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L B Mar 2017
This is a three-part, longer narrative poem, seen
as old photographs that follow the main character, My Aunt, Lillian Goldrick, across two decades.  It was written 30 years ago*
______

“Hey Kid!”     Part I

Photographs aren’t fair
stopping the soul where it’s not
in rectangular guffaws
surrounded by serrated edges, pickets, teeth?
to fence and stab in yellow, soft-covered booklets
with designated floppy phrase
“Your memories”

Happier than she could ever be...

A black and white day at Salisbury Beach, NH
hung over his hammock
Private pin-up girl
tilts her head against silver sheen of shoulder
Hair, dark chignon
except for a few wispy curls about her face
freed by wind
bleached by sun

Stopped

...for three decades
Legs slightly bent—long extended
that could stop trains, stop traffic

Stopped

Modest bathing suit, probably peach
cannot hide (not that she would)
the undeniable
And if there were question left
you could look at her smile—and love her
posed by he message scrawled in sand:

“Hey Kid!”

What kid? Where?
In the foreground?
In the camera’s eye?

In the background—
a Ferris wheel, a billboard
and  r-i-g-h-t  there—Can’t you see it?
Look again—behind her eyes
You can barely see it, but it’s there.
Remember?

The Depression
Only ten years before
It was April
Stroke, heart attack
Both of them gone, a year apart!
The priest came
Last Rites for mortally stricken
Candles, crucifix, the Catholic containment
of holy water that dams the tears

Kneeling around the bed
they said the Rosary

——————————

After VJ Day he came
to the house on the corner
of Commonwealth Ave.
She knew he was coming
but she could not be ready today
nor tomorrow
nor next week—or ever...

“Lill! Will ya come to the door?
She’ll be ready in a minute.
Hey Lill! Hurry up, will ya!
They’re waitin’ fer us!”

Upstairs in the dark hallway
her door clicks shut....
________


"Hey Kid"    Part II


The clock at Joe Rianni’s read 20 minutes to 12...

Crowd from the Phillip’s Theater—gone
though laughter lingers
in a Friday mood
in high-backed booths
where only an hour ago swinging free
were high-heeled shoes
legs crossed at knees....

Now on tables abandoned
deserted fields of French
fries lie cold in salt flurries

Only female straws wear lipstick
as do Luckys bent in ashtrays
Males, uniformly flattened
as powder burned, as mortar might
shells, casings—the evidence of war
Among explosions of tickled giggles
one was taken broadside...

listing     toward      stars
_______

...The clock read 20 minutes to 12

when she walked in--
And Rhea stopped swabbing black mica counters
long enough to absorb late-customer hate
and envy that such beauty can arouse
In voice hoarse and weighted like a trucker’s

“Whadaya have, Lill?”

“coffee”

The small answer settled at the soda fountain
and slowly struck a match...
She was falling from the slant
of her black felt hat
dripping off the point of pheasant feather
Gray gabardine suit
tailored from angle of shoulder
to dart diagonally
toward such a waist!
Turned to skirt hips
that arched and dove toward slit—
then seams that run the round of calf

that seem to flow
to ankles of naught—
...and all that seems

Black     high-heeled     above it

Coffee— cold, stale
Gray glassed-in stare
searches air and random walls
of coat hooks, menus, mirrors...
while lips ****** exiled words— replies

Dragging a demon from her Camel
slowly     purposefully
she exhaled a burly arm of smoke
that rose and laid its hand
against the ceiled atmosphere of embossed tin
Then leaning over her shoulder
in roiling emission of shrugs and sneers—

“Lill—There’s no way outa here!”
________


“Hey Kid!”    Part III

After kneeling backwards on their chairs
after nuns, catechism recited
After—
Five of them scuffed through leaves and litter
along the curbing
spotting cars that counted—
Bugs, beach wagons, flying bathtubs
A slower way home of hunting
shiny chestnuts and muddy finds
rare match book covers
and bottle caps that win ya things!

One breaks from bunch
and trials off to where
dimes turn to candies!
...at a dingy luncheonette...Joe Rianni’s
____

Here—behind smeary wall of glass
pleasure leers while holding back
those grimy fingers, lips that long
for jelly fish, gum drops, lollies
holding back the company
of Baby Ruth, and Mary Jane
O Henry or Bazooka Joe!
For less money but the same salivation
there were colored dots to chew and ****
from strips of paper that last forever!
For a little more, plus the sweet struggle
of desire denied
a kid could be proud owner
of a pea shooter or trading cards!
While in the mouth
were golden imaginings—
the chocolate foil of coins
and the candied pretense of cigarette adulthood
_____

Rhea didn’t see her in the line...

Only grownups with wallets and purses
Only grownups get waited on...
...because Rhea was a Gypsy!
Kids could tell!
by her big red lips and hair to match
by the nasty way she chased them out—
“****** kids!”
Only grownups get waited on....
_______

And the clock read 20 minutes to 12

While a child waits—
time stirs in a ceiling fan
   There’s a drift in attention
      along deepening endless walls
         toward a line of sleepy booths
              carved with

“I was here—in such and such a year”

Her aunt—at the last stool—like always
Their names too close
Confused too often

A little girl wonders
about the sight behind the sightless stare
loafers, ankle socks, the ‘40s hair
the gathered skirt that gathers ashes
as they fall from cigarette
held in yellowed fingertips
Tremors crimp the smoke that climbs—

              ...a strobing pillar

“Whataya want, girly?”

              ...the only movement

“Hey! What’s it gonna be!”

              ...in a shot—

“HEY KID!”

              Snapped
There are photos that go with this. I'll try to post them together on Facebook.
M-E Jul 2018
I’m the nameless, nobody
Born of a nameless, nonexistent mum
And a nameless, nonexistent dad
In a placeless city
New in town and I don’t mind
To re-shape my mind
By a town that is so ruthless,
So thoughtless and -
Maybe
I am feeble
But certainly in a new form
A new coming storm,
A cyclone,
A cyclops,
A mongrel
Annihilating,
Devastating,
Decapitating your approval and pity
I’m glass, seen through and sharp
An undecipheral writing
Meticulously weird and uncanny
I’m a boy, a girl
A maniac,
A brainiac,
A pyromaniac,
A junior granny
It’s funny
Wondering why I’m the way I am
You sculptor -
I’m leaving,
Somewhere where I will not find you
For the bullied and the forgotten generation.

Can’t we find a solution instead of demolition, intentionally or unintentionally?
laura Feb 2018
you run while i gasp and die
uphill as i try to be near you

let’s just scream it all out
make it ring out through the forest
like the trees need to hear our drama

the main battle of the year’s just started
offering the country most beautiful
but your girl’s just not into the drive
in the dark just playing catchup to you
Sara Kellie Oct 2018
I'm here.
You lost your way kid
and I can't see you no more.
Did the lights go out?
Did the mist decend?
You lost your way kid
and I can't see you no more.

The light's back on
and the mist has gone
. . . and I'm here,
so I can see you once more.
I'm here kid.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Inspiration from 'Leave a Light On' by Tom Watson.
Well...
**** this ****,
I don't even try to feel like this.
I just want that pretty boy to hit.
I hate his face,
his name is the worse.
He'll be wishing
he left our fight in a hearse.
I don't wanna be angry,
violent
or ******.
But this kid,
just wants a date with my fist.
This jealously
just makes me ******* ill,
and in a duel for your love,
I would never kneel.
I'm sorry
this is the way I feel.
I just want you
more than anything else.
But you say,
I can't have you to myself.
So when your gone,
I write you things.
For that is what my emotion brings.
I'll fight for your love,
every single day.
Because right now,
there's no other way.
Roses are red,
Away from me he slid,
Scoffing, he told me,
"It's nothing personal, kid"
Sam Jan 2018
and here are the reasons why no one tells you to go be a third cultured person:

its not easy.

When you are one of us,
different and foreign are not even a blip on your radar,
(because my life has always been detachment - meeting and smiling and beginning to say "hi", only to have to wave goodbye.)
you will always be different and foreign, belonging to a place is a wish and not a reality, home has always meant people as opposed to a place (not that people are at all constant).
leaving is normal too, just pack your bags and go go go, doesn't matter if you never come back, onto a new place now, and goodbyes are hard -- but seldom unexpected.

when you are one of us, you are shifting and turning and never never staying, always changing and moving forward, frighteningly frighteningly fast, all impermanence and hopeful, but broken promises-- you will perhaps stay in one place for some period of time.
(you will never belong)
Äŧül Apr 2015
A three-year-old boy in Cleveland,
Himself a very young little kid,
Shot a baby dead on Sunday night.

The bullet hit in the face of the baby,
Then it was rushed to a hospital,
But was pronounced brought dead.

Who is to be blamed now?
The kid toying with the gun??
Or the irresponsible parents???

I think it is the society's fault,
Needless are the guns in homes,
Shouldn't the society repair itself?

But are the blames enough now?
Can blaming bring the baby back to life?
No. A big NO!
Very saddened by reading this appalling piece of news in today's newspaper.

Profit is to be made, agreed.
But at this cost??

Gun laws need to be made extremely stringent & strict everywhere to avoid any such incidents again in future.

Guns are needless tools of hatred.

My HP Poem #836
©Atul Kaushal
Nis Jun 2018
I remember you little kid.
You always were the first in school
even though that didn't make you really cool.
You did not care about you body,
you treated it just like another toy.

But just like this poem's rime
you became a broken toy.
Your mind so full of stars
became silent in shame
over your broken soul.

You killed yourself when we were twelve.
I was left alone.
Alone with your body
in a room
with no doors.

I tried to cry over you rotting body
but the tears wouldn't come out anymore.
We used to cry together over childish things,
but now I am alone and I feel like actually crying
yet it won't happen so I try to laugh.
We used to laugh
all
the
time
but I no longer can
for you are not here,
only your carcase is.
Only your ****** carcase.

You used to say:
"Laugh because you are sad,
cry because it'll make you happy"
and maybe I agree, so I'll remember it.

I'll remember you as if you were real.
I'll remember you as if you existed
far above the page I'm writing in,
but you don't.
Yet your body is tied to mine
rotting in this room with no doors
and I hope I can forget you once more.

It's surprising the power words have on people.
I could have tried to **** myself at 12,
but it never crossed my mind.
I tried to **** myself a couple of times,
yet here I am.
Remembering you kiddo.
Don't dig to much into it, it's kind of random.
L B Jul 2018
An early evening gust
broke the back of the day's blaze
Still 90 degrees at eight
in orange haze
Sweat runs down my neck
Through the gorge between my *******
The wind lifts my linen shirt
runs its hands along my sides
reviving memory
of Forest Park
of a blanket in the grass

Where the pines trace
so many faces
Crackling popping kids
stolen matches, running
screaming victorious!
Blowing tin cans up with fire crackers
Bicycles, sparklers, fireworks at dusk
That whole afternoon
I spent hammering caps

Noise really makes us kids
really
especially
annoying

Mom wants us out!
Gone! All of us!
No needs. No excuses!
No cookies! No slices of bologna!
“No more Kool Aid!
Out now!
Out!”

That evening I tried
to dismiss the itchy sweat
of stupid-sister-Suzy-matching-sun-suits
at Gino's family picnic
When some kid
(I don't know?)
between the rigatoni and the sweet corn
Some kid
tosses a sparkler
into box of fireworks
I don't know?
whether to cry or laugh
I was pretty scared
Rockets going off across the lawn
and onto porch
Craze of colors through the trees
Some at eye-level horror!
But the sight of Aunt Nedda
diving under picnic table
Stockings, garter belt upended
Capsized beyond her caring
of uplifted dress

Some images just stay with you, ya know?

July 4th always lands for me
on a firework's ***
"Caps"  are little red rolls of gunpowder dots, originally made to give a snap to toy guns of the 1950s.  We figured out that by layering them and using a hammer, you could get a bigger crack.
As a kid
I jumped on beds,
Ran across chairs,
And crawled under tables.

I explored jungles,
Danced with princes,
And fought in battles.

I hid in closets
And the occasional fridge.
Even under cars.

I jumped off monkey bars,
Twirled around light poles,
And chased after birds.

I raced the wind,
Climbed trees,
And gathered candy.

And now
I walk through fields,
Go around fences,
And gather berries.

I trek through puddles,
Turn around in chairs,
And chase down a cup of tea.

I hide behind books
And under covers.
Often behind a desk.

I explore archives,
Dance in clubs,
And fight for more time.

I jump on trains,
Walk down the street,
And crawl through stores.

And still today,
I feel like a kid.
A man and a woman stand in a yard
their fingertips touching slightly.
She sits between them
criss-cross-applesauce
hands in her lap
voice off
like she was taught in school.
Mom and dad have a secret.
She thinks there is a surprise waiting for her in the house.
Katherine
Katherine Anne
Katherine Anne Seymour
Katie
There is something abnormal about you
cell deep
malignant and capable of killing.
If we could take it out of you
and put it somewhere else
like a star or the highest branch
of the tallest tree
somewhere so
unreachable that we could ignore its pain
we would.
But Katie
Katherine Anne
Kitty Cat
we can't.
Forced poetry for a creative writing class.
I can
Make my CHILD learn
-
By preaching
By teaching
By giving
Knowledge of
Sharing
Caring
Loving

But...
She will not learn
by preaching
Rather
She will learn
By my ACTIONS..!!

If I don't
Share MY things
With My
Friends
Neighbours
Siblings
Cousins

She will learn NOTHING..!

I can make her
learn to share.
By making her give -
Clothes to needy
Toys in orphanage
Candies to the deprived.

But with GIVING she will
just learn to be PROUD
Rather
If she learns by seeing me SHARING
She will become HUMBLE..!!


To raise a humble kid is my priority..!!

Sparkle In Wisdom
11 Jan 2019
Inspired by a incidence I heard at friends place.. after the whole episode the first thought that struck was
What actions will the kids remember and grow on??
Daniel Ruiz Sep 2018
if you sit in my room,
and with a good angle look outside,
you'll see a plantain tree,

in the house behind that plantain tree,
lives a little kid who called me an *******
for throwing his ball back a little too hard,

behind that plantain tree,
lives a kid who has got in
a lot of fights,

a kid that has a great scar that no one can see,
that no fight or bad words can fulfill.

well,
let me rephrase that,

behind that plantain tree,
lives a 70 year old woman,
who's daughter died,
and had to raise a kid on her own.

a plantain stain it's not removable,
a plantain stain,
stays in ones clothe, and skin.

the same way tendons break,
and leaves scars on ones heart.

that plantain tree hasn't given any plantains,

but it does work for a great metaphor.
Invisible Aug 8
I know I'm growing.
I know I'm evolving.
I'm changing.
And that's not really the problem.
There actually isn't one.
It's just something I don't like.
I'm a kid.
I don't understand the real world.
And all it's problems.
I mean, that's what I'm told.
But what they don't know,
What they can't see,
Is that I do understand.
I'm a kid, but that doesn't mean,
I'm small.
That doesn't mean
I can't see past the dashboard.
I can see the causes, the effects,
I see the people.
But what I don't like,
Is when I feel like they're right.
I don't like it when I feel small.
When I can't see anything.
When I don't understand.
Because I'm just a kid.

I don't know anything.
That's what they say. Sometimes I believe it. I try very hard not to.
I don't have the experience they do. I haven't gone through what they have. But they won't go through what I will. They won't know the world that I do. Because my world is not their world. I'm not them. What they understand, is not what I understand. It never will be.
The world's different, so am I.
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