"hrs" poems
I am not a ****
It’s a shame
If that’s what you see
When you look at me
I’m not a gangster
Or a rapper
I’m not the images
Plastered all over T.V.
I’m respectful to women
I was taught this
By my mother
I’m willing to fight
If the cause is right
But mostly I’m a lover
…A good book
Despite
If you like
It’s cover
Compassionate
Thoughtful
And considerate
Of others
I’m not lazy
I'm not a thief
I'm not a criminal
Who runs the streets
I work at least
60 hrs. per week
And don’t be surprised
When you realize
I’m very articulate
When I speak
I’d rather read a book
Than shoot hoops
On a basketball court
Music is my passion
And I write poetry for sport
Love is my drug
And I put it
Into everything I do
It’s pure
Strong
And addictive too
I bet you won’t see that
On the news!
I am not a ****
So please don’t assume
You could be missing out
On a good friend
Don't let your preconceptions
Resume
Don’t keep your mind closed
Open up
…Make room
I'm not a ****
I am a MAN
Try to get to know me
Then you'll find out
Who I Am
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
When a rose bud is born... It slowly raises it's head...
Like wise was my tiny baby s sleeping closed eyes.. deep in sleep..
The stark deep red rose bud comes out of the green...
The same was the brightness of my son... Spotless, shining, serene..
The bud blooms,
That bright, glowing, strong petals
Likewise was the skin of my son... Like a shining sun..
But alas we love the young buds a far too much
We cut it and put in in vase
I am here staring at a bud like that in a hospital,
From behind the glass wall I am staring both.... I am reading innocence of both...
In NICU, my son is sleeping, lost in between the pipes which is giving him life,
The bud too in the vase thinking of it's mother...yearning to be in arms of it's mother..
The *** that holds it's mother out side.. Is also waiting for it to return...maybe!!
May be scared to bloom another bud....
The pain of losing is thr for both of us...
To loose is easy
To live in uncertainty is not...
How does a new born baby feel...I know not...
How to satisfy day old baby s hunger ....I know not..
How is a 6th day* celebration done I know not...
How does it feel to bathe a new born...I know not...
What I know though
Is that my new born is sleeping in NICU
I have been staring him from glass for past one month
I will wear clean, sterilized clothes am ushered to be near him..
For few seconds... Once in 24 hrs... My maternal love becomes alive...
Though I go near him, cameras are thr, I cannot touch him, I can feel his breathing..I can see him sleeping...
My hands behind..
Face covered with mask..
I gaze at him with blurred eyes,
I give him love of both his dad* and myself...
Just for that moment...
Both of us again stand behind that glass wall
We show our son to all those who pass by
We hide our tears behind our smiles..
We stand again in wait thr...
When I took my month old baby in my arms for first time....
He is still the same, he looks still the same...
How are these wonders of universe, the creators..
How can a colorful life become color-less..
Each day, each moment some where a new bud is born..
A new creation everyday...
Sparkle in Wisdom
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 6:27 AM UTC
Poems mean a lot to me
indeed a very lot you see
the society I live in
is reflected in all the lines
love is very important almost a sin
and the always one glasses of wines
the best medicine for our health
they say is also wealth
but I regard love is the most important
remember I am human not a mutant
love is the best for our life
it is obvious that we must strife
love is like the present wind
that blows constantly so tender in
through my thirsty body and mind
I reside in this country oh so kind
a country full of peace, plenty of place and love to hide
that's why I have my domicile here and reside
My beloved likes reading and traveling
we have seen parts of the world a very lot
I have other kinds of interests, like painting
writing essays, listening to music, and praying to God
building websites, designing cards and yes
conducting PC Help desks, accounting, telebanking, and playing chess
in London and Serfaus, going to musicals and skiing,
along the Mediterranean sea, enjoying life, making love while driving
how do I do that, d'you really want to know, dear?
while whatsapping, walking, running, and the music to the ear
really very simple, your love in you, your whole soul in there,
just like our parents using tupperware
but ah, I like most to describe the love in poems I write
then posting them for your most beloved after that heavy night
since love is so important in our life
you must not take it for granted but must strife
we can't miss it in our life its function
like: though sometimes on our highway a junction
it's like the great water of the mighty ocean
it has grip on you, you feel the strength, but it's your addiction
the strong water's ripples too, its mildness
you demand the best, the most but never less
and remember for ever that in the country I live in
the kind of love I'm so addicted to, is never a sin
in the end my heart and being will constantly say Amen
© Sylvia Frances Chan
15th August 2013 -
5.21 hrs a.m. WETime
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
it’s crazy how superstition works
any belief, sometimes even religion
can make you go completely bezerk
it’s 23.10hrs in the night
i’m lying here and thinking
it’s really, nearly time
ironic how I write this
for my mother always told me
*it'll only come true
if you keep it a secret*
but,
I just have to write this
and pray that you see it
It’s 23.11 in the depths of the night
I wish you were here.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC
So many lies from her to me
please don't tell him I'm pregnant
I was ***** she told the clinic
and me
the baby seems big for three months.....
but clinics get money for this
and charities give grants
they don't ask too many questions
6 hrs crying and screaming
till they chopped it up and ****** it through
a young doctor panicking
haven't destroyed one this big before have you you ****
took a long hooked thing to really mess the wee thing up
I saw it's dead eyes in the pan
her dead eyes
half-open and in a silent scream
where is the ******* dad? The nurse whispered..
somewhere ****** I said, I'm just her pal.
Dad didn't want a small thing in his life
my hands bled from her nails
and this felt right
my heart bled despair for her and the mess in the pan
took her home in a taxi suspicious eyes on us, huddled smelling of sweat and blood, no clean-up
she wanted to stay as soiled as she felt
Year later in another room
couldn't *** she wouldn't let me leave her
got a urinary infection holding on
longer this time
thirteen hours of pain and fright
no-one seemed to care again
on a trolly in the cold where is the magic
where is the ******* dad? A nurse whispered..
somewhere ****** I am just her pal.
twisting my hands
she bit my face wanting a kiss as she pushed so hard
the midwife dropped him halfway up her belly
I dragged him to her face
let go the doctor shouted
told him to shut up or **** off
got yellow baby **** and blood in my mouth
wanted doctor blood too
tasted sweet somehow tasted of alive
took 83 sedatives that night her sister found me in ICU
hard to die swap me for the wee dead one
I'm ****** she would have been special saw her face
She would have been 14 yrs old today
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 2:39 PM UTC
MEMORIES OF SAND
I gave up sweeping that year
Like a penance
As sand permeated
Everything in my condo
Clung to my scalp and feet
Blew in with the fog and landed
In my tub, between my sheets, the sink, the carpet
Gritted between my teeth in the early hours
When i would reach for her still
Before the memory would detonate around me that she didn't come.
I would follow you anywhere.
Morphed into
I can't.
I hate those dagger give-up words.
Unlike the sand
I reviled in coaxing the beach closer still
And sand blurred the boundaries of my life
Inside. Outside.
Past. Present.
Old. New.
I could pull the blanket of crashing waves around me in hypnotizing hues
Breathe in the turquoise or gray or navy blue
Of the mecurial moods of the sea.
Each morning ritual of coffee and perching 8 foot tall on the sea wall studying the swells and tides
I could palpate the energy of my spirit rising around the waves
Curling and mixing as
Aqua-purple-red dragonflies hovered at my veranda hibiscus that murmers truths
I do no want to hear.
And in all that aloneness settled a great quiet still emptiness.
Because I couldn't cry I'd go diving in the persistent waves of salt and kelp.
The cold violated my eardrums and for a moment I'd go spinning-disoriented and weightless-suspended
Surrender without air as the Pacific held me buyouant
Only surfacing to breathe like a Baptism. I was ok being alone.
And sometimes I wasn't.
As the sand exfoliated my old self I'd grasp hold of the new wonders of phosphorescent tide under a harvest moon
And the fading memory of her would rise like a helium balloon I held down for 2 hrs and 4 weeks at Surfers Point in Ventura
Then let her go into the abyss of acceptance
Like granting permission to the invading sand
Gathering like whispers
In disappearing corners of her absence
And leaned into the redefinition of myself:
Barefoot. Sandy. Expectant.
The memory of sand.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
wednesday ..
is faded black jeans/old white tank (too big) (hole from belt buckle centre front)
glass of water stuck into the rings left by past week's mugs of beer
sitting by the ashtray. and you are better than a nip of rye in the truck cab heading to work.
the dust in my lungs (wide open saskatchewan fields)
is not as important as watching the clouds stain purple with the sunrise
patting two gorgeous farm dogs who run over from behind a silo turned to bronze in the light
(there is an angel laying naked in the wheat grain)
to nip playfully at my calves while i unchain the derrick,
somewhere in my mind's recess it feels like i am loosing atlas from his *******
tho i do not register the thought until later upon waking from a nap.
saturday // 1:15:44 pm
i am in only briefs now working on a song/i clocked 4
hrs greasing truck 1117 this morning and
hauling pallets.
daylene from dispatch brought in donuts.
i'll spend the afternoon listening to kanye and talking to women online.
—there are no girls in estevan. i have (kind of) looked.
sometimes i believe this to be pathetic but then i think further ahead
and it's not so bad.
you do really meet some nice girls. phone is replete with their numbers &
they keep me company on long rides to and from leases,
asking about work. hoping that i am well.
(once back home by christmas account will be deleted and i can
take them out at my leisure. you'll understand i hope that i am not
a desperate man. but one has to work with that which he has.
would you rather i go lonely? make my home in the mud to croon hank williams to crows?)
(temporality.)
15/10/2012
there are now three beer cans on the carpet & one on the washing machine by the
bathroom door which i will drink in the shower.
it was sort of a long day.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
Aqua, bright fresh water
we oft get in the Malaysian Airlines
but not in the MH 370
where art Thou?
where are you all now?
when people and media around the world
bow in your case somehow
still hope you are all alive
i knew that you made that one big dive
right to the bottom of the ocean
all those inspectors are still saying
we can hear your phones are still ringing
my heart, my body and soul
knew: you all are not whole
anymore, but you were just freezing in the cool
do not make me a fool
that big birdie right to the bottom
with that rapid speed
as if to a large concrete
MH 370 you are now in freezing coolest water
know, that we all still bother
between air-intro space
or salted water filled ground
with the deepest bound
no matter what, we still care about you all
what only matters how long have you been suffering
in that suffocating small space between those walls
we all heard you sing
whatever Thy Response, i do understand Thee
no matter what, it's Thy divine decision
oh Lord, that suffocating air on the bottom of the Indian Ocean
how they were suffocated altogether suffered
and that only 2500 km away from Perth
but i trust Thee Lord, Thou hath Thy own reason
whatever may be Thy divine decision and Thy precision
may all passengers be altogether in greatest peace and ease
may they all really be released and now Rest In Peace....
© Sylvia Frances Chan
AD.Saturday 22nd March 2014~~at 3.09 hrs a.m.~~
ADDED Notes:
Since 11th March this MH 370 has disappeared from the radar navigation~~since then I had watched each hour of every day TV journals~~~till today they have found the wreck~~~the chinese in Beijing announced the news today~~
CORRECTED on Monday AD. 24th March 2014 21.12 hrs. pm~~ Malaysia too has announced this news, that they have found the wreck TODAY 24th March at 2500 km away from PERTH, West-Australia at the bottom of the Indian Ocean~~~~~~~~
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
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Transformation Tuesday w/ my bestie
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
She loved him,
They were young and stupid,
She was sad, he was happy,
Their relationship moved too quickly,
Although young they indulged in intimate love.
She loved him,
They were young and stupid
She was sad, he was happy,
He was busy being a child, this upset her,
She hurt herself and blamed it on him.
She thought she loved him,
But they were young and stupid,
He was tired and hurting,
He asked to confide in a childhood, female, friend.
It was not taken well.
She loved him,
But she was too young to understand,
There was no reply for 37 minutes,
She facetimed him in tears,
She reversed the camera to show what she had done,
Crimson blood ran down her arms,
It dripped down, corrupting the beige carpet,
Tears fell alongside the dark drops,
Her mum entered. The call ended.
She loved him,
2 hrs later he thought he’d killed her,
He broke up his ****** prepubescent razor,
Without a second thought he dug it into his leg.
Crimson blood ran down his leg,
It dripped down, corrupting the beige carpet,
Tears fell alongside the dark drops,
But no one entered, no one to help him.
She loved him,
She got stitched up and it became like it never happened.
He loved her,
He was left scarred and that image of her wrists never left him.
4 years later he sat in his room,
Alone,
He wrote a piece of text.
This Isn’t a Poem. Its My Life.
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC
To all those that were reading my last piece,'Split personality' I had to take it down sadly after it had trended to a hundred reads in 3 hrs. But I wrote quickly and used the word 'cohabit' without realizing what it implied... you throw that in with 'brotherly loyalty' and the whole piece just reads a lot gay... now, I'm not hating on gay people... I just don't swing that way, wouldn't want my poems to give off the wrong impression... all said and done... I have just had a good laugh at my own expense hahahahaha
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
A million different thoughts
What!
If!
How!
A duet it continues, a lamentation to oblivion
Assorted brain functions carry on like a clock keeping time
Not higher but primal try to carry on normality
The physical suffers as they inflict damage upon my tissues, organs and emotions
Practicality doesn't warrant candid thought
"Tell me about your childhood" Which one!!!
One battles to suppress the other and take its throne of light
It has no place in my mind in this irrelevant state of chaos
Then like a calm before a storm you could hear a pin drop in the void between my ears
They are neither here or there
The quantum moment of exchange
Everything becomes nothing
Nothing becomes everything
The dead emptiness for seconds as the transition takes place
As the vacuum of hopelessness once again ***** the lucid thoughts away
Tortuous like air from a dying man's lungs
Trying to cheat the ferry man
Not on his final journey, oh no that would be relief and sometimes prayed for to a god I don't believe in
But my now daily fight to refrain from losing myself into the abyss
I only focus on what I think I can balance between Rationality of day when I can maintain it
and screaming pain of turmoil at night
I live two lives split like continents, never touching again after they separated
Yet in binary to each others existence, a duet of spatial rage
It is the cold reality, my curse, my fate
Two individuals one body, arguing for supremacy
Both alert both sharp both denying the other audience
One during the waking hrs one during the slumber
A Duet of desperation as they battle to trade places
night for day, day for night
One a craftsman one a scholar
The church would call it possession
A physician a personality disorder
I call them my Daemons
Part of me yet all of me
You?
You may call us friends
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
When a barroom filled with laughter
can't lift your head, even momentarily,
from your sad, soggy plate of nachos-for-one...
When passing girls in narrow hallways
flash the fires of passion from their eyes into yours
simply to be smothered under a heavy, wet blanket stare;
a cumbersome quilt of all your yesterdays' shame...
When the supernal opportunity to live for another 24 hrs
is met with all the ambition and grace
of a house cat forced into a cold bath...
You are used up to this world.
You are lost to your purpose of being.
You are dropped to the dirt like
a flower whose spiked stem pricked the caressing fingers of it's holder.
Hold no expectation of a familiar, loving hand
to reach down, relieved to pick you up
and reunite you with what you wish to be;
or to place you where you belong.
Look around,
The ground is littered with us unwanted things.
We've all seen that ***** pair of disregarded underwear,
miserably caked in rainwater mud,
laying on the side of a road or under a bridge somewhere.
Whose hand is reaching down for that?
But, I won't compare myself
to a bum's forgotten underpants
and neither should you.
I'm sure the universe views us differently than that.
It will soon pick us up, wash us of all those grimy wrongs
and wear us out anew.
Yes, that has to be true.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
Im in a crunch with school and work and 7 hrs sleep in 50+. I aint showered and my *** reeks of ***** outdoor musk type, like defrosted by the sun after freezing under the moon. Inevitably, mold and mildew add that nice after market aged/crusty scent.
Sloppy wet diarrhea brought on by anxiety and doubt; I'm in a ****** hole collecting uneven magazine clippings uncomfortably.
Here I am still, packing my belongings to leave the hole and find serenity. Yet, nothing gets taken out. Instead I'll be here for at least 7-10 more days waiting for the easy chair to be delivered from an order placed online at 3am when I could have been finishing a paper.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 8:24 AM UTC
A weekend of extremes, where a lover became a demon
A car became a transformer and a lifeboat
A child made a new friend, a friend found a new voice
Two fathers took comfort knowing their daughter's safe
A new begining for one woman yet an adventure for a little girl
Now a bath a cup of Earl grey tea and Edward Elgars chello plays on the radio
It had no plan no agenda yet I feel strangely satisfied
Some people can do that to you
And yet it's only 7 pm so 5 hrs to go
And lest we forget the apple crumble!!!
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
The world seems more beautiful with anagrams
Our body worst with so many kilograms
What is that which we call a Rose, bet
it's sure William, no Hamlet
So many beautiful Anagrams
So many beautiful Williams
A wealth for our literature-home
but as it had been told all those Williams is just a dome
Poor late Mr. Shakespeare or whatever your being
A Rose, a Sylvia, a Hamlet or a Morning-glowing
The world is full of you, this Planet
reads your Hamlet
William I love you, you have drama
All the others have only their dilemma
You made the mankind started to read
oh my lord, then started this creed
you gave us this inheritance
this grey planet a golden glance
we cannot remain such a ****
oh my Lord, we must first do our creed
Sorry, my excuses, Mr. Shakespeare
Can you please listen to me with this ear
we exist because of God above, that's my life
this creed first to my Lord, that's my strife
then comes you and Hamlet at your side
then this literature I abide
I keep telling that you gave literature a golden glance
I wish mankind knows what an inheritance!
© Sylvia Frances Chan
saturday 13-04-13
23.13 hrs. p.m.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
My life has changed... I feel cold... Alone.. And upset... I cry silently.. I dont know how to move on and im trying i really am but i just dont know how. I feel something in my heart that i cant explain. Its like a physical pain but medicine doesn't work. My birthday is coming up and its hard to picture any celebration without you.
My head hurts from missing you and sometimes crying. I know time will make it easier but noone talks about the "right now"... Part of me was amputated the day you left
My heart weighs a ton yet its empty. Losing you has been tough although thats an understatement... Its been less than 48 hrs and i have at least 3 things to tell you already.. Who do i tell? I re-read our texts over and over and i smile because i have no regrets. You kno what you mean to me and i sure know wat i meant to you. I even have u tatted on me forever. We did so many firsts together and this.... This right here we were supposed to do together too... But you left me...
You never think that the last time is the LAST time. These emotions come in waves. One minute im okay the other minute all these emotions come rushing and its overwhelming. The minute i think im alright it just starts all over again. I dont know how to handle it but i do know that time will make it easier to cope with.
Some people know what you really meant to me. Others may say she was just your 2nd cousin. But... I've lost my best friend. Yes she was my cousin but thats at the bottom of the list bc blood couldnt make us any closer. She was my ride or die. Usually i was the one always arguing on her behalf tho bc she didnt have a quick enough comeback ever. My partner in crime, My confidante who knew everything and i mean everything even the TMI stuff. My comadre, i still dont kno what to tell the kids... And they just mentioned you today. My heart shattered in that moment. She was just my person...
I can only wish everyone in this world can experience the bond like the one i had with her. The ties that bond us are impossible to explain. Our bond defied distance, time, or location because we were just meant to be.
Because you are my person and will always be my person... I love you
Me duele el alma..
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC
Where do you live?
you mean where I reside?
On this beautiful forsaken earth
I have seen many sins in fellow citizen's inside
I have my pride
but I wanna confess
and it is 150% a yes
that in my inside's hearth
I have many more sins,
much more than your rational would believe
although I am an evangelist
not certain a bliss
but that was my beloved's Mum wish
I dared not to refuse her
since I am an obedient girl
of course at school a rebel
never for my dearest Mum
after having graduated
exactly three years after date.
I must confess
that I possess much more inner spirit now
more patience than before
more love and care than I ever owe
Ahok was blamed for blasphemy
that Islamic group lied constantly
till they got him in prison
such saddest tidings
am still humming my love songs
even though pained in one WhatsApp ago
am looking for peace while conversing to
my genius bro before he would close his golden window.
my heart leap up with the strongest sense
his caring soul did never offend
i feel home in our parental house
nine days closest to his loving heart
i am truly blessed as his grateful part.
© SYLVIA FRANCES CHAN
Jakarta-Home, West-Java Time 21.00 hrs PM.
AD the 3rd June 2017, Saturday
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
Transcendence. A word to pay attention to.
To find that transcendence in you,
that feeling within,
that's the genius behind poetry.
Transport. A word to pay attention to.
To find that transport in you, that vehicle within,
that's the transport self to find the genius in poetry.
Transparence. A word to pay attention to.
To find that transparence in you,
that light within, that's the genius in poetry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have written these lines first in DUTCH
(my mother tongue) then in English:
Transcendence.
Een woord om aandacht te besteden aan.
Om dat transcendentie in u te vinden, dat gevoel
van binnen, dat is het genie achter poëzie.
Transporteren.
Een woord om aandacht te besteden aan.
Om dat transport in je, dat voertuig binnenin,
dat is het vervoer zelf om het genie in de poëzie
te vinden.
Transparantie.
Een woord om aandacht te besteden aan.
Om dat transparantie in u, dat licht binnenin
te vinden, dat is het genie in poëzie.
© Sylvia Frances Chan~~
Thursday 13th March 2014
17.17 hrs p.m. W.E.Time
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
The exact representation of deception is likened to a delusional cognition which tunnels its way through craggy mountain ecosystems of the prefrontal cortex.
The impairment of your executive functioning is evident, oh grandiose master of self-aggrandisement.
It is now 04.20hrs in the Britannic pastures where desert storms are a figment of extravagant wishes to be recognised.
Although it is charmingly magical to harken to your lunacy, it is mercenary of the battalions to fathom the pathology of your blatant insignificance within the universe of vain imaginations.
Hereford is the base of winning, if you are brazen enough to engage with the feat.
Selah, my psychotic expression of wishful psychopathy.
One more thing: please check your spelling.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
Thursdays are for psychoanalyzing love letters I never sent you.
**** you for being in love with someone else.
**** me for waiting on you.
Also, **** your ******* & the time my lips
got stuck in your braces & they bled
for 8 hrs & the first time
you borrowed my lighter & that time
we passed each other & none of us said
hi but we looked each other in the eye
the whole time & 2 minutes after
you were out of sight i knew, winter
has started;
winter has come, and i dared to hope it would
stay; that it would never leave me the way
you did.
I should have stayed, away but how
could I when I knew you were trouble
in human form and you knew I was a trainwreck
waiting to happen, waiting for you.
There were so many chances to tell you what I’d give to watch you sleep,
Approximately four, since the first time I watched you eat lunch alone.
I stopped counting on the 33rd day I remembered
that circumstance and I were born enemies.
Love gives you a bad name.
The moral of the story is that
I need to remember : that hoping is the worst thing
I have ever done and can ever do,
and to forget your face.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
Let a company that according to an article on Yahoo, "reported net profit of 620.1 million through Feb. 1, 2014" paid their CEO, some poor soul named Ronald Sargent, " 10.8 million in total compensation", let's stand by when they say in response to our president's comments about how they limit their employees to 25 hrs a week, "Unfortunately, the president appears not to have all the facts".....
let all of America work no more than 25 hrs, I am ****** so companies and rich CEO's and all the rich investors can get richer while their employees suffer. American way?
The president had plenty of facts for me.
Boycott Staples Inc.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
Walking again
in evening dusk
it is a must
walking through immense wonders
poetrysites, poetryhomes and all that wonders
need to walk this evening bright
see the afterglow in the ditch alright
greet Hello Poetry and Hello Friend
walking through this immense land
who will I meet, who shall I greet?
where, what and when I'll tweet
all poetryhomes I have been
not really many sites I have seen
sad sound, mad sound, all insane
hellooooo oh no not that again!
walking through this endless land
looking for the right poetryman
afraid I must give up this time
no not again poetry sublime
the evening dusk lasts nightless long
what was that song, what had gone wrong
must I not do this walk or not...?
irgendwo I have a friend, but forgot
in this endless meadowland
just see a tippy-bit of gland
where is that ditch from far a stitch
with enough water and which
this is the source of health
finding it, oh what a wealth!
the afterglow is still the same
where is that source, is this a game?
oh, there at quite a distance
I can see with no resistance
oh so sorry, that man has run away
so, no poetryman this way
but where is the source now
clear chrystal water with that glow
oh look, the source...wow!
surely I'll find that bestimmt now
approaching the ditch that clear water
I hope it shall not alter
anymore into red water
bow myself into deepness
and see the beauty of clearness
wow, clear chrystal source
I see someone, please don't force
oh...hello....no one.....is it?
oh hello....feel so stupid
there is someone, it is Sylvie
now you know it, it's Hello me...
© Sylvia Frances Chan
saturday 13-04-13
@22.31 hrs p.m.- W.E.Time
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
itself, it was much in comparison.
butane huffed thru handkerchief
blood-nose, brain-stem dripping
with a wet cleft hemorrhaging
knowledge like the internet.
billowing smoke from the
consignment allegory of
a whokah we all shared
'til confusion had us
asking. I waited
like a trail for
a ballerina
to tip-toe
her way
up my
spine
toward
a waiting lake;
cold and warm
in a nature so
solvent.. quiet..
peripheries embedded
with industry postured
on rocks, metal buddhists
asking all to vague-labor
meditate 8 hrs a day, 5
days a week == sleepless
like dreaming, sleepless
experience wafting
through an open
bedroom door
as chicken
dinner.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
The word of God
Is neon now-
It screams odious
Love to the silent
Collection of limbs
Beneath it.
Iridescence
Falls in irradiated
Waves, reaches the
Sedate, the wanderers
Of Asphalt Nightmares,
At last.
They can hardly hear it
Over the mumble of voices.
They shift, leave by way
Of saturated, naked streets
Steeped
In weariness.
The new God is
Neon- but all the same
Unheard; It's violent lights
Looking to the morally
Righteous; finds
No one.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 2:40 PM UTC