"ilsa" poems
Turquoise blues guitars
Laughing baby elephants (that paint)
Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants
(tired from painting all day)
Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside
The antidote to love
All the dotes that didn't get doted
And all the ones that did
Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola
The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers
And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail
Wine filled grapes
Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow
Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle
Three kisses from Ilsa Lund
And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild
Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic)
A flying dragon
A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework)
Jenny's phone number
The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon
The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view)
One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in
An olympic size pool full of melted crayons
A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse
A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island
Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry
Poetry (all of it)
The monster under the monster's bed
Every foul ball ever caught by any kid
Hammocks (any and every)
The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world
The secret to everything
(kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed)
Santa's real address (you won't believe this)
The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis
Golf carts with no maximum speed
The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling
Freshly climbed trees
A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled
Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter
Beer
Everything that was left on the field
Passionate embraces and embracing a passion
Apology free, but full of forgiveness
The wild of the wilderness
The tame of the un-tame
Language
Intuition
Conception
First kisses, waves and winks
Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks
Art
Music
Pain
Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain
Empty film cans
Films on screens
All of these ingredients
Are what makes up
Dreams
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
We're just like Carrie and Mr. Big
You want to be free
We're just like Harry and Sally
We like each other at the wrong times
We're just like Lloyd and Diane
I'll never stop trying
We're just like Allie and Noah
From different walks of life
We're just like Scarlett and Rhett
Independent and Fickle
We're just like Ilsa and Rick
Nothing can separate us forever
We're just like Bridget and Mark
Childhood friends turned accidental lovers
We're just like Hubbell and Katie
I'm just too unique to settle down with
We're just like you and me
Undefined , real, struggling
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
Changing the channels in the middle of the night
Mixing old plots into a new program
Ugatti sells tickets to an illegal fight
Another quarter for the juke box, Sam
Patrick McGoohan strides angrily into Rick’s
But finds that he has lost his credit card
Vultures, vultures everywhere, Number Six
Ilsa falls for Major Strasser quite hard
Rick’s Place is purchased by Raymond Massey
And Leonard Cohen in his famous blue coat
Emails of transit from Kate Beckinsale, so classy -
‘Tis she who leaves poor Rick that rain-stained note
And Captain Reynaud?
He ends his days pushing each shopping cart
In from the parking lot down at Wal-Mart
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
Ilsa's hair blew like silk in the soft Parisian breeze.
Rick looked 10 years younger driving his sportster
down Champs-Elysees. Arc de Triomphe was in the
distance. Young, radiant, Ilsa was the most beautiful
woman in the world. Every man who ever saw her
instantly fell in love with her, myself included. The
German army was only a day from entering Paris,
but that didn't stop Rick from proposing to Ilsa in
La Belle Aurore as Sam played AS TIME GOES BY.
That Ilsa didn't meet Rick in the pounding rain at
the train station as they had planned to take it to
Marseille on their way to Casablanca foreshadowed
the protracted, brutal war the Nazis had already
begun one conquest after another across Europe.
But ****** was not prescient enough to realize
"...a kiss is just a kiss...." and in his Berlin bunker
first swallowed a cyanide capsule then put the muzzle
of his revolver into his mouth and pulled the trigger,
his only constructive act since becoming Chancellor
in 1933.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Dec 18, 2022
Dec 18, 2022 at 7:59 PM UTC
I can't stand the way you don't understand the light.
You imagine yourself painted in gold walking among sandy beaches as the tide comes in,
Sipping on a mimosa, biting at a croissant.
I imagine you think everyday will be like this.
Time grows a bit weary,
We go home,
We leave the tide behind, we can't bring the sand home, we have no space.
I'll be at my desk writing away at the next piece, the next big shot chance at trying to prove to you and the world I got it this time.
You'll go to work, you'll come home and
you'll tell me Sally isn't cut for the job but Andy, your boss, he won't fire her.
You'll look over my shoulder, think to yourself about how this one isn't going to be the big shot.
You'll tell me: "it's coming along well honey."
I won't here the sincereness flicker off your lips. There was no fire starter to begin with.
You'll crawl to bed,
You haven't the strength to speak to me in tongues.
I'll ask, "baby doll what's the matter?"
You'll tell me, "I can't stand this place. I can't stand the way the sunrises. We need to go back."
I'll tell you now, "baby doll, like Rick said to Ilsa, we'll always have Paris."
"We never even went to Paris," you'll say to me.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
Oh Rick, if only things were so simple. . . .
If only there were Nazis shooting children,
bullies like Major Strasser waiting to take over,
women like Ilsa --
so beautiful and passionate
that just the memory of their love, just the shadow,
is enough.
We would sing the Marseillaise
and in the air itself,
just breathing in that hot, dry air,
would find all the meaning we need.
But we live in an everyday world,
with everyday human beings.
And we must start again each morning,
with scraps of faith and feeling,
to make the world's meaning in the foundry of our heart.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 3:43 PM UTC
Let’s say a robot wrote a love poem
2 a computer, what would it read/sound like---
My love 4 u is like a transistor---
No, my sister is symbiotic w/ u-o, no
Yoko ono has nothing on u---o-o-o, no,
Let’s start again & say what would appear on the page
if a robot wrote a love poem to a computer---
Would it be high-tech,
Grammerless w/ obscure syntax---
The human element erased, but what then of love---
I dream of u---autistic ally synestheasiastically desiring ur ***********
but wait, there’s more!
Let’s say a robot wrote a love poem
2 a computer, what would it read/sound like---
My love 4 u is like a transistor---
No, my sister is in symbiotic love w/ u-also, o, no---
My love 4 u is like my love 4 my sister Ilsa
& every 8th can-can dancer dancing circles
around the candles in the candelabra,
Dracula---I wanna be ur snake---
I dream of u in the can
Teenage boys do not sniff *******
That’s strictly a mid-thirties male thing---
if a robot wrote a love poem to a computer---
It would look the way I look @ u in my dreams---
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 10:43 PM UTC