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Vivian Sep 2017
My Mom always makes nice shakes,
that we actually joke: "Mama Juice".
They could really win sweepstakes,
being much better than Jamba Juice!

Mama Juices could have good fruits,
my favorite flavor is usually avocado.
I’d really just love any Mama Juice,
being nice to drink and swallow!

I'd drink smoothies just everyday,
since nice fruits could be their flavor.
Mama'd have me instantly go "YAY!",
since any shake can be a real lifesaver!

Despite thinking I had a fat tummy,
I am actually still feeling so healthy.
Enjoying Mama Juices being yummy,
thus I always then drink them: plenty!
This poem is about my Mom's shakes and is in ABAB form. It has 100 words, as  my other works do.
Ray Ross Sep 2018
Mixing ***** and juices,
On Tuesday morning, Monday night,
The parents are asleep.
The stars are so bright.

My body is a temple,
You're **** right.
If it feels good enough,
I'll respect it tonight.

Bandage my chest,
Hurts my ribcage,
I’m a ******* kid,
Shouldn't have to be brave.

You should've been a brother,
Should've got the name right,
Should've been her son,
Instead I'm drinking tonight.
L B Aug 2018
He was large as frogs go
Fist-sized happy rotund dweller
of backyard pond
Garter snake large, too large
with his ominous yellow stripes
and jaws to take
a larger than average mouthful
Choked by abdomen's girth
Legs drooling from his glut
Before the victim's even hit his gut's
digestive juices

Kid with hockey stick makes him puck
for his sin
Frog makes  desperate
slim swim for rocks
Where he lies in recovery
from shock and
teeth marks on his belly
Underdog gets defense from phone call-- Eve
150 miles away
intercedes
Frog gets mercy of a transport
to another backwoods pond--
to find his life
forgetting trauma
Suns himself and swims
Eats the bugs
and ***** the froglettes
of another day
My daughter desperate on the phone-- she and her stepson have just been witness to this scene.  Now what!  Now what!  Call mommy! Quick!
I give the household, "hunter man" the job and duty of relocation.  He objects, "But it's the way of nature!"
"Not on my watch, good man!
Not on my watch!"
The underdog gets the hand.
Robert G Page Jan 2012
by
rgpage

face down she rests her naked form
head turned from her lover's glance.
eye's closed she lies and knowingly waits,
(a) loving touch starts passion's dance.

his huge hand moves across her back
with strokes the touch of butterfly wings.
upon her creamy skin so smooth
its path now set toward splendered things.

his pace a slow deliberate score
her passion's breath he brings,
from touch so soft, igniting sparks
with love her breath now sings.

his steady course she knows so well
with yet every touch as if it's new.
her sparks of passion love's embers light,
love's embers loving hue.

down past her rear with feathered touch
just knowing where to go,
behind her knees his fingers dance
to passion's steady flow.

their hips now in synchronic dance,
love's voluntary ride, she feels his
passion grown so hard,
now pressed against her side.

he cups her breast so gently
as if it were a flower,
its ****** earlier soft and small
now hard with passion's power.

and in her ***** great sparks erupt
her soft and pleasured flesh.
with juices flowing, desire's high
to meet love's natural crush.

now she turns to meet his lips
her passion running high.
with savage hunger she pulls him in
her hunter now the prey.

tables turned their urge well matched
desire holds the pace.
she takes control and guides his love
with feminine stealth and grace.

to places only she could know
where sparks ignite
small streaks of light,
that illuminates her soul.

together they fend love's tempting end
to stay their lover's dance.
to take control and reach their goal
the essence of their romance.
Osiria Melody Feb 2019
Jubilant child, gently prancing to the candy store
A lollipop, chocolate bar, or a fruit paid in full
Locked door, crying river tears that make my sad
eyes swirl red, like peppermints
Mommy and daddy don’t love each other anymore

Notorious teen, aggressively committing thievery
A pack of cigarettes, alcohol, or pills paid in full
Locked door, smiling sunny teeth that make my
cheeks radiate, hurt
Popping pills like death candy
Mommy and daddy just got divorced

Apathetic adult, hating to have my own family
Bottles of colored juices, packs of funny looking
lollipop sticks, or death candy sprawled across the
table
(Alcohol, cigarettes and drugs are my friends,
how pathetic)
Haphazard mess, failing health over death candy,
coughing smoky clouds, dragon voice sadness
Mommy and daddy are dead

Harder to breathe when you’re trying to speak
through grains of sand
Found a dull romance, much more emotionless
than my parents’ relationship
Your promises of climbing mountains and
swimming oceans

Nothing more than promises, false and broken
A living dream of what it all means, withering
dignity
At least, death candy never commits infidelity, an
insatiable lover
Takes me to my grave, burying me in all
these substances



Melody
2/14/19
I drew my inspiration from admiring the sweetness of a candy store.
Split May 2018
a bean like no other
bitter and white;
a microscopic dynamite,
peristalsis using all its might

my cave so suspenseful and hollow
ridges lined along its curves
churning to my so-called mental benefit
those gastric juices now released,
microscopic dynamite
simply had one more muscle to defeat

a match at last perceived
microvilli yearning love ,
in, it took the dynamite.
yet confused it became as
micro relations only last a short while.

"Nutrients" absorbed,
betrayal on its way
the bloodstream sent in shock
oh such bloodless atriums
oh such vaulted ventricles.
oh how my blood flow met its end.

Although deceiving it had been
no promises were riven
the dynamite exploded
and at last
no longer was I broken.
Tommy Randell Dec 2014
My tongue births an aural dream
In the language of meaning making
Metaphors the need

My words presage a time to come
Of needs between us
Increasingly saying too much

Standing here one hand on the sky
In a while though I resist
My eyes too spill over into flame

The throat once a thing of bone
Now fluid verges on a scream
***** from deep down your half-eaten juices

We are dolls in chains
Your hand in mine
What forgiveness is there, what crime?

In the Oral Tradition of lips meeting
Where does it say
We cannot tie our tongues together?

And who will then
Question the answer of our needs?
Kissing with lightning we fork and are one.
Kemy Sep 2018
Umm, the presence and scent of a man
Magnetic attraction where his feet stands
His natural body charismatic aroma
Element of charms, seeping to awaken a woman out a sensual coma
Is it his eyes, the soul behind his life’s mysteries
Flirtation in his smile, tells me he has an undercover ****** history
It is his nose that smells out my charms
An enticing deep baritone voice, his spoken words, which turns me on

Is it the erratic heartbeat he has for a woman, his passionate relent
Stealing my breath, as he tenderly seals my lips in an impassioned moment of content
The strength in his biceps
His triceps
Strong, yet such comforting arms
An epitome of steel, circled around a woman in winter life’s storms
In the cold of night, his body providing your heated warmth

His chest, a hard pillow to tell your doubts, your uncertainties, your fears
Pulling you closer onto it, his reassuring words eradicating your tears
His intellectual mind to think as a man
A stimulating, slam bam and thank you ma’am, or your personal grand slam
His weakening love, taking your body beyond the stars
Woman from Venus, my handsome Man for Mars

His groin, and his family jewels from which it springs forth
Erected compass of his wand now pointing North
A woman’s reservation to tease, please, stroke, or allow it to choke
His loud murmurs shadowing your moans, echoing in the wind
****, I love the presence of men, and his undulated carnal sins
From the first taste of honey dipped Butter ***, me

As his giving oral fixation is traveling free
Freeing the elixir of juices that deems to flee
His hairy legs as he stands to lift my weight
In the shower, no wait, as I anticipate
Hooking my twerking bait
His physique in general…Oh, God thank you
Without the scent of a man, we women would not know what to do

Your presence to a woman is our earthly food
Our je ne sais quoi for our every ****** mood
Rather you are standing, lying still, or upside down
The blissful 69 number conquered as we’re fooling around
My Dream Weaver
My distance heartbeat receiver

His dripping sweat
Droplets to my skin have been met
The presence and scent of a man holds me throughout the night as our eyes finally rest
The best smell in the world is that man that you love.

Jennifer Aniston
Äŧül Mar 2017
A** brother with a cute little lisp,
Or a place for like minded folks,
Relishing the beauty in place,
Tending to needs in time's cusp,
Allowing the easy flow of juices.

On the brink of civility & love,
Fading the differences between.

Fulfilling the ****** needs,
Loaning the best moments,
Easier is *** contraction,
Self-awareness needed,
Help yourself with the hand.

To the trickier ways of a district,
Redlight district is meant to be strict,
Aloof from normal, painful city,
Desired by many but visited by few,
Envious red shades flowing in & out.
My HP Poem #1457
©Atul Kaushal
Steve Apr 2016
Here's a tale of an Arabian night
Smooth chocolate skin, a succulent sight
Pink soft jelly between your teeth
And scented juices underneath
Should you **** or should you bite
These are the mysteries of Turkish Delight
Rose Evans Dec 2017
I'm tired of ******* myself, I crave of someone eles
to force my legs open
to puncture my insides with their hands turned into fingers
I want to *** until I loose count
I want to shake of pleasure  until I start to twitch
I want to have my mouth open with no words coming out from state of shock
I want to feel so good my eyes fill with tears
I want to hear my juices as they fall
I crave of someone else
Left Foot Poet Aug 2017
for I work by day, but live by night*

not an axiom, a formula, for success and wealth,
not a suggestion, not seeking a reaction,
it is a plain as night
fact,
still don't recommend it as a way of life

but if the shoe/life fits
wear it,
even as no sleeps. speeds up your arrival
at the Grand Central Terminal

in black eyed circles, endless pointless future worrying,
in bad poems writ after midnight after midnight
when the quiet
keeps you company - a friend that asks for nothing

(but an occasional mention in one of the poems born
in the delivery room of the dark)

but through the nighttime writing escapades
I am more than renewed,
a born again human
with a covenant, armed to the teeth,
drinking his dis-owned fluids and juices,,
spilling out as staccato words,
ha!
splitting his infinitudes

if you had foreseen this as my future fate,
a lonely human up all night,
with the night and words making his
holy triumvirate, I may have thought
there are worse ways to prepare
for the silence that comes after
the no more arrives
and we depart
ensemble,
ensemble

8/31/17
2:28am
Damon Beckemeyer Aug 2018
The pizza took her place in bed. It slathered itself all over her.
The pizza objectified my body.
It slid between her *******, leaving traces of red sauce and strands of hot, almost liquid cheese in the nook of her cleavage.

It slowly dripped off of her ******* as she spread its residue across her *****.
From there, the succulent, almost watery juices rolled off of her teet and onto her folded legs as she knelt there in the store window.
Everyone could see her.
But as long as those who were most enthralled came inside to purchase a pie or two, no one seemed to care.
Sister Carnalis Aug 2015
It's in the open now. We had an awkward talk.
mom and dad and I ... on a nature walk.

She yelled, I cried, she called me names,
decided she couldn't hide my body,
so she'd simply have to love me still,
as young and hot and naughty.

So late that night as I lay awake,
there was soft knocking at my door,
I played asleep like my journal said,
my ******* on the floor.

I stirred a bit, to let the sheet slide down,
so they could see my budding *******,
hard pink ******* rising up and down
with every hungry breath.

I saw my mother kiss my dad,
watched her tease his swollen horn,
I watched her bring him to my bed
to see my naked form.

I looked at her, she looked at me,
I saw her lick her lips
I whispered "Touch me, Mother"
as juices slicked my slit.

I turned my face to father's ****
mother watched me slurp it in,
then she kissed my *******, caressed my ****,
and  slid a slender finger in...

My legs fell wide, I raised my hips,
my teddy bear clutched tight,
mother licked my ravenous ****
and daddy ****** us both tonight.

I like it when you **** me,
I  like to make you ***,
it makes me squirt and tremble
and all of us are one.

No more secrets from each other,
no more guilt or shame,
because of all the pleasures
we've added to the game.

I love you mom and dad.
Try Dec 2018
saw this lovely lady, gave it to her 3" wide, 3 separate times,
such a dime i had to capture the moment,
now it sits on rewind, in my mind,
she was an elegant dish,
so savory,
my mouth still drips, just at the sight of her lips,
couldn't hold myself back from sipping on her juices,
it was thirst quenching,
mind blown on the regular as it sits on rewind,
in my mind.


© Try
Robert G Page Jun 2012
by
rgpage

outside the walls a cold wind howls
in the dark of a wintry night.
yet in their bed so soft and warm
a young couple's fancy takes flight.

fresh candle light flickers in challenge
to the outside winter's cold bluster.
yet safe in their place they lend a soft grace
to light up the lover's growing luster.

under warm blankets naked bodies entwine
she's backed in to outline his form.
his free hand parts her raven black hair
his lips track her neck....his breath warm.

her whole body shutters as his hand softly traces
her side from shoulder to knees.
his kiss' grow hot between shoulder and neck
for more her breath sweetly pleads.

his hand travels back and stops at her rear
caressing her flesh firm and slow.
her hips gently roll into every firm squeeze
starting nature's hot juices to flow.

again on the move his hand travels up
past tummy so soft to her *******.
while each one he fondles and cupping its weight
his hips grinding soft in the quest.

outside the wind's howl has grown to a roar
yet inside the light slowly wanes.
with bodies so hot blankets kicked to the floor
wrapped up in love's rapture gains.

now facing each other they give to each other
their gentle and sweet surrender.
a play ground of lust yet filled with love's trust
and touching so firm yet so tender.

she reaches her hands out to stroke his desire
so hard yet so smooth to her touch.
and likewise he bends in to suckle her *******
hands rubbing her hips full and lush.

as is natures way there's time in love's play
when exploring and pleasure must grow.
spreading her limbs to let him pass in
she shudders with love's natural glow.

gentle and tender yet rhythmic his strokes
the room fills with sounds of their pleasure.
their hips rise and fall in love's intimate dance
this dance, love's most ultimate measure.

faster and harder they urge one another
as closer to ****** they gain.
kissing and rubbing expressing their love
'til euphorically numb they became.

out side the winter storm rages
a most punishing wind at play.
yet lying inside in each other's arms
our  lovers drift off and away…

Dec 4, 2011
FIRST DAY

1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!

The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.

I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.

I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!

The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.

What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!

But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.

The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.

Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.

Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.

Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.

Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?

I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.

It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.

Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!

But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.

Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!

Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.



2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.

Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.

The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.

Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?

The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.

Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.

Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.

You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.

Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?

Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.

Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.

Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.

Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.

Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.

Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.

Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.

Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.

From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.

Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:

Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!

Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.

Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.

It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.

Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.

He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.

And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.

3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!

An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.

A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.

A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.

A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.

A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.

A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.

A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.

A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.

An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.

A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.

A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.

Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.

A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.

A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.

An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.

A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.

A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.

Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.

An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.

A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.

4.
Does Chicago have a future?

This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!

Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains

Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.

Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.

Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.

You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?

I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.

The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.

The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.

The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.

The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.

Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?

Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.

Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.

Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.

Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.

Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.

Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.

What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.

Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.

Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”

Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.

I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.

Sorghum,
I think its hardy.

Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.

Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.

Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.

When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?

You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.

Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.

Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.

The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.

Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.

Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.

This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.

Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.

Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.

Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.

Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.

Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.

This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.

5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.

Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.

Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.

People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.

Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.

Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.

Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.

Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a *******.

Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.

Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!


SECOND DAY

1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.

According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.

The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.

I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.

Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.

I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.

Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”

He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.

Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.

The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.

He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.

I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.

I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.

The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.

It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.

The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.

Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.

Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.

On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi­,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports­,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.

Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.

2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.

He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.

Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.

He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.

All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.

Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.

I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.

Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?

Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?

I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.

"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”

No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?

I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.

I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.

What level
is he speaking of?

Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.

I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?

What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?

What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?

This seditious talk!

3.
The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.

People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.

Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.

The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.

Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.

The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.

It is the true level
of this city.

The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.

Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.

A blessing,
Chicago?

All rivers
come here.

All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.

All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.

We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.

Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!

Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.

He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.

Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.

The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.

Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.

Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.

Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.

Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.

A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.

The Blues live
on in Chicago.

The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.

The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.

Music:

Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago


jbm
Chicago
1/7/99
Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg
onlylovepoetry Aug 2019
the cherry blossom accord/equation

”perfumers use aromachemicals to recreate a cherry blossom accord...(an accord is a scent made up of individual aromachemicals, that when combined, create a harmonious blend where none of the individual ingredients are able to be detected on their own).”

the odor of our lustful eyes,

the sweat, a unique commingling,
a sheen of salted oils body bathing,

crushed green petals of peaches,
crumbled together with the softy fuzz shavings,
the sediment of aromatic fruit juices drippings

our blending bottled in our brains,
none other would recognize but we,
to too two smell each other through and over
floors, concourses, cities, disparate distances

our ingredients secreted (secret),
our flavors cell secreted (secreting)
the world’s silly tittering aroma inserted,
our sparking fingertips touching
add a bush burning burnt odiferous

we seat across from each other in an airport
plastic restaraunt and everyone asks out loudly,
what is that smell, feed me that, taste me that,
as we are irradiating the atmosphere,
as we renegotiate our cherry blossom accord,
fresh signatures, updated, harmony of harmonies, notarized

she smiles, I joke, winking,
we must continue
to meet like this,
the fireworks of we,
of us,
to-gather to-gether,
a getting of giving,
she answers:

take me home and
bathe me in love,
give our bodies shelter
from the world outside,
beside a new spice
have I uncovered,
this will require some
discussion+exploration,
the quantity to be added,
the when, and the how!


what is this new ingredient?
asking puzzled and aroused,
she laughs
(a spice already included),
why it’s called
only love poetry






8/23/19 4:55pm
Vexren4000 Nov 2018
A fruit filled with golden promise,
bearing value greater than gold,
Golden juices flowing,
From fruits from ancient times,
A treat bore,
From trees
Growing for eternity,
Bearing fruits for animals and mankind.


©BAS
Willoughby Aug 2018
I'd love to peer into that brain of yours and see the actual mechanics of your thinking.  Where those creative juices of yours throb and pulse. Ya, I'll drink to that.

   Maybe use one of them scopes to explore the left ventricle of your heart (you know, that chamber of the Heart that pumps blood through the aorta).  Figure out that sensitive heart of yours.

   Explore the rubber consistency of the lining of your lungs. With that heaving chest and ******* of yours, those lungs must be so healthy in their pinkish hue.   Just some barstool thoughts while waiting for closing time.

   Staring into this shot glass in front of me, my memory harkens back to the time you cut your arm and I ****** the blood from it, so salty and all.  I want to bottle you up in a liquid formula or capsulize your essence in a unique pill form where I can digest and absorb you and grow new cells from the energy I receive from the calories of your precious body.

   Maybe with the power of your bodies flesh I can grow a sixth toe, develop a third eye, build an *****.  I love you so much I could eat you up!

   Barkeep says this is last call so I better drink up and be on my way.  I wonder what your left ventricle really looks like under close inspection?  
   Just wondering, do you have any x-rays of your body I could have?
                                             See ya,   Creepy  Ray Ray
Willoughby  NEWSLETTER:   Coming soon, more Willoughby life rules and yes, this isn't the last you've heard from Creepy Ray Ray.  Also, middle of next month in honor of National Sheep Day the long awaited posting of "My Wife is a Sheep". Sweet anticipation!  And finally if your a little creeped out or shocked ---- Exactly!
Ashley Chapman Jun 2019
We start in Greek Street.
Not any old night,
But the end of an age,
A grand finale;
Last orders,
Before the corporate boyz move in,
To whitewash the Coach & Horses,
Where inky Boho Jeffrey Bernard drank …
Gary Dunnington, the actor, and his mates are out.

Meanwhile, a mom runs her hands,
Though my strands.
Tell me everything, she enthuses,
About your hair.
But there’s nothing to say:
I barely wash it,
Never brush it,
And only finger combe it.
But she carries on in my locks,
Then to dinner with her bloke

We head for 57, Trisha's,
A lively basement heaven,
In energy, in noise, in smoke.
I chat with Mark on a stool.
Got his heart broke:
It’s hard
When love ***** up,
To sever those traumatic bonds,
Thick as pillar posts,
Goodbye, the cocktail of toxicity,
That had you on a high for months,
The ***, the texts, the tenderness,
Ahhh, ****, the love.

Kass, a boxer musician, comes
And shakes our hands.
He’s in Armani,
And says,
His eyes dark little pressed raisins,
He prefers a poet over a bruiser.
I don’t fight no more,
If I did,
I’d **** ‘em, so I don’t bother.

In the corner,
Two girls with dreamy eyes:
I read ‘em love poems.

Then Jessica Appleby pops her head round the door.
We hug and then swap tales:
I’m all messed up, I tell her.
What not her, the one you wrote that poem for.
My man, she confides.
All crazy passion and wild *** for two months,
Then nothing.
Just fizzled out like it was never meant to be.

She exits.

You alright Gary?
Yeah, you?
Fine.
I don’t buy him a beer,
A bottle of Peroni is £5.
No, it’s £3, he says, if you pay cash.
Okay, I head for the bar.
Three times I explain it’s £3 cash to the barman.
Who told you that?
Gary.
Well, tell Gary, if he doesn’t shut the **** up,
He’ll be paying a fiver next time, too.

A young American artist, Kirsty, starts talking to me.
She’s trying to get ahead in art,
And says, that when she was a kid,
On a black Tuscany night filled with stars,
She walked out onto a stone balustrade balcony,
And knew in that moment,
She was no longer her mom and dad,
But herself, Kirsty.

The boxer musician shoves a tall fellow hard against a wall,
The altercation,
Is over before it starts.

Kass gives me a wolfish smile.
Mark buys me a drink.
Kirsty slips off to the toilet.
Mark goes home.
The corner girls have long since gone.

Everyone is cleared from the yard,
Just Gary and I linger with a feisty young bar lady,
Serving the Bohos of Soho.

Drinking in their pathos,
Exhaling in the shadows,
Mingling in their juices.
As my ****** up heart, beats,
With the Bohos of Soho.
Ahhh, the Bohos of Soho keep many hours.
The Bohos of Soho,
The Bohos of Soho,
The Bohos of Soho,
Have many lives,
The Bohos of Soho are a good seed.
You and I,
Out in Soho,
For last orders.
Kemy Sep 2018
*** with me is so amazing      
Hey, I’m just Paraphrasing      
However, I was listening to the artist, Rihanna singing this song      
As the song kept plugging along      
Not meaning to come on too strong      
With respect do not get me wrong      
I’ve often wondered, is *** of the body more powerful than *** of the mind      
And no, I do not have a feminist ax to grind      
I will choose my words on this topic and remain kind      
Well, at best that I can      
From my perspective related to this issue between woman and man      
Making love to the female body its ******, it’s pleasurable, and certainly it’s thrilling      
But once nature’s release has been prefilled      
The mind needs a dose of endorphins to be instilled      
Are you still with me on that concept      
I’m speaking for me who needs the combined effect
      
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
With someone capable of emotional grazing      
Blind dates, we talk about our passions or dreams      
Clothes still on, however, he gets what you mean      
Do we take this night one step farther      
We slept together      
Heated and passionate under silk covers, yet, he knew nothing about the weather      
We were definitely birds of a different feather      
His arms were not even that strong      
His brain got duller as the night prolonged
      
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
Sometimes is not all about trailblazing      
Computer Dating      
Keyboard translating      
Breathless words of debate      
Soulful elate      
No physical contact to rate      
But wait      
You can type on computer keys from sunrise to sunset      
If you cannot be bipartisan with words than you can’t articulate      
A break to give since we’ve just met      
Between you and me it’s now mental Russian Roulette      
Spinning my mind landing on red      
Keep your mouth closed as you lay in my bed      
Enticing words danced across my screen      
Pulling me in was all a squandered dream      
We’ll never again experience emotions under the covers      
****** of no analytical bonding from a distance lover      
Once again, a horse of another color 
     
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
In the midst of me praising you as our eyes are glazing      
One night stands      
First of all, you’re taking your life into your own hands      
No commands        
Sedated and scented juices mingling of its passion galore      
Lust filled desires and so much more      
No demands      
Talking on the go, and making no sense, well I be ****      
What a waste of a slam bam and thank you ma’am      
Mental *** on the brain I know it may sound insane      
But my God, it makes me rain      
Intellectual simulations have always been such a turn on      
Take me to task and then I’m far gone      
Rainbow coalitions      
I do not have any petitions      
Never in favor of anyone’s competitions      
Just me, my words, and I      
Reaching for that academic all time high      
Coming at you as I’m ******* with you      
The next morning, I would have told you a thing or two      
Something old or maybe something new      
It all depends on if I’ve pitied a fool      
Not my game, not in my arms      
Not fooled by undercover charms      
Capture my mind until the ringing of my alarm      
Wow, did we really just talk all night long      
Arms were very strong, your mind kept me warm while we discussed society’s storms      
One night stands      
Never with an intelligent man      
He needs a briefcase or a blueprint plan      
He could execute with his own mind      
On his own time      
Using his own dime      
Then he’s ready for my mind      
No prophylactics needed      
Once you gyrate my mind you’ve succeeded      
Feeding me words from the depths of your cerebral cortex to the powers that be      
Lightening my mind up like a Christmas tree      
Now you got me down on my knees      
Thanking you, as I please      
Was it good for you as it was for me
      
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
Mind now resting in a dreamy phase, body has now been thoroughly praised      
Here comes the aftermath of sweet melodies to conversations      
Moaning out all kinds of pronunciations      
Affirmations      
Aspirations      
French words with exclamations      
Giving me perceptual palpitations      
From the knowledge of head ministrations      
Climbing the psychological throne once again      
While whispering words in my ear as my mind adheres      
Once mental energy has been locked in      
Slow dancing, and then a thrusting rush as we begin      
Words of revelations      
Taking my mind beyond the constellations      
To the height of my glorious crown      
I’ve created, rested, and now the essence of my intellect is winding down      
Mental capacity has once again been meticulously interrogated      
Hearts of the minds now segregated  
    
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
Sweet words whispered to your male ego, minds blazing        
Perceptual notations moving inside of me      
Bending me over, as you lick up and down my womanly creed      
A passionate quick kiss as your mind sinks into my intellectual abyss      
From my mind to your fathom lips      
Seductively gyrating my hips      
Raising the nature of your hard ****      
Love and Hugs        
Soft tongue bathing your body, massage oil, and caressing rubs
Innovation comes out of great human ingenuity and very personal passions.

Megan Smith
Marla Aug 2019
Life is full of juices that can fill you up and drain you out.
Some juice is sweet and honeys people in
the way flower pollen draws bees.
Other juice can be sour, like a bowl of vinegar
served at a party for the drunk and poor.
But watch out for the juice that bites,
it's the most dangerous of them all.
He'll make you think you're the most powerful
when you've really just begun your fall.
Got juice?
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