"jonathan" poems
#Airborne (Pt. III)
(The soaring heart of Jonathan Livingston Seagull)
Every ascent begins with exile.
To rise is to lose the flock,
yet find the wind waiting..
faithful, invisible,
unafraid to hold you.
The breath that fills him is older than dust,
borne through the reckoning
of one who first owned his own shadow..
Each atom refined,
each word made Light.
“To breathe is to bless,”
Jonathan whispers,
*“for every breath must leave the world
cleaner than it arrived.”*
His lungs remember Eden,
and the sky bends to his remembering.
Below, the drizzle hums its dull chorus..
the fat and the fed peck at comfort.
Jonathan breaks from the circle,
rising through their fog,
his wings burning clean in the cold.
“Fear not the thin air,”
he calls,
*“for only those who hunger for height
will learn how mercy breathes.”*
He learns the cost of air,
the ache of height..
and in that thin solitude
where only truth can breathe,
he knows at last
what it means to serve God
with the evil impulse:
*not by hiding it,
but by turning it toward Light.*
Before the Word becomes sound, it becomes breath.
And before breath becomes air, it remembers its Source.
This is the mystery of Jonathan..
the soul who learned that flight begins not in the sky,
but in the heart that has faced its own eclipse
and has chosen to turn toward the Sun
#
Oct 12, 2025
Oct 12, 2025 at 10:48 AM UTC
only an idiot like me, the rain poured down, my socks were wetted, and i looked at the pavement for glory, instead i found a £10 note and imagined my right shoe on my left leg, and my left shoe on my right leg... just to prove the luck.
it came from listening to rotting christ's kata
ton daimona...
i wrote the poem on two tesco receipts
numbering them no. 1 - .4,
it made sense to just give it a narrative...
the naturally apparent lisp of greek is due to...
lies between theta (θ) and phi (φ)...
check feta cheese... it might be less morbidly fermented...
that's why the greeks have a natural lisp...
it's theta and it's phi...
in english it's like chinese.... w & r...
something's rolling something's waving,
something's trigonometric...
harrison fowd was almost jonathan woss if i care...
the chinese in english debate with chin-chin-wanker
scissors piece of paper stone good luck on the handshake:
lost the price of interest being gained for excavation
purposes of dinosaur bones and inflation via the
ptertodactyl of the extended mohawk shave...
english dicionary makes me confused...
it places theta alongside the, than... but then
it's therapy... thermometer...
too many unique examples i'd have said...
that's the lisp there... sidelined phew and engaged in phew
in byzantine...
english linguistics is filled with too many "unique" examples
of expression... coupled with the celebrity culture...
i farted and a person took hold of a *** squeeze...
how's that?! english language in summary?
pleasing on the eye... but the spelling? a burden on the tongue.
i know that slavic linguistics would make enlgish that's written
ugly...
it wouldn't be pharmacology but farmacology...
then it made sense, i stopped asking the english dicta
written down, the greek θ wasn't a couple of th & etc...
a few athenains in death metal said it like i said it... the 2nd f...
it was απηθανoν - because it was simply athens - fern fence...
and not d... defence, or anything easily acquired as a prescription
of zee wee point of german scottish.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
PARNELL'S FUNERAL
UNDER the Great Comedian's tomb the crowd.
A bundle of tempestuous cloud is blown
About the sky; where that is clear of cloud
Brightness remains; a brighter star shoots down;
What shudders run through all that animal blood?
What is this sacrifice? Can someone there
Recall the Cretan barb that pierced a star?
Rich foliage that the starlight glittered through,
A frenzied crowd, and where the branches sprang
A beautiful seated boy; a sacred bow;
A woman, and an arrow on a string;
A pierced boy, image of a star laid low.
That woman, the Great Mother imaging,
Cut out his heart. Some master of design
Stamped boy and tree upon Sicilian coin.
An age is the reversal of an age:
When strangers murdered Emmet, Fitzgerald, Tone,
We lived like men that watch a painted stage.
What matter for the scene, the scene once gone:
It had not touched our lives. But popular rage,
Hysterica passio dragged this quarry down.
None shared our guilt; nor did we play a part
Upon a painted stage when we devoured his heart.
Come, fix upon me that accusing eye.
I thirst for accusation. All that was sung.
All that was said in Ireland is a lie
Bred out of the c-ontagion of the throng,
Saving the rhyme rats hear before they die.
Leave nothing but the nothingS that belong
To this bare soul, let all men judge that can
Whether it be an animal or a man.
The rest I pass, one sentence I unsay.
Had de Valera eaten parnell's heart
No loose-lipped demagogue had won the day.
No civil rancour torn the land apart.
Had Cosgrave eaten parnell's heart, the land's
Imagination had been satisfied,
Or lacking that, government in such hands.
O'Higgins its sole statesman had not died.
Had even O'Duffy -- but I name no more --
Their school a crowd, his master solitude;
Through Jonathan Swift's clark grove he passed, and there
plucked bitter wisdom that enriched his blood.
7.7k
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey—
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter—
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover—
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
6.9k
Bless me Uncle! God's given Naked Head
For finding a Mentor these Comms restore
And import a Friend brought Laughter instead
With a Learning Interest revived once more
For all our doubts, grateful Confidence brew
This shrill Vernacular you opt to Reach
Whilst you divulge Traded Secrets a-new
Shrieked the Blue Eagle; Sately-Done you Teach
That Part we will Miss! Surely Independ
When we of Soft Skills this Task inherit
What Pictures remain of Trust comprehend
We give back in Kind to Service, debit.
Difficult it is to Forget you by
As you climb the Stairs, we sing: "MABUHAY!"
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
Words and letters are written on walls
Some as vandalization others as messages
Words and letters are written on walls
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Some serve as advertising others to arouse awareness
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Some serve as inspiration others to support guidance
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Words are the weapons I use in a society that controls my image
Words are the only thing that can divide me from being ghetto or educated
My words are the only thing that I can vouch for like my *****
My words are the root of the intelligence that propels this sentence
Letters in my words stand close to each other eager to make a statement
If I do not show my words, my letters of cheerfulness begin to fade away
Sentences are the compound of the mind that begs to be understood
Sentences are made up of a tyranny chained down by a trendsetters mood
My sentences contain verbs, nouns, adjectives and subjects that explain a lost purpose
My sentences define the meaning of an ironical imagery that leads me to dream
Sentences paint a picture that any blind character can see
If I do not paint my sentences how will I ever show my brains art gallery
Picasso used the paint brush to express his moods and feelings on a canvas
Shakespeare and Allan Poe used ink to utter their thoughts on a sheet of paper
Somewhere in my mind the collision of words and paint occurred
Where I fused the essence of writing with the masterfulness of painting
My words and sentences have met a significant other called paint
Paint and words are my new best friend
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Some are called vandalization while they represent artistic skills
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Paint and words are written on subways
So the eyes of the young and old can see the traveling message
Paint and words are written on subways
Paint and words smack up at my face
So that the world sees who conveys this message
Paint and words smack up at my face
Paint gives visual to what words cannot picture
My Paint serves as a method of expressing the mind’s tears and smiles
My Paint becomes a tour guide through the loops of divine wonders
Paint is just a stepping stone to the magnificent path of beauty
A brush is just a brush depending on who holds it
A brush is like the keyboard I constantly battle with to unleash my mind
A brush can combine negativity and positivity and make peace
A brush unites celibate beliefs with those whom are perverse
Words and sentences along with paint and brushes help explain my motive
Jonathan Pizarro
Lost Cause © 2011
April 17th, 2011
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:42 AM UTC
My name is Jonathan.
I'm 9 years old.
I'll tell you a story
that's never been told.
I lived in Lebanon,
and so did you.
Till the year 14
and a thousand times 2.
We lived aside,
your building next to ours.
We were happy, what a bliss!
But there are thorns on all the flowers.
---------------------------------------
I knew not what happened next,
but I felt heat strike my face.
Who would believe that the curse we're living,
was once upon a time a grace?
The explosion happened too fast,
but I had time to take a last breath.
And when you took yours too,
we crawled our way to death.
So we left dear life,
which wasn't always so dear.
But even in heaven,
the cries of children, I could hear.
And I met you,
my dear friend Hussien.
But know that Muslims and Christians
are both being slain.
Just wait till they realize
their killers care not
for religion or for race,
for all was to get shot.
They're both targets,
and enemies all in one.
And our country has become
a battle that'll remain unwon.
Maybe one day they'll wake up
and learn that religion does not
give only them the rights to live
and the others the rights to rot.
Maybe one day they'll learn
that we are all but one.
So why not hold each other's hands
and to the new day welcome the sun?
My name is Jonathan.
I'm 9 years old.
The terrorist, government, and citizens;
the responsibility the do hold.
They ruined what used to be our heaven
and we would no simply obey,
even though most of us
in this heaven are here to stay.
My name is Jonathan.
I'm 9 years old.
And I **** on people
whose country they sold.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
Along the banks of Lake Shelbyville
That’s what I think of when it’s your birthday
A camp fire burning on a cool April night
We two drinking hot mauled cider
Or better yet “Hornsby’s Draft Cider”
Talking and laughing
Making up parodies
Parodies of Zeppelin and Floyd songs
Listening to the nightingales and the crickets
And watching fire light
That almost appears to be living
Watching slow rolling clouds, and feeling the whispering wind
Rolling in and out and over and under
The engaging light of the moon and stars
And maybe some of our friends were there
And maybe it was only us
Brother and sister
Best friends forever
Retelling stories of our past
Creating memories for our future
Waxing religion and philosophy
Such philistines, think my parents
And your parents don’t get it
And yes we have separate parents
And yes we have the same parents
(Adoption is a funny thing you see)
You are my funny BIG, BIG, BIG brother
Santa Claus, Sasquatch, Cave Man, and Viking
And I am your little crazy sister
Flower Child and Sacagawea
And it is your birthday
And I love you always
Love, Sarah Jane Gillian Tiffany Michelle Whispering Wind Grider Minks Summers Jonathan George Washington Francis Fleming Greenlee Whiter Liston Hall
Aka Awesome Pagan Goddess
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
when i first met you i knew that i wasn't that fool who knew everything that no one could ever assume.
i know you want me to come with ya to California, but I have to stay until you come back after your plane boards ya.
But you know all summer we can get under a tree and lay there under a cover.
But i know you got alot of plans all summer.
But you know after college and stuff i might become a mother .
But you know , you know I'll see u alot more after you come back from California.
ooooooo California i want u to know that i aways want ya to be happy with the greatest person who's aways their to of bored yea.
I love u alot huby husband fiance Jonathan can't wait to see u when u get back Huby husband fiance.
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 9:03 PM UTC
he tickled me with love
i imagine
behind his merciless
IBM grin
sadistic chuckle
my grandfather loved me
built me a swing
a wooden airplane
gave me a bicycle
a cape to wear
he taught me pong and pitfall
wielding a brush-broom
handlebar-moustache
a favorite game of his was giving raspberries
testing limits
his iron fingers
wringing squeals of laughter sour
under breathless ribs
tear-eyed begging fits
his old white t-shirt
too small to hide his plump
hairy belly,
i'd tickled him there once
poked him where my cousins pointed
giggling
when the kick came
i felt it in the heart
more than the back of my knee
bent from the sudden
sneering force
when i asked him
years later
for a book from his dying bookshelf
he joked with a growl
the last emphysemic sentence i remember
he said to me
you gonna bring it back when you're done?
i remember
the rules of the tickle game
and love him back
for his sarcasm
firecrack generosity
.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
Karma police, arrest this man
He talks in maths
He buzzes like a fridge
He's like a detuned radio
Karma police, arrest this girl
Her ****** hairdo is
Making me feel ill
And we have crashed her party
*This is what you get
This is what you get
This is what you get when you mess with us*
Karma Police
I've given all I can
It's not enough
I've given all I can
But we're still on the payroll
*This is what you get
This is what you get
This is what you get when you mess with us*
And for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
And for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
For for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
For for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
(In the early version, the first verse went):
Karma police arrest this girl
She stares at me
As if she owns the world and
We have crashed her party
Songwriters: YORKE, THOMAS / O'BRIEN, EDWARD JOHN / GREENWOOD, COLIN CHARLES / GREENWOOD, JONATHAN RICHARD GUY / SELWAY, PHILIP
S T - 24 nov 2013
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
VACUUM CLEANER TANGO
---Lyrics by Jonathan Caswell
(Some misspellings are due to rhythm keeping)
The Vac…cuum Clea…ner Tango,
Is like…a juicy…mango,
Those fi…bers will…entangle
Your teeth or brushes, pretty quick!
The girls…who do…the cleaning,
Are ev…ver so…well-meaning,
To move…around…guys leaning,
That watch…and approve…the show!
Plugs must…be changed…more frequently,
If lon…ger hallways…decently,
Are cleaned…the most…expediently,
It’s all…a part of…the dance!
The vac…cuum clea…ner tango,
A dai…ly chore…is wrangled,
By clea…ners star…spangled,
Perfor…ming it with…extra class!
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 2:45 AM UTC
ONE WHISPER OF THE BELOVED.
Lovers share a sacred decree –
to seek the Beloved.
They roll head over heels,
rushing toward the Beautiful One
like a torrent of water.
In truth, everyone is a shadow of the Beloved –
Our seeking is His seeking,
Our words are His words.
At times we flow toward the Beloved
like a dancing stream.
At times we are still water
held in His pitcher.
At times we boil in a ***
turning to vapor –
that is the job of the Beloved.
He breathes into my ear
until my soul
takes on His fragrance.
He is the soul of my soul –
How can I escape?
But why would any soul in this world
want to escape from the Beloved?
He will melt your pride
making you thin as a strand of hair,
Yet do not trade, even for both worlds,
One strand of His hair.
We search for Him here and there
while looking right at Him.
Sitting by His side we ask,
“O Beloved, where is the Beloved?”
Enough with such questions! –
Let silence take you to the core of life.
All your talk is worthless
When compared to one whisper
of the Beloved.
Ode 442 trans. by Jonathan Star and Shahram Shiva
A Garden Beyond Paradise: The Mystical Poetry of Rumi
Links
(Rumi Poetry) (Rumi)
-Found this gem by the mystical master in a labyrinthine corner of the web. All credits and thanks to the translators who put it there and cared!!.-MAX CHELUR.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
Why do I write? It's not that I want people to think I am smart, or even that I am a good writer. I write because I want to end my loneliness. - Jonathan Safran Foer.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
The one-off bag is by Louis Vouitton
The sheath dress by Dolce & Gabbana
The low-top shoes by Christian Louboutin
The vaporisation is by Sukhoi
Evening wear goes with biologicals
Retro pantsuits with a casual bomb
Alice Archer jeans for a weekend massacre
Jonathan Simkhai swimwear for an ocean boil
Ohhhhh, yeahhhhhhhh…
She turns every head when she enters the room
But The People’s Army delivers the BOOM
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
Jonathan Anderson's collections walk a confounding tightrope between naïveté and decadence. Much of his new menswear looked like clothes for a futuristic, spiritual retreat (Anderson himself said he wanted something "laid-back, Zen-like"), but the buckled patent shoes were purest dancehall honky-tonk. The fitted leather jackets were pretty flashy, too, especially when contrasted with multi-pleated pants in plainest calico or denim.
"He took himself seriously," said the voice-over that launched Michel Gaubert's stirring soundtrack (a journey all in itself), but that felt like Anderson poking a little fun at his own expense—or at least anticipating reactions to his quirky rationale. He insisted his collection was actually like an imaginary world that a child might create for himself, akin to the tree houses he and his brother used to build. The preciousness that such a boy would bestow on things that are essentially valueless was reflected in the ordinary objects—keys, tools—that were transmuted into jewelry, the board game that mutated into a constructivist jacquard, and the calico or denim artfully constructed into the pants that made up the foundation of the collection. Some of the models were carrying a small metal frame on which curious little things were suspended, almost like charms to ward off who knows what.
That subtly occult tinge has become something of an Anderson signature, the way he disturbs the refined with the raw, for instance—a thin strand of bamboo or a bandage of calico nipping the waist, or a crude smear of paint across a tulle top so fine it is barely there, or even a white feather stuck to a shoulder. Such touches feel last-minute spontaneous, but also off-kilter, which is exactly where Anderson wants to keep us. But his work is now so consistent that off-kilter is proving a rather pleasant place to be.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
I once read an essay that made perfect sense
It gave an alternative to cure expense
It was a proposal that was quite modest
I wish I'd have thought of it, to be honest
It was from the early eighteenth century
It would empty the full penitentiary
Babies are free until they are at least one
Then they are fat, tender, and ripe in the sun
Parents can sell them to the politicians
They will use them as part of their nutrition
It is a win for everyone, you can tell
After all, we're already going to Hell
Sell the babies for politicians to eat
Use the money for a superfluous treat
We should kindly thank Mr. Jonathan Swift
For solving all our problems with this great gift
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
Deaths Of 2013
My third year doing this.
Paul Walker, Texas ranger,
driving fast leads to danger.
Matt Osbourne was Doink The Clown,
Paul Bearer always wore a frown.
Dennis Farina and James Gandolfini,
always played a mobster meany.
Peter O'Toole, famous actor,
Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher.
President Nelson Mandela,
Dennis Burkley, was a famous fat actor fella.
Lou Reed, is now on the wild side,
took all the colored girls for a ride.
Conrad Bain and Bonnie Franklin,
tv actors who had white skin.
Paul Blair and Stan The Man,
playing baseball, when they can.
Marcia Wallace and Lisa Robin Kelly,
both had ***** that bounced like jelly.
Tom Clancy wrote famous books,
not much on having good looks.
Cory Montieth and Patti Page,
one died young, other of old age.
Jean Stapleton, was Edith Bunker,
Archie always put her in the dumper.
Pat Summerall and Deacon Jones,
played football and broke some bones.
Dr. Joyce Brothers and Pauline Phillips,
they both gave good and bad tips.
Ray Manzarek, from The Doors,
Jeff Hanneman knew all Slayers chords.
Chrissy Amphlett, liked to touch herself,
Caleb Moore's trophies are on his shelf.
Mindy McCready and George Jones,
both hit those country tones.
Chris Kelly from Kris Kross,
Ed Koch is a New York loss.
David Frost and Roger Ebert,
always had words to insert.
Anneitte Funicello from Mickey Mouse Club,
Eydie Gorme almost got a snub.
Jonathan Winters, was very funny,
to come from Mork's egg, made him money.
If you don't know who these people are,
look them up, internet not very far.
For the ones that I missed,
please don't get to ******
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
*We lose so much talent to addiction
Some of you may not care, but I do
This is my tribute to them*
**Alan Wilson
Canned Heat
Jimi Hendrix
The Jimi Hendrix Experience
Janis Joplin
Jim Morrison
The Doors
Brian Cole
The Association
Billy Murcia
New York Dolls
Danny Whitten
Crazy Horse
Gram Parsons
The Stooges
Gary Thain
Uriah Heep
Elvis Presley
Gregory Herbert
Blood, Sweat & Tears
Keith Moon
The Who
Sid Vicious
*** Pistols
Lowell George
Little Feat
Jimmy McCulloch
Wings
John Bonham
Led Zeppelin
Darby Crash
Germs
James Honeyman-Scott
Pretenders
Pete Farndon
Pretenders
Paul Gardiner
Tubeway Army
Gary Holton
Heavy Metal Kids
Phil Lynott
Thin Lizzy
Andrew Wood
Mother Love Bone
Brent Mydland
Grateful Dead
Steve Clark
Def Leppard
Johnny Thunders
New York Dolls
David Ruffin
The Temptations
Kristen Pfaff
Hole
Shannon Hoon
Blind Melon
Bradley Nowell
Sublime
John Kahn
Jerry Garcia Band
Jonathan Melvoin
The Smashing Pumpkins
Billy Mackenzie
Associates
West Arkeen
The Outpatience
Nick Traina
Link 80
John Baker Saunders
Mad Season
Bobby Sheehan
Blues Traveler
Wes Berggren
Tripping Daisy
Allen Woody
The Allman Brothers Band
Carl Crack
Atari Teenage Riot
Layne Staley
Alice in Chains/Mad Seasons
Kurt Cobain
Nirvana
Dee Dee
Ramones
Robbin Crosby
Ratt
John Entwistle
The Who
Howie Epstein
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Jeremy Michael Ward
De Facto
Tim Hemensley
GOD
Dave Schulthise
The Dead Milkmen
Rick James
Kevin DuBrow
Quiet Riot
Ike Turner
Gidget Gein
Marilyn Manson
Jay Bennett
Wilco
Michael Jackson
The Rev
Avenged Sevenfold
Paul Gray
Slipknot
Mike Starr
Alice in Chains
Amy Winehouse**
*We are not bad people, we just have bad ways
Yet, not many understand*
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
A bright lad called Alistair Cook
Did enjoy the occasional book,
He went out to bat,
NO - don't play at that,
They did him; line, sinker and hook.
On him I'd bet my whole house,
More like a lion than a mouse,
He bats with aplomb,
Both dainty and strong,
It can only be Andrew Strauss.
From the pavilion did Jonathan Trott,
Nervous and anxious he is not,
He'll be there for a while,
All England will smile,
And South Africa know he is hot.
Next in is the feisty KP,
His batting, the top of the tree,
Sixes so great,
They should be worth eight,
Now just stay IN for a hundred or three!
A chap from ooop north who is good,
Goes by the name of Paul Collingwood,
Gritty and tough,
We just can't get enough,
Fight as hard as him, we all should.
No more will the fear he smell,
He's been down to the gym as well,
His batting is slick,
Number six does the trick,
The crowd cheers for Ian Bell.
Swinging his bat, it's Matt Prior,
Born with iron grit, steel and fire,
If he holds each catch,
We'll win the match,
And his ranking will go much higher.
Our spinner is next, Mr Swann,
His bowling is coming on strong,
His batting is great,
Which the opposition hate,
Not to pick him much sooner was wrong.
Our tall quickie is young Stuart Broad,
His bat is a rapier like sword,
He can oft' bowl too short,
Yet the batters get caught,
And Of wicket-taking we never are bored.
James Anderson is our king of swing,
Late movement his favourite thing,
Please bowl nice and full,
Offer nothing to pull,
And just hear those stumps go 'ping'.
Graeme Onions comes in at long last,
Cannot bat but, he can bowl fast,
He makes them play,
While others may stray,
Durham long-hops a thing of the past.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
I’m sitting in my car, hugging my knees to my chest muffling my cries
My parents look at me through the rear-view mirror with worry in their eyes and in unison say
“It’s not your fault”
I’m sitting in a tight room, on a small chair, in the interrogation room
The first thing that comes out of the officer’s mouth is
“It’s not your fault”
I’m standing at the bottom of my stairs with tears streaming down my eyes
In front of me is my mom, she’s consoling me and she says
“It’s not your fault”
I’m struggling to keep myself standing wrapped in a pair of arms, sobs escaping my mouth
Hugging me is my dad and he’s repeating the phrase over and over
“It’s not your fault”
I’m telling my story, my typing is slow and my hands shaky, tears are flowing down my cheeks
Jonathan texts back his support and the first thing I read is
“It’s not your fault”
I’m sitting on a couch, I’m shaking and repeating the story holding back tears
My new counselor looks at me and says the infamous phrase
“It’s not your fault”
I lay in bed, lights off, blankets on, tears streaming down my cheeks
I can’t get all the people out of my head, the memories of what happened, the phrase is stuck on replay in my mind
“It’s not your fault” “It’s not your fault” “It’s not your fault”
I repeat the phrase over and over
Under my breath and into the night where the only person who can hear is me
“It’s not your fault”
It’s not my fault and it never was.
How can it be my fault when an adult took away my childhood?
How can it be my fault when I was in fear and embarrassment?
Most Importantly
How can the people who are supposed to be there for you think it’s your fault?
How can your family disown you when it’s not your fault?
I’m not going to apologize for trying to protect myself and everyone else he’s done it to.
I will be the voice for everyone and anyone who is or has been afraid to speak up about it.
Because It’s not your fault.
Sheyla Donatt
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC
I let him know how I smiled at the way his hand fitted inside of mine, and oh how I fancy his love, but instead of love all he handed me whatever he found laying around, and an unwanted bye.
I let him know I love him with no gray areas attached. If you know him, then you know he has a heart that is hard to catch. shielded by a rain-forest of mirrors glazed over in metallic black.
Still, in my darkest hour, I muster up holocausts of hope, as I watched my love and what he called love to walk away on a free falling tightrope. I could hear his words faintly in the distance over and over again.
"In time what will be will be".
"In time what will be will be".
"In time what will be will be".
His words felt less like a song and more like our eulogy, but I am still hopeful and will love him until my heart is worn out. I will not let my mouth forbid me to speak what my heart needs him to hear.
What do you do with a heart that won’t give up or let go, what has let go of it? But I am still hopeful like twins in a crowded womb, hopeful like waiting for a chance.
And one day I will teach my soul to give sunlight back to the sun and continue to hold the dear words Jonathan never sang.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC