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the committee
has convened
(kangaroos corralled)

the agenda
is set
(scapegoats framed)

the politicos
are preened
(perfect patriots)

hair coiffed
teeth whitened
(fangs sharpened)

correct talking
points bulleted
(minds closed)

puffed chests
perfectly postured
(bombastic bravado)

freedom fighters
stand firm
(Constitution usurpers)

American flag
lapel pins
(sparkling bright)

liberty's spirit
and tolerance
(roundly condemned)

special interests
are watching
(payola earned)

partisan lines
clearly drawn
(democracy doomed)

Music Selection
Cream: Politician

Oakland
10/1/10
jbm
Chinedu Dike Jan 2020
In a wayward adventure in curiosity —
lured away from savvy of cooler judgment,  
he oversteps the bounds of reality 
into a state of altered awareness.

Overwhelmed by a rapid beginning
of a buzzing sensation — The Rush;
emanating from deep inside him, 
surging along the veins streaming 

euphoria through cells of his entire body:  
inside the body, with warm pleasure waves
flushing over the by now tingling skin
soughing off all unpleasant feelings.

Mouth numbed, limbs heavy, and eyeballs 
rolling back from hitherto an unimaginable
state of bliss, he savours the calm explosions
of the pulsating bubbles in his head.

A magical moment of sheer ******* 
rapture—that ends in a lasting sedation—
during which he's dazed with wonderment
while covered by a cozy blanket of content.

He falls in love with the insidious drug.
And he begins to relish its sweet fruition
in a seemly pattern of use that is put
in the shade to protect his best interests.

A stake in normalcy that seeks to confine
his usage of the opioid to a social occasion.
But soon enough he drifts towards a regular
recreational use; indulging on weekends,

floating, flying, and soaring in wonderful
ripples of pure delight, feeling very mellow
and satisfied, in an illusionary paradise of
forgetfulness where nothing hurts any more.

Bit by bit as time goes by his body builds up
a tolerance for the sedative, prompting his
intake of higher and more frequent doses
to feel as well as to sustain the desired effect.

This occurs because his body attempts to
adapt to the presence of the drug by quickly
breaking it up and purging it out of the system,
thus making it less potent as it was before.

At this stage of his drug abuse he's still able to
control whether to use the stuff or not, where
and when to use it, without stress. He could
also abstain from the opioid fairly responsibly.

But at the limits of his body's flexible response
to the dangerous substance, he begins to suffer
from its unpleasant side-effects that show up
a short period of time following his last use.

The pleasurable, but short-term, therapeutic
effects of the hard drug are now being
overshadowed by several of its undesirable
withdrawal symptoms that manifest as:

fatigue, irritability, cold chills/sweat, itchy skin,
muscle spasms and tremors, body ache, and
stomach cramps among others, with an
increase in his body's cravings for the opioid.

The onset of these torturous side-effects of
the stimulant marks the beginning of his body's
physical dependence on it, as he now relies
on the drug to fend off the terrible affliction.

He has bitten at the bait of pleasure oblivious
of the hook beneath it. The once casual user,
who had thought he could quit the habit at will
without stress, has advanced to problematic use.

The drug has become an integral part of a daily
routine that is gradually heading towards chaos.
Regardless, he's still able to go to work and
take care of his day to day responsibilities.

In time, a new sickness begins to fester inside
him: the opioid is tightening its grip on him,
as his body's physical dependence on it
is now generating his addiction to the drug.

This psychological dependence on the drug
has set in with anxiety disorder accompanied
by emotional and behavioural problems:
the duo classic signs of a progressive disorder.

The drug has become something he needs
to sleep or to fully wake up. His sleeping
pattern has also been altered; up at night
and intermittently dozing off during the day.

As dosage of the narcotic rises, so does
the torture of the painful lows and other
symptoms of addiction, making his cravings
for the sedative increasely more intense.

As it is, he's needs several hits of the drug to
make it through the day. All at once he wants
to use! He begins to look forward to using.
He would ingest the drug in risky situations

such as, while at the wheels of his car or
working at his job; always desperate to avoid
withdrawal symptoms as well as to revel in
the bliss of the drug's comforting warmth.

At times he'd skip work 'chasing the dragon':
pursuing the out-of-reach elation levels of
his initial euphoric high, swinging between
feelings of mediocrity and that of ecstasy.

Always, his body would afterwards crash
below baseline, barely able to cater for his
daily needs. The habit has long ceased
to be the fun that it was intended to be.

Like a vicious cycle the relief from the opioid,
which is not justified by external reality,
is being obtained at the cost of the
worsening addiction and a spike in distress

whenever his body is low on the drug.
The more he indulges on the sedative
to calm his racing mind, the more
its comfort zone seems to be desired.

Disoriented in the rigours of his vice,
he strays in the abyss of drug addiction:
a dark, weary place where priority disorder 
is dictated by events outside of his control.

It is this corrupted impulse control that
causes his sick obsession with the narcotic,
rendering him unfit to articulate rational
thoughts: a chronic brain disorder.

In this harmful shift away from reality,  
utmost in his mind is the insidious drug:
over and above his job, his goals, family,
love, friends, hobbies and personal hygiene.

Oddly enough the foremost essentials of life
like water, food, and sleep are also not spared.
He could be ill and he won't care.
No other thoughts can cohabit in his world.

Emotionally invested in his fantasy world,
the toxic substance has kindled in him
an inner turmoil — setting off an overriding
feeling of emptiness that aches in his heart.

The habit much harder to lose than it was
to find: an ongoing effort to wean himself off
the drug is being crushed by a dysphoric mood
and a sickly feeling that intensify in severity.

These horrifying withdrawal symptoms
are a result of the sedative's induced
alterations in the biochemistry of his
brain's system of reward and punishment.

Instead of a mild, blissful flow of the brain's
happy hormones, as is experienced while
one is indulging in a tasty food, on receiving
a great news, or while engaged in any other

kinds of novelty that fill us with a delicious
pleasure, the opioid whose chemical structure
is similar to that of the natural chemical
messengers of the brain, Happy Hormones,

by mimicking these primary drivers of the
brain's reward system the psychoactive 
drug sends a false signal of euphoria to
the complex *****, triggering an instant

and fast secretion of an abnormally large
amount of the 'feel-good hormones', that
begin to surge along its pleasure pathways
overwhelming the reward centre of the brain.

It is this huge outpouring of happy hormones
in the region that elicites in him a sudden
burst of energy, a pleasant state of mild
drowsiness, mental alertness, relaxation, ...

This already intense, euphoric effect of the
opioid is further amplified by the drug's
blocking of the pain partways of the reward
system, thus dulling his emotions and worries

by eliminating any feeling of sorrow, regret,
guilt, fear, or loneliness. Upon intake of the
mood-altering drug, he would feel warm when
cold, calm when angry, bright when grumpy,

filled when hungry and happy when irritable,
with almost a total refrain from the tendency
to view anything in bad light. This dramatic
result makes every normal thing look better

and brings forth a deep sense of satisfaction
as though all his needs have been met.
However, this almost perfectly desirable 
body and mind experience is an artificial

feeling that only lasts a few hours at most.
When the drug's effects wear off, because
the brain, which has come to rely on the steady
supply of happy hormones, cannot adjust

all at once, it gets stuck in overdrive which
results in the withdrawal symptoms. It is so
because his brain, whose system of reward
and punishment has been tampered with,

seeks to counteract and accomodate for
the sweet thrills of the drug's euphoric high,
by secreting much less happy hormones while
the foodgate of pain hormones is thrown open.

Just like a huge surge of happy hormones
elicits unnatural levels of euphorical pleasure,
a spike in flow of pain hormones produce
in him the torturous withdrawal symptoms.

These unwanted side-effects whose rise and
fall are subject to drug levels in the system,
is the debt he has to pay for the supreme
bliss that is relished during his opioid highs.

It is all about his brain seeking to maintain
Homeostasis: a normal, healthy body function.
Once he's able to amerce with penance due,
he'll feel good again with no need for the drug.

Another flip side of the illicit habit is that over
time, the regular surge in happy hormones
disrupts the resilience of the reward region
of the brain, causing physical changes that

have drastically reduced his brain's ability
to produce the 'pleasure juices', or respond
to any stimulus other than the one being
triggered by the psychoactive substance.

This is clearly seen in his lost of interest in
activities that he once enjoyed, since his brain
suffers from lack of happy hormones which
influence one's capacity to be in a good mood.

Because the narcotic has also disrupted
activities in the control region of the brain,
his whole thought pattern, perspective and
behaviour, all radically change along with it.

It is this reprogramming of his brain that has
altered the interior reality of his mind, in ways
that result in him going into 'survival mode'
in the absence of the drug during a withdrawal.

While in this irritable, aggressive and erratic
state, he would forego anything and everything
to obtain the narcotic because he's thinking
of his drug use the same way an individual 

who is parched with thirst thinks of water.
This desperation in seeking out the drug as
a vital lifeline is due to his compromised brain
'thinking' it needs it as a matter of survival.

A habit he had maintained at the outset
because it made him feel extremely good
has tuned against him, quite often, coercing
him to use for the avoidance of pain.

The sedative as dear and painful to him
as an imbecilic child is to its mother,  
he continues on the foreboding route 
for which he has no power of deviation.

Despairing in the clutches of addiction,
the drugs traumatize him, they infuse
toxins into his spine, and he wouldn't
know whether he's coming or going.

He's kept on saying to himself, 'I'm going
to quit for good after using one last time.'
But that remains to be seen as the drug
goes on dulling his inner light day by day.

In a downward spiral that stuns those 
acquainted with him, he loses his job,
his car is repoed, and he's evicted from
a nice home that had been stripped bare.

Drowning in unpaid bills and desperately
in debt having blown an entire life-savings
on the drug, the loss of everything and a few
remaining friends leaves him fatally devastated.

The dangerous drug has evoked a negative
ripple that is felt throughout all that he's
part of. An awful realization that settles in
with cold clarity, eliciting a lurch of dismay

over his dire ignorance about the drug
which has led to the ugly entrapment.
In deep, sorrowful thoughts consumed
with self-loathing he puts a curse upon

the day he first laid eyes on the hard drug.
With the best resolve he's able to muster,
driven by exasperation to kick the habit,
he strives to make his will like stone —

a facade that is soon razed by his urgent need
for the ****** to stave off withdrawal. With a
burden of guilt and shame that can't be faced
he retreats into the haze of his own misery.

With more problems and stresses than ever
he plunges from troubled life to no life,
completely losing touch with reality as the
disorder assumes a more dangerous form.

His fixation on the ****** has taken a turn for
the worst. Besides his strong cravings for it
to ward off withdrawal as well as to experience
its euphoric high again, it has become more

crucial than ever for him to keep his emotions
constantly desensitised to life, by numbing
the agony of living to ease the passage of
day with purchased relief from the sedative.

Locked in this highly destructive pattern
of drug use, he would stop at nothing
to feed the habit: he would cheat, steal,
lie or betray no matter who to get his 'fix'.

Like the spreading of cancer in the body,  
his affliction has metastasized way 
beyond him, chipping away at the sense
of wellbeing of everyone around him.

As frequent and ready targets for theft
his family have to always watch out for him,
in a resentful relations in which they never
could feel at easy with him around their home.

Wallets, jewellery, gadgets, or any other
easy to carry household valuables, that are
not safely locked away, will go missing.
For days at a time he, too, will vanish.

He'd eventually return like the 'prodigal son'.
Always, he's found the door open after
prolonged periods of avoiding home, even
on occasions when he'd been kicked out.

In the many months gone since losing his
source of livelihood, he's been pushed
into a number of rehabilitation facilities,
but as yet has failed to clean up his act.

He's also been in and out of rehab thrice
following hospital discharges for drug
overdose. On the last occasion, he was
found passed out in the family's bathtub.

Timely arrival of the paramedics had saved
his life. Notwithstanding, a nagging urge
to 'use' continues to feed and reinforce
the habit after each discharge from rehab.

It's been most upsetting to the parents
who have had to watch him visibly change
before their eyes: from a good, healthy
son, who had always had his act together,

to as it is, a thin, patchy-skinned loner with
a baffled demeanour — who buries his head
in low self-esteem to conceal the frequent
dilated and glassy pupils from mutual gaze.

Nothing points more to the helplessness 
of the family's plight than having to finally
admit to their little, or no influence, over
the ravages of the stigmatized disorder.

A harrowing experience for a household
whose life-savings, along with compassion
for him, have completely been exhausted
with no more tears remaining to shed.

The hurting family at the end of its tether
confronts him with an ultimatum:
to get his life in order or face the music.
Coldly, they all watch him leave home.

His descent into the final stages of rock-
bottom has been swift. He starts by crashing
on fellow addicts' couches and floors,
but soon his welcome quickly wears out.

Now among the ranks of the homeless the
hobo would wake up feeling sick, and his day
would consist of shoplifting, petty thefts,
begging, and struggling to find others ways

to obtain money in order to feed the habit.
At nights, even on stormy ones, the rough
sleeper would crash wherever there's shelter,
never worrying about waking up the next day.

A hellish existence on the street that has
provoked a string of run-ins with the law. 
Nabbed stealing on ill-fated occasions,
he's manhandled in a most indecent way.

Tired, hungry and sick, the erstwhile ray of
hope, who once had a strong sense of self,
is currently a nervous wreck who envisages
life through the lens of opioid stupor.

Much beyond his ability to ask for help, 
his hurting family proceed to rescue him.
Under the humbling load of drug addiction
he staggers into another rehab facility.

But the often slippery climb to recovery
is never easy. It's yet another chance for him
to submit to a slow and delicate therapy on
his brain, whose structure and functions are

badly impacted by years-long use of the drug.
The healing process is a labour of discipline
and commitment, coupled with patience
in order to allow the brain to adapt back

toward normalcy by gradually regenerating
and rebalancing itself. In a gruelling task he's
expected to learn to care for a body that
now must struggle to work in a different way.

Desiring to put their lives back together many
druggies have been able to crawl their way out
of the murky shadow — a big chunk of them
through the guiding light of structured help.

Amongst them were 'walking corpses' whom
possessed by their 'enough is enough', were
enabled to find the inner fire vitally needed
to rekindle the cold embers of self-image.

There's the fella cast adrift feeling wholly
disconnected from self and the world.
He's mourning the loss of a vital lifeline
that has always helped him cope with life.

He had been through it many times before,
the fatigue, stomach cramps, aches, itchy skin, ...
But, he's in the early stages of withdrawal when
cravings for the narcotic are at their worst.

This initial withdrawal agony is the biggest
hurdle any addict has to overcome in the often
stop-start journey to recovery. If he could
somehow find the courage to suffer through it,

the fierce and ceaseless cravings for the drug
would be considerably reduced, making
them easier for him to deal with. Eventually,
they will dissipate the longer he stays sober.

He's being offered a way out of his captivity,
but he's unable to embrace the opportunity
with open arms because the addiction,
which convinces him the only option available

is to indulge on the drug, is blocking him from
seeing the available escape route. It has shut
off his ability to get up on the inside to face
the seeming overwhelming barriers to sobriety.

Like one in the grip of Stockholm Syndrome,
he has developed a type of trauma bonding
with the treacherous drug: the more it hurts
him, the more his irrational affection for it.

With his consciousness constantly revolving
around the insidious substance, he just
can't imagine a chronic user like him
being sober and happy again without it.

That being the case, he fails to see any point
in struggling to remain sober when in such
times he's beset by an awful illness attended
by a serious depression that is no help.

Regardless of the wreckage of his past,
everything that is dear to him plus the very
essence of life on the line, he's left convinced
that giving up the destructive habit would

mean endless suffering and feeling deprived
for the rest of his already sad existence.
More than any other reasons, he just
won't quit because he's powerless to resist.

In default of any dreams of ever recouping
losses that are manifestly out of reach,
the drug with a firm grip on him serves 
as a buffer to keep his ugly reality at bay.

All that he wants is to return to the 'loving
arms' of the opioid, very much aware that
the feeling of the drug's high now that he's
in pain can be one of the best things ever.

But even so, as tempting as the desire to jump
the healing process may be, he's bitterly
mindful of the horrors of street life that
loom upon him with such frightening aspect.

Savagely trapped with no good choices he
slips into a real fear of relapse. In anguish
withdrawal and cravings plague him daily,
and they won't allow him a moment's peace.

Utterly incapable of rising from the ashes 
to hold it all together—no hope—
nothing to hope for—everything out 
of focus—mind spiraling out of control.

In a fit of extreme anxiety the now rampaging
urge to 'use' prods him, closer and closer,
to the brink of a nervous breakdown. Suddenly,
his need for a 'hit' becomes most vital as.

Sweating profusely and trembling all over
with fear clutching a pilfered smartphone,
forgetful of future suffering the rehab
jumper hurries along the forbidden path.

All alone with the merciless companion: 
nowhere to go and no one to turn to. 
Wretchedly wretched in additive agony
the ****** fades away into nothingness.








AUTHOR'S NOTE


The Abyss Of Drug Addiction is written in 112 non-rhyming quatrains.

The rendition is a poignant story depicting the sad existence of many drug users. The verse uncovers and illuminates, step by step, the different stages of drug addiction and the mental processes of the unable to function drug users.

The paramount aim of the work is to shed some light on the sinister shadow of drug addiction: to unveil to all and sundry, especially teenagers and the youths, the hazards of drug abuse and the vicious downward spiral that can be caused by it. 

Just as the euphoric experience of all kinds of hard drugs differ significantly, so are their withdrawal symptoms. Despite their seeming surface unrelatedness, whichever hard drug it may be, the creation of an illegal and dangerous dependency in users is a common denominator.

[The Rush is described as a feeling very much like a heightened and prolonged ****** ******. A great relieve of tension. It is mostly felt when ****** or any of it's derivatives opioids/opiates is administered intravenously].

In quite a disturbing hyperbole a ****** addict described the drug's EUPHORIC RUSH as follows:
"Take the best (******) ****** you've ever had, multipy it a billion and you're still no where near it... "
“every man wants to be a tyrant when he fornicates"— marquis de sade (philosophy in the boudoir)
in murky region of my mind flickers shanty town of wickedness and all who burn betray me are tortured murdered buried on outskirts of this moot province not entirely devoted to revenge shadows dart lascivious exchanges shadow economy back alley shenanigans soundproof rooms filled with hunger for beautiful women sole source of my arousal female lust japanese silk braided ropes bowls hoses drop-clothes vibrating toys anticipating mischievous acts town’s folk love esteem me applaud my fiercest turpitude fathers offer their daughters mothers perfume girls with wild flowers in their hair whispering accommodating instructions ultimately i decline their generous offerings opting instead for steadfast soul confidante accomplice closer in age she knows how to mommy my genitals get me off and i the same for her churning simmering caldron of desires dazzling aromas through center of town runs sacred blue river constantly replenishing innocence upon dust filth criminality also many enchanting bridges connecting dark side to bright side in elegant rundown art museum hang several of my paintings next to jackson ******* ad reinhardt anselm kiefer gerhard richter albert pinkham ryder francisco goya susan rothenberg and public library shelves brim with volumes of my writings next to james joyce william faulkner sophocles sylvia plath rainer maria rilke milan kundera franz kafka gabriel garcia marquez thomas bernhard patrick suskind  pablo neruda oriana fallaci annie proulx lydia davis during mornings everyone busies themselves making things practicing yoga swimming cooking friends gather for lunch munch comically gossip about previous night’s dramas in afternoon go back to their interests at sunset all citizenry come together look to west watch fiery orange globe sink beyond purple mountains wonder reflect sniff their fingers as night falls on little village each goes about deciding what to wear then meet for cocktails in local taverns and commotion begins
~
September 2023
HP Poet: Old Poet MK
Age: 80, but feels 79
Country: Canada


Question 1: We welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Old Poet MK. Please tell us about your background?

Old Poet MK: "I was a poor scholar…difficult concentration issues from grade school onward…very little was known about dyslexia in those early years…it’s a bit of a different world…many blessings and all kinds of curses. I was fortunate to invent and able to patent a few things that people were willing to pay for. My wife and I opened a small factory and manufactured decorative accessories for interior designers in the commercial market, offices…malls…lobby’s, etc. Making a living doing something you enjoy…feels good…and for almost 40 years It was hard working fun…I was inventing day and night."


Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Old Poet MK: "I recall attempting poetry when I was in my early 20’s…lyrics for tunes, etc…but I didn’t keep a record of that period, it wasn’t until my early 50’s when Leonard Cohen captured me in the magic of his rhythmic language…it was a melodic trap…the lyrics blew my mind and my world got a little bigger, from that time on I wrote frequently…and read the work of many poets trying to figure out how it all works….I wrote for my own enjoyment and a deep desire to improve...I began to submit my poems on a couple of sites about 12 years ago…I finally found Hello Poetry in 2016…the best of the lot in its own way…There are talented wonderful people here…"


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Old Poet MK: "There’s no particular formula or pattern….I think it happens when I get a little edgy…and my unconscious has observed a puzzle untamed…for me poetry is self discovery, it emerges raw…and I do my best to tame it."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Old Poet MK: "Poetry is important to me….a sense of fulfilment digesting the work of the great poets…incredible philosophies between the words….reading the work of fellow poets…learning from heartfelt insight…I take my own work seriously and work ******* interpretation and refinement…it all feels a worthy time spent….squeezing meaning out of abstraction and allegory tongues or plain words. The freedom of poetry is a gift….the lightning speed of brevity conquers a complex point in a flash….compared to a few pages of prose…it is a fascinating creative process using colors of your own choice…up down or sideways…verse rhyme or hybrid…you birth an original poem."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Old Poet MK: "Leonard Cohen…I understand his misery. Irving Layton…another Canadian poet…a close friend and mentor of Cohen…fascinating love poems. Bukowski…for his genius and dignity. Mark Strait…amazing work that surprises. Billy Collins…the lightness of his heart. Emily Dickinson…who forced me to find the voice in a poem and it’s attitude to help me understand and interpret (as important as writing itself) and I don’t always get it…"


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Old Poet MK: "It is wonderful when one retires and has a few hobbies and deep interests. I’m an Audiophile…with a proud record collection and old vintage gear. I clean, preen and constantly improve. I paint large abstract expression (acrylic on canvas), they take a long time, sometimes one will surprise me and end up on a wall. I’ve been playing saxophone since I was a kid….never could read worth a nickel, yet it’s been very rewarding…the challenge and joy of improvisation trusting your ear. In the world of jazz I’ve met and performed with amazing people…"


Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for giving us an opportunity to get to know you, my friend! You are a wonderful addition to the series!”

Old Poet MK: "Thank you Carlo…Appreciated….What you do is not easy…"



Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Old Poet MK a little bit better. I indeed did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)

We will post Spotlight #8 in October!

~
Cassie Jul 2013
Fast food
Fast cars
Fast girls
Fast world

Fast paced
Shoes laced
Heightened heart rate
Don't be late

Sweat beading your being
Aren't you tired?
Your soul's taking a beating
Tweeting instead of reading
Face booking instead of looking up
Have you forgotten how to breathe?
Involuntary actions* now include refreshing your news feed

The best years of our lives wasted on the internet
Reblogging pictures that reflect our interests
Hoping the next follower is our next best friend
What happened to human interaction?
We're all connected by a single thread
Let's take a stand and realize this now instead of on our death beds

Look up
Look out
Look in
Lose doubts
Lose sin
Lose shame
Open your eyes
Forget the game

*autonomic functions
I read this at my school's poetry slam. I have horrible stage fright and closed minded peers to appease. I'm happy I actually went through with it.
Andrew Rueter Apr 2018
We are all birds of a flock
That is pervaded by hawks
Predators who sympathy block
Until it's in conflict we're locked
Brought on by hateful conclusions
Conjured from shameful delusions
Trying to avoid societal fusion
Based on a diabolical illusion

They claim to love the man who digs the ditch
But this comes off as a hollow pitch
Because they all seem so rich
And say that the poor have a glitch
And their worst nightmare would be to switch
They're aware of other's values and interests
But they ***** their brothers like ******
Using hatred and ignorance
To make up the difference

They're so jingoistic
Creating misfits
To shift focus
Away from them
They're the locust
That chew the stem
Obtaining the power of love
Inside of their glove
That they use to shove
A misappropriation
That strangles a nation
At the rate of inflation
Yet the hawks show elation

When the going gets tough
We hear the same old stuff
Something about 9/11
Or who gets into heaven
They find simple answers
For complex issues
I hope their sinful cancer
Happens to miss you
But their negativity takes many forms
Anything from budgets to bullet storms
Tearing down bountiful fields of corn
To build another convenience store

These vultures keep consuming
While resources dwindle
Their desperation causes fuming
So they cheat and swindle
Surviving by eating the dead
That died from violent words said
Coming from the greedy vulture's head
Until every single animal has viscerally bled

These hawks used to look so regal
Until we experienced chemotherapy
Now they've become bald eagles
Always trying to steal my hair from me
But we're different species apparently
Because I have no feathers to offer
To further fill their nest egg coffers
So they forcefully take what they want
And then their shameless riches they flaunt
Using perceptions of status to tease and taunt
Hoping we'll forget they're the ghosts that haunt
A world of immutable truths
Even the richest can't elude
They build a curtain that's crude
To protect their fortunate brood
Fearing it will be dismantled
By an activist carrying a candle
So the vast majority can get a handle
On a future other than slavery
But to finally fight back
Requires the utmost bravery
And it's courage we lack
Can be found in my self published poetry book “Icy”.
https://www.amazon.com/Icy-Andrew-Rueter-ebook/dp/B07VDLZT9Y/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Icy+Andrew+Rueter&qid=1572980151&sr=8-1
Now that people are becoming more aware of my poetic efforts, interests are being expressed regarding the background of my poetry - in addition, to my spiritual muse. In this installment, I share the background and poem "In Remembrance of Grandma".

I recognize that most of you reading this article will not know much about my maternal Grandmother, other than what you're able to glean from this page. However, there are universal lessons that need to be shared. This poem was originally written for her funeral.

For nearly forty years, I was blessed to have known my grandparents; blessed - because many people don't have the opportunity to know their family history personally from those who came before them. Within about one decade, mine were all gone - with my maternal grandmother being the last one to die. Of the four of them, I had spent the most time with her. My grandmother had moved to Portland, Maine; this came about as the result of two significant events in her life. First, her husband Al ***** died unexpectedly; second, her oldest daughter (and my mom) had gone through a divorce. So they decided to purchase a home jointly and move on with their lives. Also living with them was my aunt Tina, my mother's younger sister.

My grandmother was an intelligent woman; she was one of those people who completed the New York Times crossword puzzles - in ink and usually in under an hour. And she grew some of the most beautiful roses in her tiny backyard. It was wonderful to see the joy in her eyes when it came to her flowers. The problem was that she was heart-broken when Al passed away; for decades they would go dancing at night, just to hold one another more often. With him gone, she stopped living for herself. Less than a year from his retirement, her husband died on the picket line at work. Although I can only imagine her grief, it was difficult to see the affects of this tragedy slowly eat away at her soul. She rarely left her home, with the exception of going to Church, the grocery store or some of the neighbors' homes a few times during the month. She and Al were to go to Hawaii for a second honeymoon, but she could not bear to go there without him. In The Word, we are essentially reminded that "people without vision perish" (and yes, I know that there are variations of interpretation of this concept). Despite our ability to absorb pain, we must learn to move forward in life and not let the pain consume us.

For many years, she smoked cigarettes and was unwilling to give them up. She did so eventually; my mother moved out of their house, Tina got married; she and her husband lived with my grandma. Tina and husband Greg started their own family, raising three boys - thus giving her the incentive to quit. As most everyone knows, smoking increases one's risk of having cancer. My family were under the impression that she had managed to escape the misery of that disease. Less than two weeks from her death was when most of the family learned that she had contracted cancer and emphysema.

Although I understand and appreciate the need for privacy, it was selfish of my grandmother not to share the condition of her health. Her justification for not telling anyone, was that she had decided not to go through with the cancer treatment. By not telling us, she figured that no one would be given the opportunity to dissuade her from her decision. After all, it was her decision (and rightfully so). Before she died, Tina started quickly gathering information about cancer - to better learn about what to expect regarding the few remaining days of her mother's life. One cancer brochure shocked her; as a result of reading the material, she was now having to deal with guilt. This particular pamphlet laid out symptoms and patterns of human behavior of those suffering from this fatal disease - stuff that Tina had observed, but never realized the meaning of until it was too late. So in effect, my grandmother caused her family more pain by not sharing. In addition, not everyone who cared about her, had enough time to say good-bye (while she was alive).

Although I had time to compose this brief poem in her honor, I did not have enough time to process my grandmother's death fully (prior to the service). I was supposed to read the following poem and share a few words. To my surprise, I was choked up with immense grief, which kept me from delivering my eulogy; my wife kindly stepped in and presented the poem. One of my brothers was extremely upset for my inability to talk on behalf of my grandmother; so he spoke on my family's behalf. It's one of my few regrets in life; however, she was the only grandparent of mine that got to read my poetry manuscript. Less than two months before her death, she had taken time read my poetry and was pleasantly pleased with my efforts. During her appraisal of my work was the first time I learned that she wrote poetry - as of today, I've never gotten to read a line of poetry that she wrote. So it breaks my heart not to know what she composed, as well as not being able to share any more of my writing with her. And so here is my tribute for her...



 

In Remembrance of Grandma

A manicured garden
of colored, cultured roses
now goes untended.
For Marguerite has been freed
of all mortal constraint;
left behind
is a silver trowel
and dancing shoes,
as her spirit flies
to the Hawaiian shore
for pirouetting barefoot
on the seashell sand.

Goodbye Grandma *****; I miss you already.
(18 June 2006)
D L Smith Aug 2016
I write these words from boredom.

Where they lead to I know not.

All I know, is that I write from boredom.

Boredom creeps upon me, like a stealthy foe within the night. My interests can be peaked then can go out like a light. Maybe with a bit of horror my boredom could be solved through some fright. Alas I know that to resolve my boredom I'll have to put up a fight.

To the boredom I say good day and try to be on my merry way. Boredom however has more to say upon this day in such a way that it molds me like wet gooey clay. Shaping and forming my mind for the evening, the boredom kicks in an my spirits start leaving.

Once thriving and passionate, once creative and fair. Now because of my boredom I lack the very will to care. To care about feelings, hopes and dreams. Like most of my cares, they simply fall through the seams.

Seams within my mind that bind me into one whole thing. A thing that has no will to continue with such a boring night. A flightless, hopeless, careless, and boredom filled night.

So sleep tight, because as of now it's all I have to escape my boredom. Once I crawl into bed my mind is at ease, but when I wake up I need something that will please. Anything, anything at all.

Whether it be down or up the stairs, in between some spider hair, along a glowing beam, even along a narrow stream.

A gray dull life is not one I desire, day by day I hope for something to light my fire. Boredom strikes when I least expect, I always wonder when it will hit next. I'm lucky when it leaves and pray that is does not return.

However when it does return I yearn for something to do. I Look for a clue for something to do, just as you likely read this from boredom too. So my dear reader I bid you farewell, from whence I came I shall return to my boring spell.
Boredom is a running series of poems that I have created out of, you guessed it. Boredom.
Cunning Linguist Jun 2014
Most urgent:
First we debase this worthless currency,
To usher in impending new world order
Imprisoning the globe
Then bathed in ignorance
(
Fluoridation* retarding cognitive development)

More the merrier but I transcend borders
because my mind has no barriers
Spinning diction with volatile volition
Enchanting your brain into submission

A cheese-grater to the pineal gland
Inhibiting ability to dream,
Impassioned creativity &
inquisitiveness at an impasse,
Expertly contrasting
Inquisition with inability to produce
dimethyltriptamine
Because the pacified sheep
can't sleep away their passiveness
Mass devastation for the kids & family!

Slam it down with a gra(in/m) of (bath) salt
Better yet, sugar and McDonald's
Let Ronald wash your mind in city water
Dang, there's nothing outrageous
about meandering naked
Lusting to eating someone's face
these days, is there?
(Passed out on the asphalt)

Who bares the fault,
Who cares the most?
I know you planned it Mr. President,
take your nuclear launch codes
Atop your throne with your Zionist cohorts
Fake a breath, then flip the switch
Now you am become Death
3.  
2.  
1...
Default the planet

Where's your ******* conviction?
Digest my words and eat your fat *** to death Amerika

Mind your fate
The Devil's gates
Just a step away

So take the chip beneath skin
6 6 6
Pick up sticks,
Gather a whole bundle
& Light yourself on fire (******)

Crackpot conspiracy
How can you not see
Our country's interests inherently
sit in the pockets of Nazis?

Don't even get me started on television;
hypnotized sheep
mass-media gives me aneurysms
Is the Lord truly your shepherd
or do you always stumble so blindly?

Military-Industrial-Machine
Gobbling resources at breakneck speed
CONSUME CONSUME CONSUME
FAT CAPITALIST PIGS!!

You make me feel like vomiting.

Simply waiting for the bomb
to come bump uglies with the ***** of Babylon

NOW WATCH ME GET
~ULTRASONIC~
AS I DROP
ATOMIC ELBOWS
FROM THE TOP ROPE
TO THE THROAT
IN HOPES YOU CHOKE


Leaves a bad taste in your mouth,
did I tell a ***** joke?
(Haha-ha)
GARGLE SOAP *****,
YOUR LIFE'S HOPELESS

If you like beer & NASCAR gimme a hell yeah!*  (hell yeah!)
If you like bacon & pole-dancing gimme a hell yeah!

**** THIS REPUBLIC
DYSTOPIAN,
FLOWING WITH
NECRO-DESPOTISM
A COY ACT OF VENTRILOQUISM,
ON THE WORLD'S STAGE

Tangled like a marionette in its strings,
An insect in spiderwebs
Festering infection
Just keep using band-aids ;)

Take these cocktails
of famine, death, pestilence + plague
Questionably mixed with a little apathy
and self-delusion it's all the rage

The miasma of death
Clung and hung to their silhouettes
like cigarettes
The hands of the clock
tick-tocking away the seconds toward oblivion
In which I carry, reckless abandonment

*insert some wrath of God,
explosions of nuclear & biblical proportions,
then apportion some cataclysm
Sit back,
Listen to the wailing screams of panicking children
******* lay waste to this rock already,
this organic prison
And each and every organism
that dwells within it's ecosystems


All this to bring
A radical new utopia
not for you & me
but them, the Elite
and their heathen families


Behold a new dawn;
On the verge of 100% synthetic conversion
Mind, body, & soul as pawns
Data corrupted, perverted by total divergence
Illusion of free-will ruptured and gushing,
until microscopic then atrophied

Misanthropic singularity
Quantum computing
and nanotechnology
Existentially creating cyborg zombies
& Making gods rise from machines
Kinda deus ex machina style,
But nothing Isaac Asimov could machinate even in his wildest dreams

To me, a fitting end to humanity
The Great White Ape silently weeps
Still waiting for a Messiah
*a refined repost of an earlier draft

If this poem provokes interest I strongly recommend you research the long term effects of water fluoridation, the role it plays in calcification of the pineal gland, as well as the role it played in **** concentration camps.
The **** agenda is alive and well carried out in the 20-21st century through puppet America.
Society is the world's grandest pyramid scheme.
Open your mind, and open your eyes
http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Paperclip
~
June 2023
HP Poet: Patty Mager
Country: USA


Question 1: Welcome to the HP Spotlight, Patty. Please tell us about your background?

Patty M: "I was born an only child in a 3 generation household. I loved books, and playing imaginary games, and chasing my mom with really long nightcrawlers, my Grandpa raised in a washtub. I was a banker, and a financial banker for many years. I quit to do hospice for my Dad when he was to go into hospice. My husband had heart problems and my little Mom eventually got Cancer. So I nursed and loved them all. My Dad for a year, the others over an 8-year period. I saw the transition of each and the way each handled their ending, and I was there for them all. I consider that a special blessing."


Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Patty M: "I always wrote, but I found a poetry site 20 years ago, and began to write seriously. I've been published in many anthologies both in the US and abroad. I was nominated for the coveted Pushcart Prize twice and I once had a three-page spread in our local newspaper. I came to HP in 2014 and I love this special place with amazingly wonderful poets who have become really great friends."


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Patty M: "Sometimes poems seem to write themselves, almost like automatic writing."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Patty M: "Poetry is spiritual, and a lifesaving rope that carries me through both good and the horrible times of my life."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Patty M: "My favorite Poets are: Sylvia Plath, Neruda, Billy Collins, Maya Angelou, Poe, Ginsberg, Anne Sexton, and Longfellow."


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Patty M: "I love to cook, do crossword puzzles, read, and play card games like canasta, and spider solitaire. Being with family is my heaven."


Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for allowing me to interview you, dear Patty! I learned a great deal about you!”

Patty M: "Thank again Carlo. Thanks so much for all your help and kindness."




Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Patty a little bit better. I indeed did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)

We will post Spotlight #5 in July!
~
~
August 2025
HP Poet: Nick Moore
Age: 50+
Country: UK


Question 1: We warmly welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Nick. Please tell us about your background?

Nick Moore: "I was born in Knutsford Cheshire; my parents split up when I was 7, so me and my mother moved to the North of England, this affected me greatly, influencing many poems. I didn't like school very much, finding it too restrictive, going straight into work at 16, into the university of life (a well-used saying at the time) working with adults with a learning disability for many years. I moved to Cornwall 10 years ago, never missing a day on the beach."


Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Nick Moore: "Since 2011. I was in a band for a while, around the age of 20, writing songs, when I felt some of the songs seemed like they could pass as poems. My daughter was born a few years later, she sparked something in me, that just had to be expressed; the first poem I wrote was about her, what a child sees."


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Nick Moore: "Just about anything: philosophy, science, comedy, music, people, nature; but I have to let the idea grow in my mind, it's there in the background, and when it's ready, it will make itself known."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Nick Moore: "As a child, I was fascinated with the lyrics to songs, certain ones really spoke to me; for example Daniel by Elton John, the emotion in those words really got to me, so poetry was inevitably going to come into my life; so for me, it's a way of expressing thoughts and feelings that are hard to just bring up in a conversation."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Nick Moore: "Mark Bolan, was the first poetry I read, think the book was called Warlock of Love? Jim Morrison, Bob Dylan, Edgar Allan Poe, W.B. Yeats, C.S. Lewis and the many poets on Hello poetry."


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Nick Moore: "Growing my own food, reading, surfing (not very good), listening to music, watching films from the silent era to recent ones, and walking my dog."


Carlo C. Gomez: “We would like to thank you Nick, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in this Spotlight series!”

Nick Moore: "Thanks again."




Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Nick better. We most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez

We will post Spotlight #31 in September!

~
across the Liverpool plains
the gas exploration
goes on without
being contained

drilling is never ending
holes sunk
which invariable
cause in the farming community
a disquieting funk

Santos
cares little
for the environment's
well being
its pipeline
must garner
all the gas
in the stream

landholders and those in the green party
have banded together
to protect the agricultural lands
from the rabid abuse
which the company
will wrought on
the water table
flora
and
fauna

they cry ****
as the company
exploits
the countryside
making of it
a harlot to be pillaged
and misused

the state government
is at sixes and sevens
so many competing
interests
must be listened to
should it give
Santos
permits
to
**** and plunder
or
will
it
allow
the
broad acres
to
continue
without sunder
Dustin Wills Sep 2012
Let me tell you about highschool
Let me tell you about the girls with hair higher then they can reach
The boys with the careless hair
The love intre-

No

Let me tell you about MY highschool
With the nerd shirts and phrases that most don’t understand
With the football games and the blue and white face paint
The girls talking to me with another pair of lips rather than the ones plastered on their face

No

Let me tell you about life
About the dew drops in the morning
The smile hidden in a stranger as he orders his double mocha triple shot dosage of love
Injected

No

Let me tell you about me
Let me tell you about my mom and her thin lips that orchestrate fat lies
Let me tell you about my dad who treats the bottle like the daughter he never wanted
Let me tell you about my school life and the way I get treated

No

Let me tell you a story
A story about ups and downs
Pills and coke and *****
With books and love interests
I cant fit my life into a poem

I can tell you my love life in a poem
My scars in a poem
My hate in a poem
My fears in a poem
I can’t tell you my life

I can tell you about my surroundings
How I always try to be strong
But you can only stick your head near ***** for so long
Before you start smelling what they're saying.

I can tell you about homophobia
About the men who flinch at the very word ******
Or the girls who are so uncomfortable with themselves they starve
I can tell you about the parents childless because of bullying

So tell me
What do you want to hear today?
Sienna Luna Nov 2015
Dear, let me startle you by slinking my hand into
your smart, ethical decisions while I touch
quite gently
ripping to shreds
your photon ends.

Dear, let me caress your supple virtues and vows
until they blow out of proportion
merging your interests with mine
like the longing of eyes
uncanny in its distortion.

Dear, let me rip off your clothes as I grip your tight notions
ideas slipping carefully into place
like a sterile, unflinching blank slate
inching towards computed devotion.

Dear, let me carry out some foreplay
as long as you bend, not break,
delightfully stroking the edge of your plate.

Dear, let me come so close to your face
so close that it becomes blurry.

Where are my glasses in all this flurry?

Of feelings resembling photo reels on fire
shooting flames out the window
beyond everything you’ve ever known;
beyond anything you desire.

Dear, let me kiss you to submission,
your brain waves in motion
as I twist and slip into them
hormones ablaze
lighting up for days
your synapses recapturing
in a binocular haze.

Dear, let me flop on top of you
like a floppy disk, uploading your lips
into my hardrive.

Do I make you hard as fire?

Slowing burning
my hot fingers curling
up your robust spine
cracking it into
chiropractor sublime.

Massaging your tired broad shoulders
like large sofa ends.

Is this keyboard only
made for pretend?

Dear, let me mind *******
take you and light you
brighten your screen
uphold and unseen
neurons fighting as I whisper ***** words
directly into the folds of your tulip ears
too large to hear, and

Dear, let me engage my rage
into a productive haze
bolting out words, unheard of for days.

Dear, let us become undone together
like the battery of a computer
rebooting after a hectic hardware phase.

Dear, let us breathe and walk through this maze.
Lucius Furius Jul 2017
"23: July 24"
"24: October 5"
"25: February 19"
"26: December 14"
  
The words went right to the pit of my stomach.
All doubt was gone.
I'd graduate/be drafted in June.
By September
I'd be in Vietnam.
  
My high school gym teacher had been an Army sergeant.
He stepped on our stomachs as we did sit-ups,
"toughening us up".
I've had a problem with authority
(unsuited, temperamentally,
to obeying unconditionally).
I'd be a poor soldier in the best of wars.
  
But if a job required some independence/ingenuity --
a pilot or a spy, say --
and if the cause was right
(World War II, for instance),
I could fight as well as another guy.
  
I don't like fighting,
but I'm not so naive as to think it's never a necessity.
There's always someone who, given the chance,
will take our possessions and make us their slaves.
So who should decide
if a particular war is justified?
This seemed to be my own responsibility.
  
Vietnam? I decided it wasn't.
Weren't we protecting a democracy?
No. Thieu lacked popular support.
Wouldn't Thailand and India fall?
No. The domino theory was questionable at best.
Weren't our national interests at stake?
No, not really.
I'd decided I shouldn't fight;
They'd decided to make me fight.

The physical was set for March.
Unless I failed,
I'd go to Vietnam,
go to jail for seven years,
or go to Canada for the rest of my life.
  
In studying Army regulations,
I found a fascinating chart.
It showed for each particular height
the greatest and the smallest weight
the Army would accept.
I'd heard of people who'd gotten out
by injuring themselves intentionally.
Some exaggerated a minor back pain.
Others faked insanity.
Losing weight seemed nobler;
lying/mutilation, not required.
  
The low for me was 118;
lose twenty pounds and I'd be out.
(At 5'10", that's pretty thin.
Could I do it and not get sick?)
My parents thought for sure I'd die.
  
Help from doctors was out of the question;
on my own I studied nutrition.
Cut down on calories,
maintain needed nutrients
(protein, essential fats, vitamins, and minerals).
Once I found a working combination,
I stuck to it without exception.
Cottage cheese, wheat germ, and fish were staples.
Bored fat cells chose self-immolation.
My weight dropped to one hundred and twenty.

In cases where the weight was close
I'd heard the Army sometimes winked:
("Oh we'll fatten this guy up").
I decided to lose to one hundred and ten.
  
Contrary to my parents' fears --
though vigorous exercise made me dizzy --
I really wasn't sick at all.

The Army sent a special bus
to take us to the physical.
Once there, we stripped to underpants,
moved like cattle from each room to the next.
I weighed 110.
They classified me 1-Y
(examine again in a year;
if still unfit, reject).
Losing again would be inconvenient,
but free of worry since I knew that it worked.
  
I'd brought some food.
I drank and ate it ravenously.
  
So what did I feel on that bus heading home?
Triumph? Elation? No.
Relief, sadness, and guilt.
Relief because finally I was free of this mess.
Sadness and guilt because someone else
would be made to go and fight in my place.
It's true this person, on some level,
had chosen not to escape --
but maybe he just hadn't thought it through. . . .
  
Now for a bold statement from a slimy ex-draft-dodger --
I'm sure you'll think this hypocritical -- :
Each of us must be ready to serve.
Responsibility for protecting things we love
can not lie solely with the professional military.
(Future wars could overwhelm them.)
  
Service isn't always guns.
Service might be joining the Peace Corps
or electing leaders who effectively distinguish
false threats from real ones -- and pre-empt war.
  
Wars should be rare, ****** upon us.
No more propping up tottering dictators.
No more shoving "Democracy" down people's throats.
No more sacrificing 10,000 soldiers so we can pay a
      quarter less for gasoline.
  
Wars should be necessary and just;
everyone should serve.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem:  humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_025_draft.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
Sabila Siddiqui Mar 2018
Verbalizing out her interests
attracted opportunities.

She planned to play with every insecurity,
learning, growing and blooming
with every opening.

She just had to take a chance
for the possibility.
Event hough she was dubious and stuttering.

But soon there would be rhythm and fluency
and there she would find unity in
a community.
1278

The Mountains stood in Haze—
The Valleys stopped below
And went or waited as they liked
The River and the Sky.

At leisure was the Sun—
His interests of Fire
A little from remark withdrawn—
The Twilight spoke the Spire,

So soft upon the Scene
The Act of evening fell
We felt how neighborly a Thing
Was the Invisible.
Infinity Leander Apr 2015
when i told my friend that my new boyfriend loved sports and going out; partying, being loud and obnoxious, she grimaced and said she didn't know why i even liked him. i got angry with her - why did she not trust my gut?

i once told her that opposites attract, so we should be fine. we should have been.

but then came the fighting over little things, then came the mutual devaluation of each other's interests, then came the nights spent on the couch instead of in bed,  his drinking. he would always take the books from my hands and throw them across the wall - *******, he called them. he'd always say i lived in my head, that i never gave him the attention he deserved, that he would take a ******* instead of me any time. and at some point, he had me loathing him more than i did myself.

yet, at the same time, i still loved him. it was like an addiction - i knew he was bad for me, but i clung onto him like he was air and i couldn't breathe. there were nights when i really couldn't.

sometimes it felt like he still loved me, too. when he came to the locked bathroom door and cried with me; apologizing over and over again. at those moments my love for him would crawl out of its cave - my heart - covered in blood, battered, bruised, but still standing. and it would hold him, whispering false truths in his ear. i would always forgive him, because opposites attract. it was just the way he was, he couldn't do anything about it.

even if he could, i frequently thought i didn't want him to. not because i was content with his violent outbrusts and alcoholism, or what he put me through on a daily basis - no. because i loved him, regardless of all the pain he caused me. and love means to accept someone for who they are.

but i came to realize that love is quite finite when all negative things seem infinite.

i hated the way we were so different. where i would sit in one place for hours on end, he'd walk around clumsily, breaking things, screaming, slamming doors.

he drove me mad. and, don't get me wrong, i am not a saint. i'm sure i did the same to him. maybe it's my fault that he turned out the way he did - perhaps if he had chosen to live with someone else, his smiles would still be kind rather than cruel. perhaps if i had changed for him - if i was more like him, we would have been okay. but my silence was deafening. i was convinced he didn't deserve to hear my voice. and he didn't, for days. sometimes he asked if i was pretending to be a ghost of what we used to be. i started questioning my previous way of thinking. do opposites really attract?

and i came to a conclusion. they really do. opposites attract, but they are not always good for each other. i had to learn that the hard way.

and just like a ghost, i faded. i left.
going through a character's head is hard when you have yet to create them.
XxX Sep 2015
I'm not afraid to **** myself
What I'm scared of is what happens if it doesn't work out
But I'm doing this and hoping it works.

Mom, I'm sorry I couldn't be everything you wanted out of a daughter. You probably wanted a smart, pretty and elegant daughter and you were delivered this sack of ****. I'm sorry that you'll have to clean up my one last mess. I'm sorry that you'll never understand. I'm sorry I could never 'try' as much as you'd like. I love you always, and forever.

Dad, with you I'm always at a loss for words. You and I have a special bond and when I think of you I think of my likes and interests. My music is heavily influenced by you. Thanking you for showing me what good music is. Thank you, I love you. Sorry.

Bryan, My step dad. You have been here to watch me grow up for the past 5 years and thats cool, I'm sorry it wasnt as what you must have expected. I'm sorry. Please take good care of mom and River. I love you

Diana, My step mom. You are literally mommy number 2. I've known you for 10 years. You have guided me into adult hood. You all did great. I love you.

Please don't think this was any of your faults. You will do great with R and K, you did great with me. This is just a flaw within myself. No amount of medication and counselling could fix this. I past the point of help. After 7 years there scars are too deep to reverse.

My aunt and godmother. You helped me out so much. I love you and I'm sorry you saved all this money for college for me to go throw it away with a few too many pills.

To everyone, I'm sorry. You'll have to go to my funeral, you will feel obligated. But don't go unless you actually cared. I know I won't physically be there but I want to know who would've been there.

Anyways, I'm sorry. This time it will work.
this is majorly triggering for some people but i just need to publish this i guess, a way to release this. It obviously didn't work considering I'm typing this.
Lin Cava Jun 2016
Theodore Roosevelt –

Teddy ceased to walk this earth, benefactor to his beloved Nation, valiant in his service to his country, his family and the family of Americans, on January 6, 1919.

During his remarkable life he never wavered in his support of America – these United States, and Americans.  Were it not for Teddy, there would be no National Preserves or parks.

He had much to say.  So sage was his insight that it retains universal relevance to this day.

Sadly, we have no modern day Teddy to set things right; there is so much to address, and so little time to meet the challenges.  I fear we have adopted a timidness of heart that would be a foul countenance for this President to see.

What follows are some of his words.  See if you do not agree that they remain relevant words of wisdom, to this day.  Teddy is gone for 96 years.  How I would love to see another like him at the helm.



“Any man who tries to excite class hatred, sectional hate, hate of creeds, any kind of hatred in our community, though he may affect to do it in the interest of the class he is addressing, is in the long run with absolute certainly that class's own worst enemy.”



“Behind the ostensible government sits enthroned an invisible government owing no allegiance and acknowledging no responsibility to the people. To destroy this invisible government, to befoul the unholy alliance between corrupt business and corrupt politics is the first task of the statesmanship of today.”

“Our government, National and State, must be freed from the sinister influence or control of special interests. Exactly as the special interests of cotton and slavery threatened our political integrity before the Civil War, so now the great special business interests too often control and corrupt the men and methods of government for their own profit. We must drive the special interests out of politics.”

We should insist that if the immigrant who comes here does in good faith become an American and assimilates himself to us he shall be treated on an exact equality with every one else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed or birth-place or origin.  But this is predicated upon the man's becoming in very fact an American and nothing but an American. If he tries to keep segregated with men of his own origin and separated from the rest of America, then he isn't doing his part as an American. There can be no divided allegiance here. . . We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language, for we intend to see that the crucible turns our people out as Americans, of American nationality, and not as dwellers in a polyglot boarding-house; and we have room for but one soul loyalty, and that is loyalty to the American people.

-Theodore Roosevelt - January 3, 1919 - Publicly read on January 5, 1919

Roosevelt passed the next day, January 6, 1919



“Every immigrant who comes here should be required within five years to learn English or leave the country.”



And, wouldn’t this apply to the keystone pipeline? –

“Here is your country. Cherish these natural wonders, cherish the natural resources, cherish the history and romance as a sacred heritage, for your children and your children's children. Do not let selfish men or greedy interests skin your country of its beauty, its riches or its romance.”

“Leave it as it is. The ages have been at work on it and man can only mar it.”

*

“In foreign affairs we must make up our minds that, whether we wish it or not, we are a great people and must play a great part in the world. It is not open to us to choose whether we will play that great part or not. We have to play it. All we can decide is whether we shall play it well or ill.”

“In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the person's becoming in every facet an American, and nothing but an American... There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also, isn't an American. We have room for but one flag, and that is the American flag… We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language... and we have room for but one sole loyalty and that is a loyalty to the American people.”

“In this country we have no place for hyphenated Americans.”

Presidential thoughts and on leadership…

"Patriotism means to stand by the country. It does not mean to stand by the president or any other public official, save exactly to the degree in which he himself stands by the country. It is patriotic to support him insofar as he efficiently serves the country. It is unpatriotic not to oppose him to the exact extent that by inefficiency or otherwise he fails in his duty to stand by the country. In either event, it is unpatriotic not to tell the truth, whether about the president or anyone else.”

“People ask the difference between a leader and a boss ... The leader works in the open, and the boss in covert. The leader leads, and the boss drives.”

“The best executive is the one who has sense enough to pick good men to do what he wants done, and self-restraint to keep from meddling with them while they do it.”

“The things that will destroy America are prosperity at any price, peace at any price, safety first instead of duty first and love of soft living and the get-rich-quick theory of life.”

Yes, he had a lot to say.  Not everyone can agree on everything.  But, I am sure that Teddy would have rather a person support their position, firm in the knowledge of the situation, when not in agreement, than go along meekly, unwilling to effect change.
Our Politicians, by and large, have become what our founders intended that they NEVER become - De-facto Royalty.  They are our nations royals, holding themselves above those they are purported to represent.
The are so much so above us that they exempt themselves from laws of the land that we must abide.  They refuse to represent the people in seeking solutions for the good of the country and obscure that with making ovations to "be inclusive" of special interests.  What is good for one, is good for all - no longer matters, as our representatives have taken the power we gave them and twisted it.
Far to few to make the difference, those who would not conduct themselves as if a class above the People are unable to overcome.
I grew up on Long Island, not far from Teddy's house.  My son and grandsons call it just that - Teddy's house.  They have visited, played and learned there.  Though I was born long after he left this world, Theodore Roosevelt touched my life - in fact, all of our lives.  Strange that I should so miss someone I never knew.
~
November 2023
HP Poet: Lori Jones McCaffery
Age: 84
Country: USA


Question 1: We welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Lori. Please tell us about your background?

Lori: "I was born Loretta Yvonne Spring in a tarpaper shack on Lone Oak Road, Longview Washington, on New Years Day in 1939. That means I’ll soon turn 85. In high School a boyfriend changed my first name to Lori and I kept it. At 29 I married and became Lori Spring Jones. (I signed poems “lsj”) I had one child, a daughter, and when 20 years later I divorced, I kept the Jones name. I married again, in 1988 and became Lori Jones McCaffery, sometimes with a hyphen, sometimes not. I’m still married to that Brit named Colin and I speak “Brit” fluently. I sign everything I write “ljm” (lower case). I didn’t know about handles when I joined HP, so I just used my whole name and then felt I may have seemed uppity for using all of it. If I had a handle, it would likely be POGO. Short for Pogo stick. Long Story. I have an older sister and a younger brother. Both hate my poetry. My parents divorced when I was 12. My mother’s family was originally from No. Carolina. I’m proud of my Hillbilly blood. I went to college on a scholarship. Worked at various jobs since I was in high school. Moved to Los Angeles in 1960 just in time to join the Hippy/summer-of-love/sunset-strip-scene, which I was heavy into until I married. I read my stuff at the now legendary Venice West and Gas House in Venice Beach during that period. I’ve been an Ins. Claims examiner, executive secretary, Spec typist, Detective’s Girl Friday, Bikini Barmaid, Gameshow Contestant Co-ordinator, Folk Club manager, organizational chef, and long time Wedding Director. (I’ve sent 3,300 Brides down the aisle) "


Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Lori: "I wrote my first poem in the 5th grade and never stopped. I had an awakening in 1957 when I worked at a resort during school break and met another poet, who unleashed a need to write that I’ve never been able to quell. I joined Hello Poetry in 2015, I think. Seems like I’ve always been here. I tend to comment on everything I read here. I’ve received no encouragement from my family so I feel compelled to encourage my “family” here. I do consider a large number of fellow writers friends, and value the brief exchanges we have. I don’t know if Eliot intended HP to be a social club but among us regulars, it kind of has been, and I love that."


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Lori: "Living inspires me. The intricacies of relationships, and the unpredictability of navigating society. A news story often does it. A song may stir words. Other poetry often sets me off on a quest of my own. I write very well to deadlines and prompts. I adore BLT’s word game and played it a lot in the beginning. Seeing the wonderful job Anais Vionet does with them shamed me away. I have hundreds of yellow lined pages with a few lines of the ‘world’s greatest poem’ on each, all left unfinished because I’m great at starts and not so great on endings. Some day, I tell myself….some day."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Lori: "Poetry has been a large part of my life as long as I can remember. I would feel amputated without it. I recited the entire “Raven” from memory in Jr. High School. I still remember most of it. More recently I memorized “The Cremation of Sam McGee” Poetry is my refuge - with words I can bandage my hurts, comfort my pain and loss, share my opinions and assure myself that I have value. It is where I laugh and also wail. I would like to think it builds bridges."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Lori: "My favorite poets include Edgar Allen Poe, Robert W Service, Amy Lowell (I read ‘Patterns’ in a speech contest once), Robert Frost, Shel Silverstein, and Lewis Carroll."


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Lori: "I’m a collector. Whippet items, vintage everything, I read voraciously: 15 magazine subs, speculative fiction (SF) and anything else with words written on it. I try to read everything every day on HP. I watch Survivor religiously and keep scorecards. Ditto for Dancing with the Stars. I’m a practicing Christian with a devilish side and involved heavily in Methodist church work, which includes cooking for crowds and planning events."


Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for giving us an opportunity to get to know you, dear Lori! It is an honor to include you in this series!”

Lori: "Thank you so much for this very undeserved honor. This is a wonderful thing you are doing. I know I write with a different voice than many, and it is empowering to be accepted for this recognition. I apologize for being so verbose in answering your questions. When you get to my age you just have so many stories to tell."



Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Lori better. I learned so much. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez & Mrs. Timetable

We will post Spotlight #10 in December!

~
Lane Nov 2014
So I'm a little down.
So I'm not like everyone else.
So I'm battling something people don't know much about.
So I'm different.
So I'm "dysfunctional".
So I'm not from a traditional background.
So what?
Does that mean,
I shouldn't be allowed to attend my college?
The one thing keeping me going?
That I should be locked up in the loony bin?
All because my brain has become numb to some pain?
I've found function in my alleged dysfunction,
some traditions occasionally get broken.
Exceptions to the rules are made.
The world is full of suffering,
but it is also full of overcoming it.
So where do you get off,
telling me how to deal with something
you've only read about in your
guidance text books?
Where five minutes into meeting me,
that you feel the ability to dictate how I should go
about my life?
I've lived 20 years on this Earth
without your input,
sure, it hasn't been perfect,
but I've made the unconventional work.
I mean, ask anybody that actually knows me,
if they would ever consider me "conventional".
So don't sit there, and hide behind words like
"I just want what's best for you", "I care about you", "I'm concerned",
"Its your choice to go, but if you don't:
the police will forcibly escort you,
or you'll not be allowed to be in our college community."
Scoffing at the word community,
because whenever someone tries to use that word,
usually it is about discluding people, rather than including them.
"So, either be discluded now, by your 'choice', or by us making you.
All the while, literally 12 hours previous,
we had zero idea what was going on,
or even who you were. "
Seems like you really do have "my best interests at heart", huh?
Counselor forcing me to go to a behavioral hospital because of a few poems I wrote. Including some of the words used, which the entire four hour exchange of words was really frustrating. They even didn't let me eat dinner. This happened yesterday, and I'm still very angry about it.
Jenn Coke Feb 2016
Its length is known as “one year” by realists,
Also referred to as “anniversary” by idealists,
But “four seasons” is how I would like to call it
As with the passing of time I learn him bit by bit.

We met in front of Record Hall
On a rainy night and boy did I fall
For this one man named Timothy
Who approached me differently.

We first found each other online
But he was unlike the other swine
Looking for a body and easy ***,
Trying to buy me with their checks.

Plus, he did not follow the ordinary formula
Like “coffee sometime?” which is just so blah;
Rather, he proved that he had read my profile
Attentively, so I imagined he must not be vile.

He did not mention or imply anything ******,
So I started to credit him some trust accrual;
He opened us up by relating to my stories
And spoke smoothly with sarcastic ease.

I fell for his chivalry and charm
As well as his unstinted smarm,
His passion for engines and parts,
Never giving up until it all starts.

He won me over with his corny memes,
Matching weirdness, and future schemes;
His unfaltering boldness and fearlessness,
Manliness, and, in due course, closeness.

A spontaneous boy who does puzzles with me,
A romantic gentleman who invites me to the sea,
A free-spirited dude who is a spirits connoisseur,
An audacious chap who is a cooking amateur –

He has a nerdy side as he likes to figure things out.
He has a masculine side as he enjoys working out.
He has a brave side as he goes off-roading in his Jeep.
He has a sweet side as he pulls me closer in his sleep.

He slyly squeezes out my personal info
From myself and makes me go “Woah,”
As he discreetly plans adventurous trips
Which makes me want to ****** his lips.  

He is not afraid or disinclined to reveal his worries.
He is not abashed to update me on his **** stories.
He was not nervous about exposing his cover letter.
He was not anxious about taking me to his mother.

Weight? He does not ask me to gain any or lose.
Change? He needs not fix or loosen my screws.
He takes me as I am, not as a mechanical robot.
He finds sufficiency in all that I do and have got.

He does not care that I wear makeup or look like a dude.
He does not complain that I take long to finish my food.
He disregards that I do not adhere to societal standards.
He discounts that I occasionally think and act backwards.

He makes me relax and loosen up in his presence;
He emits a homely atmosphere and is my defense.  
Hell, we even start doing ***** lovey-dovey acts
Such as calling each other’s names in several packs.

He uses his witty senses to title my works,
Which, to other people, may stir up smirks,
But he does not give two ***** about them;
As long as we represent to each other, a gem.

We are compatible and agree in many manners;
We are avid Android users, not iOS supporters,
We take pleasure in dallying under the covers,
We enjoy mysteries and psychological thrillers.

We follow a handful of seasonal anime together
And we tend to swiftly marathon them altogether.
We even have our own convenient organization
In times when we watch anime together in elation.

He asks, “wanna watch” when there is an update
And picks a title; I agree and say “ready” and wait;
He says “go,” I thumb him, we watch simultaneously;
Then, whoever finishes first sends a thumb amiably.

He tries to pass time with me after work so demanding
So he sometimes falls asleep and leaves me hanging.
However, he impresses me in still choosing to be dutiful
All the while exhibiting humanness, which is beautiful.

I am pleased that we have similar likes and interests,
Glad that both tally with “real love will stand any tests,”
Blessed that both are open to expressing affection,
Thankful that we are looking in the same direction.

Even apart, I admire his strong patience,
Extending over many hours and nations!
Oh, I almost forgot – he is also tall and fit;
The more I think, he has it all – you name it!

The list of what I love about him keeps growing,
With things to cherish constantly overflowing;
I cannot expect more or imagine anyone better,
So I find myself dedicating to him this love letter.

Gosh, how I miss our sessions of wine and cheese,
Cinematic baths and interlacing, candlelit bodies,
Our woolgathering moaning and perspiring mess,
Many nameless moments and silent togetherness!

April 6, 2015, on OkCupid, he gave me a look;
April 11, 2015, he “friended” me on Facebook;
April 15, 2015, he suggested meeting up to study;
April 18, 2015, he dated me and became cuddly.

All this from last year… one year forward, today,
We are still together and have not gone astray –
As long-term and long-distance partners, we are
In the hardest, yet happiest, relationship by far!
I miss him, my other half, my home, very dearly.
I am thankful for his being, loving, and waiting for me.
Matt Jul 2015
I hope to meet a hiking goddess

Maybe when I go to Yosemite

In my dreams

She has similar interests as I do

She enjoys history and philosophy

She is fit

And has a powerful

And athletic body

She can even squat more than me

In my fantasy

And with those powerful legs

Can easily pin me down


We hike the trails together

And at night

I give her oral pleasure

For hours on end


What a way to spend

A few days at Yosemite


I told her about my pledge

Of chastity

And it is so hard for me
(literally, lol)


She came equipped with many toys

And so I put on
My chastity belt
Just as she requested

She is staying in another tent
I take a peak
And see a taller
More powerful man

Caressing her with his hands!

I cry a bit inside my tent

She told me she was a ****** too
And I won't let that man
Take her virginity away

No, not ever
Not on this day

I steal her away
From that man

Virgins we will both remain
I tell her
He will just leave you
*** is a dangerous game

And so better companions
We came to be

Me providing oral pleasure
And both of us

Committed to
Our pledge of chas-ti-ty
Are there any women who are around 30 who are committed to a pledge of chastity?  I hope to meet one maybe one day.
I gotta say, you sure know how to pick 'em.
I know that by now, you realize that I'm the furthest thing from perfect but for some reason you still saw something in me that made you want to spend the rest of your life with me. And to that again I say, you sure know how to pick 'em.

There are few things i want you to know about me before you get too heavily involved. You see, I am a nurturer by nature. I am the caretaker to all and the kind heart that everyone turns to. So I apologize if some days I am lost under the weight of the world I put on my own shoulders by accepting the problems of those that asked and believe me, everybody asks. I'm sorry if this can crush me to the point where I disappear but all I ask is that you help me find my way back again. Because you are the lighthouse for my stormy mind.

Another thing is that I can ask too much. I can lose myself in the problems of my own design and the problems designed by others and sometimes I will fall apart and not know how to put the pieces back together again. So I'm sorry for asking too much but I hope that you will learn patience and knowing to pick up the pieces, but let me put them back together.

I am also one with what you'd call "flights of fancy." I may want to be a pastry chef one day and then a French teacher the other, I will go through weeks, and sometimes months, where I will be preoccupied with only one thing. Just know that no matter where my imagination takes me, where my interests may lead, I will always come home to you because being your wife is the one thing that I can never stop wanting to do.

I'm sure you've already noticed how passionate I can be when I care about something. I will scream, cry, and cheer with everything in my being for the things that I believe in. Please don't laugh too much when I start crying over the death of a character in a book series or start screaming at the tv because the people talking are just so stupid and wrong and they need to know that they're wrong so I'm going to tell them even though they can't hear me... Just let me be, but also know when to tell me that I'm just being crazy. Because I know that I'm crazy, sometimes I just need a second opinion.

On the topic of second opinions, oftentimes I value the words of others more than I value the words of myself. Know that with a few simple words you can even lift me up to the heavens or you can tear me down further than you ever knew was possible. My uncertainty in myself will always be a problem and so I apologize if I constantly ask if I did anything wrong or if I upset you because I'm terrified that someday I will and you will leave like all the rest. I just want you to hold me. Tell me you love me even if I don't believe you especially if I don't believe you.

Be the husband I hope you will be and I will be the wife that I know I can be. Because even if it's hard, even if you get sick of the sight of me, even if the words that I say bounces off of you like water on a hot surface, know that I mean every word of "I love you" and I meant what I said when I told you "I do."

— The End —