.
Dear feet
Move forward, what is behind us is to teach us how to navigate what is in front of us. Be firm in your footing and bold in your stride this greatness you seek was never intended for the timid
Dear shadow
I promise if you continue to follow me someday it will be worth it.
-Vaun Niklaus Christiansen.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 4:16 PM UTC
The joker
who has seen the sun at midnight?
shining darkly,, shadow rays,
playing hooky with the pixies
as the rest just stand n gaze,
the thief he stole our conscience our ego
and our self, left us singin Dylan songs
whose lyrics were his wealth,,,,,
the joker saw the sun go down,
a shimmering silhouette, whilst
the thief atop his watchtower
lit a final cigarette,
he has seen the sun at midnight
shining darkly,, shadow rays,
dancing through the dark delights
of a ruptured world sun set.
May 14, 2010
May 14, 2010 at 11:22 PM UTC
Pixie dust sprung from Jimi's eyes
as he rolled in microdot dreams,
purple phased out blades of grass
waved - then heaven screamed ,
We watched smart pebbles line the beach
marching to a psychedelic Sousa band
we know must be playing somewhere,--
discarded notes strewn in the sand.
The pea stones kept amazing time
clicking piezoelectric sound
counting out the midnight sun
as darkness shone around.
So who has seen the sun at midnight?
shining darkly, shadow rays,
playing hooky with the pixies
as the rest just stood n gazed,
The thief he stole our conscience our ego
and our self, left us singin Dylan songs
whose lyrics were his wealth!
The joker saw the sun go down,
a shimmering silhouette, whilst
the thief atop his watchtowe
lit a final cigarette.
He has seen the sun at midnight
shining darkly,, shadow rays,
dancing through the dark
delights of a ruptured world sunset.
B Z; AN
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 10:37 PM UTC
I grew into my youth without fearing dinosaurs,
Because I watched too many re-programmings of Jurassic Park.
I wasn't aware that my basketball skills could take me places.
I was born here, I ran through cornfields and tall shades of grass,
playing hooky with ******* hopscotch with ******
yet still averaging 24.6ppg while playing only 20 minutes a game.
It seemed so easy and simple at first, doing these things.
My neighbor Craig down the street,
used to work at the children's hospital so he always had access to needles;
all he wanted from me was a stack of metal spoons
that I could steal from my grandmother's house so we could dissolve the ******
“This shit'll make you feel like you could never die”, he would always say.
It was the 3rd quarter of our high school opening game against Fullerton.
We played at the redeveloped convocation 20 miles south of town,
because our high school received a bomb threat earlier that week.
The court constructed with cheers and boos due to my low field goal percentage.
I stashed my lucky line inside of my practice shorts in the locker room,
so I could lie to my coaches about needing some air.
My nostrils captured the effects of this white powdery substance,
as my body started to fail and deteriorate.
I think I felt my heart stop beating when I came to the free throw line.
First shot...air ball.
Second shot...no shot, body falls to the hardwood.
My shoes squeaked like rabid mice without control,
my right leg became convulsive and spastic, my left moved none.
The floor below my body drenched in a bilinear merging of crimson red and **** yellow.
The last image that I witnessed before my eyes left this world
Were the faces of the opposing cheerleaders,
Their young eyes bleeding blue and yellow,
mascara and grief running down their pretty cheeks.
They knew this from the beginning, my parents did.
They thought I had changed and found a new sport to love.
As my body laid on the floor, my parents laid in the belly of the audience,
Incapable of shedding tears,
because their suffering overtook their ability to cry.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
Send me away to some Dixieland town,
to some one-bank, water-tower, small-time town,
with simple backwoods thinkers,
and boys playing hooky with sinkers.
Send me away from these weak city girls,
with their sleek plastic looks
and their chic, stylish curls.
Give me instead those natural ladies,
in hand-me-down calico skirts.
Give me the girls who brush their hair twice,
then frolic with dogs in the dirt.
I will always strive to impress
a woman in a home-made dress.
But I will never apply my modest ploys
to the wooing of ladies
who thrive on city joys
and the jive of city boys.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
It’s peach tea
Spring time
Sitting against the wall, knees bent
Waiting
A shadow
Relief.
Synthetic oil
So the car will steer
Nasty stuff
Stains my fingers
Mindless driving
Familiar streets
Returning.
Dishes piled in the sink
Shoes scattered in the foyer
Stacks on papers
On the floor
Ready to be unattended to
Scolding and slamming doors
Rolling eyes, heavy sighs
Home.
The senior prom
Football games
Sleepovers, gossip tongues
Varsity jackets, the play, the game
The boyfriend, the best friend
Detention, hooky
Never happened.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
eyes beneath
emerald lakes gazing upward
breath rippling green gills
mermaids don't travel in schools
but we see stars in another
fathomless, fabulous universe
and play hooky with dolphins in
the moonlight
sometimes the alluring world
of men beacons like a lost lighthouse
bobbing in the soft whale gray mist
and for a brief moment... we touch
souls
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
Christmas Eve is in the air
smells like pine and i can hear
the reading of the lords prayer
though, no snow is upon the ground
it feels so joyous all around
with the scent of sugar cookies
and Winter Breaks game of Hooky
the presents lay under the tree
and the mistle toe hangs above you and me
love wraps us in a warm blanket
as the New Year approches in days, i can taste it
Tonight I shall hardly sleep
with the jidders of a childs feelings of Christmas Eve
the tiny belief of Santa Claus still dwindles
as the though of a fluffy man in a red suit kindles
as he will plop down my chimney with a bag
filled with hope and present swag
oh dear i can hardly wait
for the great Christmas that i anticipate
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 3:12 PM UTC
He sat there behind the table,
with his glasses sitting on his nose,
and his skin sitting on his bones - both loosely,
the way you’d expect someone to sit
after 75 years of good, but hard, living.
“The trick is-” he said
deliberately pausing to shift the weight of the sentence
toward the upcoming words
“you have to wipe away all the things you don't want to see."
He said this as he scribbled his name
inside my new copy of his old book
smiling in that gentle old man way.
I scampered away like a schoolboy
feeling like an idiot
having rambled at him
in my best impression of a scholar
- like a kid wearing his dad’s oversized suit.
I talked at him about
how well he captures a moment in poetry
like this former US Poet Laureate
wasn’t aware of his talent
and I was somehow the first
delivering the good news.
As I wander the campus,
having escaped my embarrassment
I think back to a poem he read tonight
about watching an old couple sharing a sandwich.
It was an ode to love,
an image you can see in any sit down restaurant,
literally anywhere in America.
He focused in on this couple,
in this diner
at this moment
apart from time, like a moving still life
forever framed by his words.
He wiped away the screaming kid
and its overwhelmed mother in the booth to the left,
the table of teenagers playing hooky to their right,
and the underpaid twnetysomething waitress
who clearly didn’t want to be there anyway.
He wiped away all of that distraction
and unearthed this beautiful moment
this pure example of true love-
A sandwich cut from corner to corner
by the shaking hands of a man
whose glasses sit upon his face
and skin upon his bones
all the way you expect a man to
with woman he’s loved for forty years
with whom he shares everything.
I think about the moments I have missed
the poems never writ
because I was staring at the waitress,
who clearly didn’t want to be there anyway.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
I walked through Harlem just the other day. The Harlem I knew as a child has totally gone away. I use to play hooky from school and I ran those streets at night But now you can't even find a decent street fight. We use have soul food joints all over the place. But now Harlem New York has a different face. Don't get me wrong. I think change is ok. But now there's other people livin' where I use to lay. 125th street just don't look the same. Now all the stores have a different name. There use to be A.J. Lester's and the Record shack. Now all the stores have names that are whack. Now I see an Old Navy store and a Chucky cheese. Can someone tell me where Harlem went please. What happened to the movie theater between 7th and 8th? Now it sits there just an empty old place. But the Apollo theater still looks good. It's always been the crown jewel of our neighborhood. But I remember when Harlem World was open night and day. Now even that spot is a **** Conway. Don't get me wrong. It does look nice and pretty. But Harlem use to be its very own city. You knew you were in Harlem when you walked down the street. Because Harlem use to have its own heart beat. But now we can't even afford the rents that they charge. Because everyone knows our pockets ain't that large. I'm afraid I'll go to sleep one night. And when I wake up Harlem will be all white. c. R. Mendoza
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
the static quo must go
nothing beneath, or behind the sounds
deaf tones bones strewn all around
long words, all cheap
dumb lines, all neat
coughed-up cadence and routine cream
cartoon choruses and tricked-out seams
hooky fakes and bookend breaks
easy gaits
minimum stakes
no sharp edge, no hidden fold
no golden age spirit, no new age soul
no color streaks, or manic peaks
no blind side streets, or bipolar beats
disconnect my wires, or else cut it off
put out my fire, or else cut it off
nothing sticks
nothing clicks
**** me quick
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
On blue May nights in the back, lounging on a swing and a composition in my lap, nearly alone but as calm and happy as with the company of others-
Carefree
-Dreaming a symphony of a summer. Traipsing about in a flaxen field of thoughts just shy of harvest; so swayed am I by the thought of hooky for this blissfully temperate tease. Treasuring the ink written upon my paper; dwindling school days excite on blue May nights.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 8:48 PM UTC
"I don't know how to live"
-Sharon Olds
To be honest, I don't know either. Like, I'm clueless right now. I'll tell you when I've figured it out. I'll tell you when I'm dead and gone and can look back at my life and tell you all my mistakes and shortcoming. Then I'll be telling you all my regrets and what ifs and thats no way to live.
So instead of living as a look back with a sense of nostalgia and "what if"
live in the now.
Take each moment in stride. Treasure the little things.
The times you smiled, the times you laughed, the times you held someone's hand and the times you wrote on paper with a good pen
Treasure the water ballon fights, the falling in publics.
Treasure even that time you laughed so hard milk came out your nose.
Sleep in, play hooky.
Cry every once in a while.
Learn from your mistakes, or make them all over again.
Take everything with a grain of salt and a sprinkle of sugar.
Learn to let go what needs to be let go
and hold on to everything you hold dear.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
friday, let's play hooky. we'll nap in my car.
just let me be where you are.
saturday, up at 2. we'll sleep in late.
just let me wake where you are.
sunday, up at 6. we'll never sleep.
just let me see a sunrise with you.
monday, up at 8. we'll miss our last bell.
just let me skip with you.
tuesday, up at 10. we'll miss first bell.
just let me sleep in with you.
wednesday, up at 8. we'll behave today.
i just want friday with you.
thursday, up at 9. we'll go for breakfast.
i just want it all with you.
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 8:24 PM UTC
Autumn sunrise, cool wind through my hair
Day off today, I haven't a care
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
sitting in seclusion
on early morning's beach
with a friend
eating potato chips
talkin' 'bout life
he was jobless
I was playin' hooky
a gray sky hovered
cool winter breezes blew
for some reason
he thought his pain
was greater than others'
but he wouldn't talk about it
the chips were salty
seagulls screeched and cawed
the ocean crashed
life went on
but not for him
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
It's 9 AM on a weekday
I'm going to play hooky and stay
Lounge on the bed like I have all day
Skin against the sheets, hair tumbling in waves
The smell of freshly brewed coffee with a hint of caramel
Awakens my senses and I stretch luxuriously
I see the source, a steaming cup of bliss
Delivered with a shy smile and a sweet kiss
You lead me by the hand
Out of your cabin in the woods
I find on a warm wooly blanket
Some china, silver, and crystal set for two
You start tickling me, like a devilish five year old
I retaliate with glee and abandon
Running around until we fall to the ground
The beating of our hearts, the only sound
We spend the afternoon talking and building dreams
Around us fall the red and golden leaves
Wishing for fireworks to light our clear sky
A magic shroud for where unicorns lie
We end the day with your head on my lap
My fingers through your hair as you take a nap
As I write a poem of what you mean to me
And this easy breezy day, just for you and me
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 12:03 AM UTC
Confessions of a Happy Person©
Standing at the kitchen sink
My wife quips “you are one happy person”
It is right there and then I realized
I have been found out
Time to confess
I am one of “those” “happy people”
And a morning person to boot
I admit I am an ice –cream-aholic
Hooked on chocolate Rocky road, 2 scoops
Left to my own devices I play hooky
My favorite vice mid day movies
Yes chick flicks
And I buy the ludicrously priced pop corn
Next up on the list a get away at the spa
Even if I fall asleep during the deep massage
Cruise ships are my Achilles heel
Where else do they make your bed
Feed you 24 hours a day
And you can hide from the world
My flexible job schedule allows for daytime bike rides
Who doesn’t want to be a kid again wind blowing through your hair
The bane of my existence, poetry writing
Anytime, anywhere at the drop of a hat or spur of the moment
To espouse words of wisdom or not
And connect with family, friends and complete strangers
Yes, there are up and down days but as the saying goes
“Be Happy”
Andreas Simic©
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 6:27 AM UTC
He gets to me
with his, 90's hip-hop heartbeat.
He treats me sweet
when we're hanging in the streets;
Even when his boys hang around.
We laugh and smile, and share stories,
not caring if we wake the neighbours,
no thoughts about who wins the glory.
We call ourselves "Tumblr goals"
That's just a new way of saying
"Let's grow old."
Your chest against my head,
my favourite spot to be.
No secrets, no lies;
just you and me.
So take my hand, I'll guide you home
Just you and me, and
me and you alone.
He's my knight in a wutang hoodie
When I'm sad he'll come love me,
he'll call work and play hooky.
Thank you for being one of a kind
Thank you for being mine
I write this poem for my boo,
to show how much I love you!
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 4:47 PM UTC
You've only got one life to live
So, make sure that you're ready to give
To those who have much less than you
And see the world from a different view
Little memories last the longest
They hold tight because they're the strongest
That's why we all have to do our part
And allow ourselves a place to start
Though, time moves fast
And it surely won't last
So, do everything your heart desires
Before it comes time for you to retire
Discover ancient treasures
Climb a distance that can't be measured
Play hooky with the one you love
Tie letters to a snow-white dove
It's the simple things that fill our hearts
The things that keep us from falling apart
They stick so that we always remember
Every event from January to December
Sing and dance in the rain
Hurt so you can feel the pain
Smile, even if you don't want to
Because, some how, you'll always pull through
It's the simple things that mean the most
The things that act as our humble host
They linger with us night and day
Until death rises to take us away
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 8:24 PM UTC