"khaki" poems
I threw out his socks today.
Those ******* socks.
Long Black Nike Socks that went up to his calves.
Long Black Nike Socks that he wore with his Two Hundred Dollar
French Raw Denim Jeans because he needed the Short Black Nike Socks
To wear to work with his Khaki Dickies Shorts.
Black Nike Socks that he reminded me for months he "needed"
For his birthday in order to function properly.
Black Nike Socks that didn't cost enough to be considered
A sufficient birthday gift,
Along with some other cute things (I thought),
Including a homemade coupon for dinner at
Any restaurant of his choice.
Short Black Nike Socks whose thirty-dollar price tag
Wasn't quite up to par with the forty-dollar
Concert ticket his obviously-better-than-me friend had
So benevolently bought him.
Those ******* socks.
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 6:54 PM UTC
You, with your supple and brown leather
I, with my gaze fixed on my father’s pocket
You, peeking out from its corner like a
Child playing hide and seek in a desolate ally
I, like the kidnapper, keeping an eye on your
Fragile movements, waiting for you to stumble
Into a dark corner and into my sinister embrace
So that I could get my ransom inside you, the
Little green strips of paper you contained
Toys, chocolates and kites my father wouldn’t get me.
You, with your expensive sheen, attracting me
To yourself like a gold ring attracting an eagle
Only to disappear as soon as my father left
For work and you, containing an enigmatic exchange
For little candies the definition of bliss to six year old me.
I, with my naïve mind thinking why I would get less
Candies and goodies when you would be frail
And devoid of those thin green leaves.
You, in the possession of my elder brother now
I, eight year old me, wondering if your gauntness
Made my father a dear departed.
You, I didn’t unravel the enigma of your long
Green leaves until I was thirteen and you
Resided in the back pocket of the Khaki trousers
My brother used to wear,
Now Tattered just like your old unkempt skin.
Dear Old Wallet, my dead father’s wallet
I liked you better when you were fat and fit,
Supple and shiny, brimming with coins and green leaves.
And when I was unaware, little and innocent thinking
You were a miracle for I only wanted toys back then
only to realize I need a lot more
For I am now cold, fatherless and bankrupt
But you are empty and thin, just like my
Dying mother.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
death mourns a life
that succumbs to suicide...
classical lawless-ness?
calls the jyst...
a thieving;
a stolen death,
a suicide....
bride riddled to a bridge...
baking...
left half awake and half baked...
you count with the number of
blinding equations...
your 80+ segments?
i want nothing to be part of,
whether polymath,
bilingual, or polymath...
you resd yourself into "it"....
fuck you, and...
**** off...
in terms of .gif ***** files...
no... the part where
we don't parrot?
for no worthwhile surprise!
death is alal b & w...
memory?
all invigorating sepia...
life?
the blooming of color...
you take shrooms,
to invigorate the colors?!
oh look...
you're as loony as me...
and why would i
give a **** about your
tall-tales of subversive religiosity?!
you're right!
like you have been with me
to begin with...
there aren't any!
now?!
suffer!
you're in good hands...
turns out?!
i'm a sadist...
i somehow tested the pain on myself...
i enjoy...
the pain, of others,
having, prior, teased the pain
on, myself!
i forgot teasing the pain...
i taste it...
i welcome it...
i've become welcoming
in allowing it,
a stature abbreviating a transcendence
of victim-hood!
i need pain,
to craft an erasure of ever having
the capacity to instruct
a modus operandi for pleasure!
death contra suicide...
a fact contra a premature contest
of pleasure...
suicide is what
death calls thief...
there is no moral artifact
of a "question"...
suicide is the thief,
when death is the executioner...
what moral question is
to be entertained?
non!
i can't blame the mortality
arsonist...
less Tartarus and more Gehenna...
less S.S. and more khaki
S.A. night of the broken windows
and less...
hyper-Hindu
reincarnation,
hue hue grey...
woo woo the ashen pillage...
no... i'm not here for the
cinder and the ********
it's enough that i drink
the sort of excuse,
that sober people could hardly make
excuses about...
and that's enough...
and enough, is, where i'll stick to.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC
Three little deer in the headlights, on
a nice midnight stroll, grazing
the neighbors grasses while I
wait patiently in the mini-van
for you to come find me.
He stumbles drunk, I can smell the
liquor before it reaches my automatic window
rolling down to let some fresh air through
these anxious, aching bones.
The night passes, not with ease
or grace, but with melancholy as
I look upon a ghost of my past, lying
quiet on the khaki tiled bathroom
floor, help
There's yelling and screaming, and I cry
myself to sleep for hours, while his once
happy, now dull eyes sit and watch
quietly, while tears stain my broken
smile, broken heart.
I muffle the sounds of my weeps with
the cotton blanket covering me, and
although thoughts swim through
my skull, there is nothing to say.
The silence echoes, though,
not out loud, but inside, and I
can feel the numbness taking over
once again. And it scares me, not
because I've lost you, but
because I've lost myself.
© A. Leigh
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 8:17 PM UTC
You are a guardian of the law
Your duty is to keep crime at bay
And bring the criminals to justice
But, as I watch you,
Wearing a khaki uniform
And swinging your baton around
As you go about on your daily rounds
I am filled with such a rage
That I hold my hand up in prayer
And desperately wish that thoughts could ****
Because you would then be dead
Before anyone could even say "police"
You are a guardian of the law
Your duty is to keep crime at bay
And bring the criminals to justice
But instead, you abuse the immense power
That you wield in your iron fist
As people come out in hordes
To protest on various issues
You swing your baton around
As wood clashes against flesh
Democracy dies a thousand deaths
However, your lust is unsatiated
A pistol replaces the baton
As it rains bullets
Bundles of cash change hands
As you quietly pocket them
You yell to the world
That justice has been served
Even as the bodies pile up
And Humanity waves a white flag
As she bows to your iron fist
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
"Son can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet
And I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"
Billy Joel lyrics from
"Piano Man"*
~~~~~~~~~~~~
when I was very young
I wore Levi jeans and white
Hanes cotton T shirts
my mother bot me,
my feet, Ked clad, red
from the kid's "department" store
on Central Avenue,
the Main Street of my small town
when I was a young lad,
I wore workingman's cargo jeans and
white Hanes cotton T shirts
under red plaid
wooly shirts, itchy affairs,
that I bot for myself
in a real Army Navy store,
desert colored suede boots,
laced up high,
upon my feet
when I was of middling years,
my jeans were khaki pants,
Gap supplied,
and my Gap T shirts,
faded like me,
a non-descript color,
made in a gap of pale pastel colors
from Bangladesh or Vietnam,
pale pastel, like me
so as I slide~decline into
my nursing home years,
I wear unbranded jeans and
white cotton no name T shirts
with matching white disposable slippers,
that the Purchasing Department
bot for me, cause they know,
I like,
a younger man's clothes and
the memories that play all day
lost in day dreaming of a life
well dressed
2:01am
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
A dream catcher is the key to the soul,
Keeping away bad thoughts before you go to bed,
Having them in him for ever and ever,
So the bad thoughts can't come back to your head.
His own beauty compares nothing to me,
With his entire silent stillness and grace,
Keeping away all mt bad memories hidden to my sight,
Having my dreams keep their pace.
He has his own spirit far inside it,
Placing away old bruises and cries,
Scooping them away like cool earth dirt,
Carrying them away from my eyes.
He can't ever succeed another thing,
Attempting to keep my innocence pure,
He can show me subconscience from reality,
He helps me keep my awareness sure.
His own feathers are wild, curly, brown,
While the beads are his khaki green eyes,
He understands my abuse at a young age,
Makes me face my demons and say good bye.
His web to catch them are his hands,
Big, steady, undeniably warm,
Covering half the area of my back,
While I breath in his chest and hide from harm.
He knows he can leave, but he doesn't,
He's a nightingal, my children and I are his songs to sing,
Deeply breathing, protecting me all night,
He wears the other matching ring.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
As poppies drip blood red petals
Among the fields where souls do roam
A silenced voice, away from home
Buried deep with twisted metals
Khaki men, are dead and rotting
As poppies drip blood red petals
Overgrown with rats and nettles
Men and women stood reflecting
A resting place to end the fight
In peaceful slumber they settle
As poppies drip blood red petals
Weathered cadavers all bleached white
Depressions fade, vista settles
Bodies and branches both stripped bare
Once passionate men, showed they care
As poppies drip blood red petals.
© 27/6/2012
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
The bus rumbles on,
it is an over crowded one -
not an unusual sight -
she stands in the space
reserved for women,
there's hardly any room
to breathe.
The broadcaster on radio
shows off her gift of the gab,
a popular film song follows;
a gush of wind
through the window
brings along smoke, dust
and other such components
of 'city-air'.
She looks out to see
impressive malls,
entrances to which, witness
beggars pursuing well dressed gentry,
in the hope of a penny or two;
billboards advertise
latest discount offers
appealing to her consumerist instincts;
constant honking of vehicles,
music blaring from an auto nearby -
these are common sounds
she is accustomed to.
The bus halts with a jolt,
she steps down,
tries to make her way,
through the crowd
avoiding hawkers lunging at her
from every side,
eager to make sales;
the smell of
pakodas fills the air,
autos carrying seven or eight passengers
limp away, surreptitiously,
at the sight of khaki clad men.
Out of the blue,
an elbow knocks into her chest,
she turns to look at the lout -
lecherous eyes mock at her impotent fury -
she mouths standard abuses,
walks away as if unruffled.
For this was not the first instance,
"Won't be the last either.",
she thinks at the back of her mind,
her heart chooses not to agree though.
She moves on,
pushing, shoving, cursing
her way through
'Battleground India'.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 3:08 AM UTC
There should be a genre of poetry called waste verse
tasteless and terse like the khaki pine needles that
litter the space underneath your porch.
a neglected place,
where the broken blue bottles and dew
marry in early morning ,
attended by a congregation of woodchips,
beers cans and
guinea pig ****
dancing easy with the morning breeze,
and carried like the currency of an early dreamer's reverie,
morning.
morning.
morning is gluing a teacup together knowing
that it will be broken tomorrow.
and day by day, the absence in form will grow
until that once teacup becomes nothing but empty space, with
its base designated in place of the back porch ash tray.
when i turned back one day, there was nothing left of its body
nothing left of it that i could see but paint dust, a couple of cuts
and some blood covered by a bandaid that doesn't stay on
because feet sweat a little too much.
morning is repetition for comfort
but breaking routine is
starting to feel more appealing
than keeping it,
because I know one morning I will wake alone,
with a rusted infrastructure and fractured backbone,
and have to look upon a screen with thousand texts that read,
"there are other fish in the sea"
well, **** you, maybe he was my sea.
i mean,
he is my sea,
maybe.
there is a genre of waste verse called poetry,
and the simple syllogism of it all
leaves me reeling.
but after i finish my cigarette over the khaki pine needles
beneath your porch and go inside,
"good morning", i say.
"good morning", he said.
i cannot remember what was so important just a few moments ago.
morning.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
I want what you have
I want your dreams; the ones that scare you shitless
I want your secrets; the ones you can’t share with anyone
I want the thoughts that keep you awake at night; the ones that excite you
I want the ideas you want to share; the ones you know you never will share
I need what you have
I need your arms around my waist; the arms that will never be there
I need your lips pressed against mine; the lips that mine will never touch
I need your ***** smile smiling at me; the smile that will never look in my direction
I need your stupid ugly khaki jacket around my shoulders; the jacket that will never be near me
I wish that I have what you have
I wish I had your idiotic confidence; the confidence that I will never get back
I wish I had your insanely smart brain; the brain that has put up barriers against me
I wish I had your annoyingly inappropriate jokes; the jokes that you stopped telling me
I wish I had your ability to captivate the world; the captivation you no longer use on me
I yearn for what we could have been
I yearn to have an unconditional love; one that will never break
I yearn to have uncontrollable kisses; ones that we are unable to stop
I yearn to have cheesy promposals; ones that make everyone jealous of us
I yearn for extravagant valentine's day gifts; ones that make me want to scream and cry
You don't want what I have
My dreams; the ones that will never happen
My secrets; the ones that will tear people apart
My thoughts that keep me up at night; the ones that can even terrify me
My ideas that I want to share; the ones that would wreak havoc on everyone
You don’t need what I have
My thick messy hair; the hair that constantly falls in my face
My ***** brown converse; the ones with the laces falling apart
My empty grey eyes; the eyes that stare straight at you watching you ignore me
My annoying voice; the voice that says ****** comments to protect herself from your friends
You don’t wish to have what I have
My brutal honesty; the honesty that burns bridges
My crazy distrust; the distrust that worries my mother
My unbelievable pessimism; the pessimism that causes people to leave
My need to control everyone; the need to control that consumes all of my thoughts
You don’t yearn for what we could have been
You don’t yearn for unconditional love; not with me
You don’t yearn for uncontrollable kisses; but with her
You don’t yearn to give cheesy promposals; you would do anything to be with her
You don’t yearn to give extravagant valentine's day gifts; you would give anything to be with her
No matter how much I want...need...wish...yearn for you
You will always be wanting, needing, wishing, and yearning for her more
She is the pulsing red dot you are moving towards
I am barely more than a blip on your radar.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC
*The man with green hair and green hands.
A long long time ago
When army’s wore uniforms.
We were khaki they were grey.
My grandfather was fire warden
In WW2 he had seven sons
And three daughters .
You could say he was
a bit of a pacifist.
Make love not war
Was his mantra.
He married my Grandma
when she was seventeen.
They were to stay married
for over sixty five years.
And produce tribe of ten children.
He had spent his whole life
Working as a coppersmith
For the same company.
His hair and hands tinted green
From the metals Verdigris.
My father was a baby just born
In the middle of the war.
We lived in Manchester.
Money was always tight.
But we were happy.
Just as Herr ****** invaded Poland
My grandad bought our first house.
We always rented until then.
It was a large town home.
The six older boys
All joined the marines
At the outbreak of the war.
They did one act of preparation
That ultimately saved the family.
They took down an old barn for a farmer
And used the beams to shore up the stone cellar
of the house.
When the air raids came later.
We would all huddle under the stair well
Until the all clear sirens sounded.
When the bad raid came
It was the early hours of the night.
Grandad was out on fire watch.
Six of the sons were on ships
In Europe and the far east.
My aunty told me much later.
When the war was long over.
She heard the bomb falling
It screamed as it fell.
Exploding just outside our house
the house caved in and they
were all buried under the rubble
in total darkness.
She said grandma was
breastfeeding the baby my dad.
Grandad was busy the raid was a hard one.
A friend said Frank your house has been hit
It’s bad.
He dropped everything and ran and ran
Breathless he reached the fallen house.
In his heart he thought we were all dead.
It took ten neighbors four hours to reach us.
They pulled the girls out first
Then the baby my dad.
And finally the dimutive figure of my grandma.
She was weeping.
She said Frank we’ve lost everything.
There’s nothing left.
He held her in his big arms
Tears flowing from the eyes of a man
Who had had a hard life.
Who never cried.
He kisses her full on her lips
A single sign of public affection
That was out of his character.
He whispered to grandma.
That odd Mary
Because I just found
Everything I ever wanted or needed.*
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
Blueberry you sit
heavy on my mind
met you at a party
of a friend of mine
So free a soul
I've scarcely met
with your multi- colored dreadlocks
and presence so fresh
Colorful outfit
like I've never seen
flowing so graceful
as you wander near me
Rainbow scarf
of fabric so fine
green khaki jacket
and a gleam in your eye
You struck me at once
unlike many before
as someone who knows
the trips gift for the soul
The freedom you showed
was clear to see
the joy in your eyes
as you prodded playfully
My soul it did sing
with joy this day
at seeing you Blueberry
lighting the way
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
it's not me
pushing you
away except
it actually is me
it's the kind of
morning that the
wind is blowing
just right so that
the open flag
flutters in front
of the window
where i can see it
the kind of morning
i don't need coffee
and i try not to
think about
it too
much
*(i just wanted to
be the girl in
an owl city song)*
pacing back and
forth in straight
lines and gritting
my teeth against
an onslaught of
small town gunfire
*(i'll bet annmarie
never had scars
or scratches
brielle didn't cry
and shake for
hours thinking
how to end it all
it turned out
okay for anna
and vienna probably
knew how to dance
between the snowflakes
and underneath her regret)*
i've never been good at
drowning out thoughts
they just get louder the
longer time rolls on
good at rolling out
cookie dough and
good at drowning
in dishwater when
the brownie batter's
baking and the bowl
needs washing when
nobody's looking
*(i've had moments
here and there in golden
sneakers and navy blue
lace covered dresses
but i'm not the girl
in an owl city song
not something worth
writing dreamy poems
about not so lovestruck you
replace your words with dada)*
girls like me wear flannel
khaki too much day old
eyeliner too many day old
scones have half heads of weird
colored hair and spend valentines
day alone watching tv
so maybe why i'm bitter
as the inside of a lemon is
that i'll never be able to change
to someone drenched in verbena
spinning through the sunny
skies between your fingers
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 9:39 PM UTC
16th, 17th, 18th chapel I don't care how many of them you make
If there's no gift shop how am I supposed to remember I was ever there?
In Germany I got a mug and a spoon
In Wales, Austria, and Poland I got a spoon
They're small and made of poisonous metal but very heavy for their size
I heard from a former classmate that you can't get a spoon in Egypt they only sell forks
What do you mean you're "not a very visual person"?
May your indictment remain sealed despite the current widespread family tumult
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 5:17 AM UTC
Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine,
Air, space, land and sea;
Sailor, Corpman, Airman, Soldier,
Pilot, Ranger, Medic, SEAL,
or Merchant Mariner;
Barbary, 1812, American Revolution,
Civil, Spanish, Texan and Mexican,
WWI, WWII,
Korea, Vietnam,
Gulf, Iraq and Afghanistan.
Khaki, green, white and blue,
Ship, tank, plane... all boots.
Knife, pistol, bomb or rifle,
Weapon, bandage, or Bible instead,
Each one’s veins filled with red.
Hostage rescue, protect and shield,
Capture, conquer, overcome, never yield;
Freedom, heartbreak, loss and grief,
Foreign, home, border, sky,
Ocean, desert, mountain, plain,
Water side, hillside, bedside, grave.
Parent, child, father, mother,
Auntie, uncle, niece or nephew,
Sister, brother, spouse and lover.
May your sweat on furtive brow,
Rouse our tribute, take knee and bow.
Buried, missing... wounded all,
Respect, endure, honor, release,
Forever may you rest in peace.
*To each of you
Who’s paid a price,
With years, with limb,
With blood, with life,
For each of these,
Oh, warrior ferocious,
Wrapped around
A heart that’s precious;
My voice it sings,
Let freedom ring;
My heart, it bleeds,
My eyes, they weep;
My hand, it rises in salute;
And my soul is filled
This day for you
With pride that swells,
With love that beats,
A song of deepest,
Heartfelt
Gratitude!*
Oh Warrior, you this day I salute!!!
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
Carrickfergus (1937) - poem by Louis Macneice.
I was born in Belfast between the mountain and the gantries
To the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams;
Thence to Smoky Carrick in County Antrim
Where the bottle-neck harbour collects the mud which jams
The little boats beneath the Norman castle,
The pier shining with lumps of crystal salt;
The Scotch quarter was a line of residential houses
But the Irish quarter was a slum for the blind and halt.
The brook ran yellow from the factory stinking of chlorine,
The yarn mill called it's funeral cry at noon;
Our lights looked over the lough to the lights of Bangor
Under the peacock aura of a drowning moon.
The Norman walled this town against the country
To stop his ears to the yelping of his slave
And built a church in the form of a cross but denoting
The list of Christ on the cross in the angle of the nave.
I was the rectors son, born to the Anglican order,
Banned for ever from the candles of the Irish poor;
The Chichesters knelt in marble at the end of a transept
With ruffs about their necks, their portion sure.
The war came and a huge camp of soldiers
Grew from the ground in sight of our house with long
Dummies hanging from gibbets for bayonet practice
And the sentry's challenge echoing all day long;
A Yorkshire terrier ran in and out by the gate-lodge
Barred to civilians, yapping as if taking affront;
Marching at ease and singing 'Who Killed **** Robin?'
The troops went out by the lodge and off to the Front.
The steamer was camouflaged that took me to England-
Sweat and khaki in the Carlisle train;
I thought that the war would last for ever and sugar
be always rationed and that never again
Would the weekly papers not have photos of sandbags
And my governess not make bandages from moss
And people not have maps above the fireplace
With flags on pins moving across and across-
Across the hawthorn hedge the noise of bugles,
Flares across the night,
Somewhere on the lough was a prison ship for Germans,
A cage across their sight.
I went to school in Dorset, the world of parents
Contracted into a puppet world of sons
Far from the mill girls, the smell of porter, the salt-mines
And the soldiers with their guns.
Louis Macneice
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
Thomas, Tommy baby,
you are both hot,
and sweet.
Tom Cat you’re red hot--
when I catch you in your Tom Cat Strut,
sauntering across campus,
strolling like it ain’t no thing,
cuz it don’t meant a thing
if it ain’t got that swing baby.
So dig this, Tommy Gun,
you groove with the best of ‘em
when I spot you strollin’—
Your head, teetering left and right like a seesaw, boppin’ baby,
arms hangin’ loosely, swinging freely, wildly, go! go!
legs scooping forward in boisterous trombone slides--
Groooooove Tommy baby!
You’re Louis’s best blows--
ten feet from the mic and the Fives baby,
you’re hot, red hot,
any closer and I'll burn up!
Go!
But you’re cool, real cool,
and oh so sweet.
Super sweet--
in your beard like a pepper and salt shaker tossed across the table,
I look to see those rosy lips part,
and peep those pearly whites shinin' like the bell of Louis’s cornet
brandished in the air, under those ballroom lights--
you’re screamin’ Tommy!
Let me hear that laugh that shakes the room,
punches like Blakey’s bass drum,
thumps like Mingus--
T-Bird you’ve got that hard bop in your soul,
you’re gonna bop to the top TB,
into the third heaven where the angels fall in line to your swing,
that incessant strut that keeps the devil at bay,
Blow! Blow! Blow!
And I see you now Tom Cat,
up there in the clouds,
digging your way across eternity,
bopping and jiving, swinging and blowing,
in your faded khaki pants and worn tennis shoes,
loosely buttoned collared shirt,
tight rectangular glasses that glistened the bell of your eyes even more--
I gotta stand twenty feet away Tommy baby!
You glance down at me and wink,
rearing your head back to let loose that Mingus and Blakey
bottom-end laugh,
guffaw guffaw guffaw!!!
--so hearty and rich,
the backbone of every nervous first-year classroom,
and the sniggering seniors you continued to befuddle and dazzle
with your mysterious ways
and insatiable swing.
So blow, Tommy Gun, blow!
Go Tom Cat go!
Dig T-Bird dig!
Let loose Tommy boy!
Swing for us, swing swing swing--
Hot and Sweet, Tommy baby,
hot and sweet.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
Take a moment to stop and stare,
At memorials in your town,
The named names that never came home,
Some had died at The Somme,
No shouts no shots no whistles,
No guns no bangs no shells,
No barbed wire or trenches,
And no gun powder smells,
All is very quite now,
After one hundred years,
Unlike the time the dead were named,
When families shed their tears,
No khaki uniforms no tin hats,
No bayonets to stab a heart,
No body parts no blood no gore,
No grenades to blow you apart,
Silently remembering,
Their memory lingers on,
They fought for King and country,
And died there at The Somme.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
Step One: Dress for Success
Dawn yourself in armor each morning
Spikes and studs
Headbands and helmets
Strike fear into every man’s heart
And look good while doing it
Step Two: Be a Lotus Flower
A rose, a lily
Be a venus fly trap
Deadly nightshade
Lady Macbeth said it best
“Look like the innocent flower
But be the serpent under it.”
Step Three: Always Have a Perfect Manicure
Sharpen your nails into knives
Slit your attackers throat
With just one swift movement
Of the wrist
Walk away with the blood working as polish
They won’t be able to tell the difference
Step Four: Smile
Never let them see you crumble
Never let them see you for what you are
Human.
Put up the walls
Man the cannons
You’re no longer a girl
You are a castle
And they want to storm you
Step Five: Be Polite
Swallow the bad words that want so badly
To sting that *******
Who cut in line at 7 Eleven
Suppress the rage that makes the blood
Under your pretty skin
Rise to your cheeks.
Instead, when he’s not looking,
Slash his tires in the parking lot.
Step Six: Stay In Shape
How else are you going to be able to survive
When the apocalypse comes
And its only you left
Step Seven: Focus on Your Education
So when the boys at school
Groan because they have to work with you on the English project
You can spit out verses of Shakespeare
And Frost
And Plath
And make them shake in their
Khaki shorts
Step Eight: Don’t Forget Where You Cme From
Don’t forget the hours
Your mother spent in labor
Pushing you through heaven’s doors
Don’t forget the women who came before you
The women who have tried so hard
To be the perfect girl
To collapse themselves into paper
To roll themselves like dough
Don’t forget those women,
Those girls.
Don’t forget to kiss your wrists each night
And say thank you to the stars.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
Bowed as an elm under the weight of its beauty,
So earth is bowed, under her weight of splendor,
Molten sea, richness of leaves and the burnished
Bronze of sea-grasses.
Clefts in the cliff shelter the purple sand-peas
And chicory flowers bluer than the ocean
Flinging its foam high, white fire in sunshine,
Jewels of water.
Joyous thunder of blown waves on the ledges,
Make me forget war and the dark war-sorrow —
Against the sky a sentry paces the sea-cliff
Slim in his khaki.
2.1k
Composing Hallelujah
Fractious lines crack,
holiday decorate the spirit inferior,
while each note upon the priest's guitar
penetrates the aspirin roughened interior,
face slaps me, daggers and accuses,
you're not composing hallelujah.
So I mislead, big deal,
composing the anti-hallelujah,
yeah, I was ******** with you,
as you sit across from me electronically
pretending, me to you, you to me.
Lie to each other with smiling faces,
you too have reaped,
been emotionally *****
by what our minds see and sow,
scowls and howls,
we've both grown our own demons.
My secrets, maybe are all there,
maybe, writ loud and clear,
in the songs I choose to share,
and in the unrevealed ones,
buried alive, held in reserve,
but not, for your average, rainy day,
could be today, you have no say.
Are we not all veterans of a kind,
don't we all have ribbons on our chest,
stripes and stars on our khaki blouse,
a record of our own great campaigns,
including the war to end all wars,
the never ending one,
the one the psycho-historians renamed,
"The 24/7 Year Conflagration"?
It used to be just my secret, no more
don't need a cartoonist to tell me that's
the enemy is us, and there are moles, traitors,
hidden deep in our intelligence organization,
planting seeds, urges, pushing to
out the identity of our communist friend,
Depression
I don't mean the ordinary, garden variety,
a mere moody blues recession,
when funk is sourced from gray clouds,
served up proper, cold and wet,
then travels on when sun warmth
clarifies temporarily, the aspirin kicking in.
So I misled,
composing the anti-hallelujah,
yeah, I was ******** with you,
sit across from me and lie to me,
lie to each other with smiling faces
we reap what we own,
scowls and howls.
A chorus of harmonious poseurs
inside your own City Center,
vocalize the lyrics of the anti-hallelujah,
a composition of questions directed at
whomever in tonight's audience deserves it,
asking, nerving, to sing too loud, at decibel speed:
Are these verses, curses
about D,
our mutual acquaintance,
or just research notes for further followup,
part two of a pas de deux, and,
did you go this time, too far,
or still not far enough?
-
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
Joe Mole, Marnhull Danny
1974
His eyes were luminous steel blue, alive
with twinkling shards of mischievous fun.
His face, a weathered map of his long life:
brown and crumpled, carved by clean air and sun.
A grubby khaki flat-cap, jauntily askew,
bedraggled grey-green ancient jacket
secured with hairy binder-twine (calves too),
brown dungarees, muddy boots and thumb-stick.
His gruesome work was in grazing meadows
under attack from an invasion beneath
of unwelcome little furry fellows
destined to perish between steel-sprung teeth.
Tiny corpses hung in a row (job done)
on barbed wire like Joe met at Verdun.
A Danny was the name given to any man from the village of Marnhull in Dorset. The word was in common use locally during the 1970’s but is now rarely heard.
14 lines
(FBRSO)
Copywrite: Craig Andrew White,Author, July 2011.
Jul 12, 2011
Jul 12, 2011 at 2:41 PM UTC
An anonymous limerick
From the 1930’s.
There was a young woman called Starkie .
Who had an affair with a darky.
The result of her sins.
Was quadruplets not twins.
One black and one white and two khaki .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With apologies for being derogatory Philip.
Posted November. 25th 2018.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
I don't remember much,
About what I've read,
The aliens who harvest our cattle
And the red pox the Aztecs got.
All I know is that you
Can't pull a string around me
And tie my robs because
I'm of the world and the
World is of me.
I'll remember the gentle things I want
like the drunk and
High howling or
Like the astronaut who came
From mars and was convinced
This was Venus and
You threw the underwear
And Khaki shorts through the window,
On my roof.
I told you I'd always be here even
If you threw me inside out
The window. Wild dogs are no longer
Starving thanks to you. My underwear and
Khakis are being worn by the homeless.
My dishes and cups are shattered from
the fall. the cable still
Works miraculously, the Browns
Lost by 7 unfortunately.
I'm sopping up my bottle of
Bourbon from 1953 with a dish rag.
Maybe I could get some sleep on my bed
If I wait long enough.
I'll act like I know things,
But the drizzle of sounds will
Be an old man's stroke.
You'll think less of me.
You'll think I got lost in the rain
Somewhere. You'll think I evaporated
With the river. You'll think I evaporated up,
Blowing cloud rings that the
Birds showed me how to do. I just got
Lost finding you and found another
Way around.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC