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CK Baker Mar 2017
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green

field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
in swollen grey logs

creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent  
through a failed ground rock)

brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
crack their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail

12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)

lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
Poem ~ Our garden where we would sit n laze .
Ref 023

Our garden where we would sit and laze.
Under the canopy of beautiful tree palms
Rippling waters trickling by whilst we dream

Gardens of tropical plants tended n charmed
And dollars well spent on this tropical scene
Reflections mirrored up to the sky becalmed
Did this paradise figure in our wildest dreams?
Even as loving kindred spirits were we charged
No never though our lives of years we teamed

Without a doubt we teamed to live as one.
Hoping for a life force ,greater than it seemed
Expecting that with luck our life had just begun
Real life Angel ,she was, all I would ever dream
Established early on,we would have such fun.

With plans to live forever, I fear, I was so wrong
Even the best laid plans of mice and men .

Will never stand up to be predictable
Our garden where we would sit n laze
Under the canopy of beautiful palm trees
Lagoons where we watched our charges play
Digging in the sand and giving Nana joy.

Silent now as I sit with you reflecting
I sit in pain knowing that my Darlings gone
Triggering another tear to salt my eyes

No doubt folk kindly say “just love yourself “

Love myself ? Well OK , but my darling’s gone
And in Our garden where we would sit n laze
Z zzzz Barbara oh please let me dream of you
Eternally ,sweetheart in my heart to carry you

Written by Philip.
Sunday 7th October 2018.
A memory of my Darling Wife who passed away in September
Mahnoor Kamran May 2017
I climbed slowly,
slowly on the mount of aspirations,
On        succint        savoury        dreams,
As i see the success peaking from thousand miles above.

I grip the cold stone
tighter, harder,
My passion,
my hardwork,
As i swiftly float
from    the   ground.

of laze and evil,
Reign against me,
trying to break my hold.
Yet the fire of my
Still burns

My thick woolen
coat hugs me tight,
My faith, my values,
Protecting me from
the blizzards of
jealousy, vile,
As i wind
my way

A glance
And the horrid past knocks
on the veins of my sullen heart,
Yet this soul will give up
no more.

The weary body,
driven by heraculous force,
through the steep slopes of time,
Against enormous storms and stints,
With an armour of patience,
Finds itself on dome of

of unscathed bliss,
Enamour for success,
And it's sweet sweet honey.
That slowly melts in my heart,
On top of the mountain,
Where everything is

the top,
the hardwork,
the giant path looks small,
As the heart prepares to climb,
Another                              mountain.
No goal is small. No dream is small. And neither the sacrifice and hard work involved to attain them. And dreams come in all shapes and flavours, just like the paragraphs of this poem!
Paul Butters May 2015
Ease your way
Into Sunday,
Monday’s here soon enough.
Friday’s best,
Time to rest,
The week was tough.

Boozeday Tuesday is okay
I must say
And Table Tennis Thursday ain’t bad too.
Wednesday’s fish and chips are yummy –
They fill my tummy,
Washed down with a brew.

I love Saturday sport,
Who would have thought
I’d get set in my ways?
Such is my week,
Hardly unique,
But on Sunday I laze.

Paul Butters
Written as soon as I woke....
Kale Aug 2014
My plush buddy,
Which acted as a knight,
Is ready to hug me,
When I want to fight.

My dolls and men
Which laze around all day
Come through for me
When I want to play

My insects and bands,
Which decorate the house,
Helps to scare my mom,
Like a mouse.

I love my toys,
They bring joys,
And laughter,
And playful banter.
Do not think I am creepy. This is a random poem. Hope it is a little bit good
Paul Butters Aug 2015
Season of sun and sand and sea,
Holiday time for you and me.
Daylight right ‘til ten o’clock,
Don’t forget to wear sun-block.

Sitting idly reading Keats,
Watching kids with buckets and spades;
Sparrows with their frantic tweets,
Flying high above the glades.

Oh it’s great to be so free,
No more snow or ice for me.
Even mugginess is okay,
So long as it’s warm throughout the day.

Swimming in that so cool pool,
Sure beats sweating back in school.
Summer is my favourite month,
Whoops my rhyme-scheme just went Whoomph!

Nothing rhymes with month you know,
But let’s forget about that snow.
Let’s laze instead on lawn or beach,
And keep a beer within our reach.

Paul Butters
Homage to John Keats.
Mugerwa Muzamil Feb 2018
How it felt about when she smiled
Her roses were red wine
Teeth were an iceberg in a cold sea
I didn't know she knew me more than by name
I walked head up to her in a confident laze
She always willed to lay a hand in a steamy time

Whenever she called me by my pet name
I would light up a grin
How I couldn't help her spell
How much I belied of having a way out
The more she drew close, the more I sank in
How she made seduction a white collar trade
The lavish eyes, the lazy talk, the pure feminine mien

She pat on my shoulder and turned to catch a glance
Asked what made her hands a soft pleasure
Whispered that she was schooled in pottery and making dough
I couldn't stop but ask about the flawless curves
She pushed out her lips and said  I used to spin a ring at nine

I asked her out for a movie
She said tragedies make her cry
One day I went to look down through my office windowpane
My sight met hers taking down a secret gang
With a fierce nine millimeter gun
I was left speechless in awe

We needed to rethink our revolution
On her mission in Damascus a plane crashed
I still cried a pail.
This was inspired by a mysterious beautiful lady who used to help me out at work whenever I was clueless
The sun's shining as is the rainbow;
Let's farm away where berries shall grow;
I shall put on my wintry winter shawl;
Before we welcome the red nightfall;

I shall meet thee and knock on thy door;
Then we shall dance across the moors;
Lovely hazes and hard yellow bees;
All are waiting for just I and thee;

Immortal wears his brown jacket;
With two long sleeves and one deep pocket;
I'm in my turquoise scarf and dress;
I'll bring my poetry and bird nest;

We shall witness out the chirping birds;
As we roam along the night's pale outskirts;
I'll be blended into his shy charms;
He'll be held safe against my arms;

Our utopia's in the back garden;
By a small road and a white haven;
I like its rustic tiny wild sculpture;
With some epic squares and structures;

None hath ever found this sweet place;
It is mere ours by the foliage;
Built from old oak that once went to waste;
With terrific charms that shall never age;

We shall sit by the streams of the nook;
I'll read him part of my story book;
He shall laze about and close his brown eyes;
While he says that love shall never ever die;

He shall devour his favourite candy;
Which he always has when he is with me;
Then we’ll grab chairs and joke on rooftops;
To watch birds sleep and a rabbit hop.

We shall there eat the finest of cherries;
And grab back home one row of strawberries;
Night shall descend and threat its own dusk;
It shall taunt us by its empowered mask;

And the moon shall just smell like green musk;
One that loving hearts are keen to ask;
But one still plainer than my love's;
One less striking than his jokes and laughs;

And seeing him is my comeliest provision;
Come to me again, and repeat our past visions;
Doth thou recall not, our once righteous dreams;
Which are finer than everything else may seem;

Oh my darling help me feel blessings;
Stay by my side and cheer our own utopia;
Thou, who meaneth to me more than everything;
My river, my lilac, my embroidered sonata;

I would like to age beside you;
By whom every day feels lifelike and new;
By whose side promises shall all be true;
By whose words I shall not feel blue;

I would like to die by your side;
And have you within my last sight;
By whom I shall utter my last breath;
Before I return in one happy death;

By whom I'll replace what was lost;
My cries at morn and cold midnight frost;
By whom I shall write about love and lust;
By whom I'll die and re-turn to dust.

By whom I’ll sail seas and oceans;
By whom I’ll pursue salvation;
To whom I’ll give the whole of my heart;
For whom my passion shall forever last.

By whom I'll breathe and live and die;
By whom I’ll greet nights and daylights;
With whom I'll pray to the One up high;
With whom I'll bow to Him in the sky.
Alec Dec 2017
Use me and abuse me
I love it when I’m all you see
Please be my Queen
I’ll gladly bow on my knees
Treat me like a slave
Punish me when i misbehave
Tell me that I’m nothing
While calling me at 4 am because you “want me”
Let me follow you around
I promise not to make too much sound
I want your punishment and praise
I want to wait on you hand and foot when you just want to laze.
I want you to tie me up
And tell me that I’m just your little pup
And that puppies who don’t follow the rules
And just like jesters and fools.
And need to be punished by their Queen
Until their voice is raw with screams.
Old Blue Apr 2013
When I wake up
I don't get a good morning
Or even
A hello

I get a "why didn't you turn in your library books yet?"
"Go clean your room"
"The way you're eating is disgusting"
"Look at all those horrible zits on your face"
"You're so lazy"
"Why haven't I seen [insert friend's name here] in so long?"

When I wake up
I don't get a good morning
Or even
A hello

I laze around in bed
And don't get up anytime soon
I laze around in bed
And don't get up until somewhere close to noon

You come upstairs and say, "Why are you in bed? Get up"
"You're being lazy again"
"Stop going on those stupid websites"
"Finish something for once"
"Do you have homework?"

And you wonder why I don't get up in the morning
When the welcome I receive is far less than heartwarming
Kara Rose Trojan May 2012
Friend Rockstar,
            Listen, yield to a robust think-tank,
            earlobes skidding against wheat and grain.
Terrible story, yes, what happened to that little girl.
Sterile teddy nightgowns weeping in the squad car windows.
Teacher – Teacher, do you harken my yodels for grace?
            I’ve never been maternal.
            Put the game on. Abortion.
            That’s what I’m about.
            Grab a bra. Sling some weight.
            That’s what I’m about.
Some housefly wings on a weathered corn cob.
Some downhome, homegrown twang for those fancy, fussy britches.
            Muddy workboots. Sweat-soaked collars.
            That’s what I’m about.
Him done made me read, sir.
What sacraments did we write today?
            I can still remember my first broken bone.
            I can still remember my first broken *****.
                        That could be what this is all about.
Mary, Mary, you can be contrite,
            so knife – so critter – so laze – so stalked.
    Who fertilized your seeds? Who reared your sprouts?
            Cockle shells and silver bells, honey,
            can’t grow up
            to be pretty little maids all in a row.
Sterile teddy nightgowns – green bells in gaseous gardens.
Friend Rockstar, you may have to sleep.
This restless harbor is a shivering anecdote spilled from a belly,
            a vast, deep cavern with love notes written in milk.
Your fried, stern smile was a flaking fingernail adjacent to the crack in the flowerpot.
Some garden, I say.
13 Jul 2014
Another lucrative year of waste
Sordid hours of tasteless taste
Quiet evening in stupor lay
Hung suspended in the new years day
With witty demurrals and ignorant chaste.
Posted on January 4, 2014
cacia Nov 2013
i am a determined
young man
with nothing but my
my shoulder
and my name
i envisage to race
ideasl with a face
encouragement is main
nothing would do to reign
but i never take
to be a begrudging game
there is more to
the same
more and more
with a tame
but not to filtered blame
to equal less and less
apprehension weighs
why pick up
when you base
measurement with a case.
freedom may want to laze
but i wish it to raise.
Autumn Briarhart Mar 2016
Cursed by technology
Born to be a prodigy
Roamed the earth to become well versed in ecology.
Broke the dirt with the farm hand’s anthology

Made a stony hearth from the girth of this broken land’s economy.
Pitched my yurt where the man can’t bother me.

On top of luscious greens,
In the field of dreams,
No more do I pull the weeds of society.

All my proceeds grow seeds
I don’t need deeds just look at these feats
Grab an ear of corn if you haven’t heard of me.

Burn what you don’t need,
An idea of greed, the illusion of necessity.

Brought to you by bold thieves
Who trade lives but don’t sleep
Hold banquets but don’t eat
Grow food but don’t feed.

Ripped from your roots.

Dropped on the streets
in the sweltering heat.
Drying like souls of the ******,
every last one of us lost lambs.

What they want for me, it’s not a part of me

I won’t take place in the injustice that’s been bought for me.
But what I brought for me is a hypothesis,
Tranquility so deep a Buddhist monk couldn’t offer me
More than what my coffers could proffer me.

I’m not crazy but I have started the uncoupling

That’s got me to this mental brink,
Out of this poisonous sink,
No longer do I drink- from this sea of doubt
Where the irradiated mind has its teeth pulled out.

I put my knowledge of “earthology” into this horse and plow
I raise sow in the north for truffles of course
Sell them for hundreds of dollars an ounce to chefs in New York

I make herbal oils richer than kings from thorny things and rosy beings
Contemplating the meaning of life while looking at my fig-leaves

And I will pick the fruit and share it with you
Confuse me not with a more treacherous youth
Whom only seeks to toxify you with some new indoctrinated truth
Give you some of their lead paint proof, glyphosate too.

Their cell phone hooks filling your time with
Facebook looks,
And a MySpace laze
With honeycomb glaze
There in your man-made maze
Where you don’t speak for days.

I have seen the ways good people choose bad things to happen due the deceit
Of the industry they’re tapping’
Where is the Chaplain?
He’s got this book , and his grubby hands are in the pocket of the fat man
Who takes the holy waters and turns them to black sand.

Tossing grains in the air it’s unclear “whether” we can breathe it in
With no name and no face one rigged rat race,

We look for those Rebels M.I.A.
This was a stream of consciousness that I wrote on the way to a farming apprenticeship.
Often, when I’ve escaped the strain,
The weight, the freight, burdening encumbrance
Of human society, community unleashed,
Profound distress, and a bit on the side—
I’ll contemplate
Of their judgements unknown,
Their penetrating, presumptuous eyes—
They tell me they love me, reputation irrelevant,
Trespasses, failures, habits—all disregarded,
And still I laze in my quaking of
Sleeplessness from apprehension
Pondering their thoughts obscured by their words
Heavens, a shrieking invasion!

Please don’t take that as the slightest indication
That I’m in any case a half-benevolent essence of them all
My ruminations drenched with a display of myself, my actions, my appearance
That’s proof enough that I can’t occupy a moment without me as the focal point
How can anyone be so vain
Low self-esteem shall consume my life, my breath,
And all of those thoughts,
So soon to drain...
Mankam Lau Jun 2015
Flow in a long stream,
I fall into a deep dream.
Waving smoke with rosy glow,
Lightly red the bamboo grove;
In the brilliant gloam,
I see some fire worms,
They shine, they light,
Cross the field, through the hill,
Finally sit on a farmer’s hat;
The man stumbles along the track,
Husky and a little laze,
His distant voice echoes around:
“Go back home—Go back home—”

I wake suddenly with a start,
The city lives fast still tonight,
A sea of neon, reflect in my eyes;
The world is glossy, but mine is clumsy;
I just hope, not to be shoved forward.
And the time I look back,
My hometown will just be there;
And the time I listen for,
The distant echoes will just be here:
“Go back home—Go back home—”
Linger round with no end.
F Alexis Dec 2013
Isn't it ironic, lovely ones,
How so many pretty faces
Can hide a demon's soul?

How the same eyes which bat their lashes
In flirty beckoning,
Offer a window into wickedness,
An entrance to an evil place,
That harbors evil things....

How the same lips which speak such pretty words,
And lovely falsities,
In pleasant company
Drip poison behind the safety of closed doors,
Without the courage to speak so
In the outer realm...

How the same mind which seems so wise
Can foster such horrid operations,
An assembly line of treachery
Which twists and warps that
Which really is
Into what is isn't,
For its own selfish, devilish purposes...

Isn't it odd how the world's
Cruel jokes
Have remained so timeless,
Doomed, like history,
To be repeated,
Over and over again?

"Do not judge a book by its cover," they say.

And isn't it funny how this phrase
Aims to promise some unknown good
Behind that cover,
But never entertains the possibility
Of evil behind it,

Yet it still holds true.

It is far more dangerous
To trust a pretty face not supported
By pretty words and actions,
To have faith in a glittery exterior
Without pondering the worms
Which breed underneath,
Than it is to doubt
A far less attractive cover,
Beaten, threadbare, its title worn off
By the winds of the world,
May guard a mine of diamonds within.

How foolish of us all
To take at face value
That which we see, hear, and touch.

How irresponsible
To abandon the idea and support of proof,
And let our judgment laze around,
About as useful as if it we hadn't had it at all.

I find it hard to pity those moths
Which do not examine the light
Before letting themselves fly into it.
When the static crackles,
And the glimmer flickers,
And the wings are burnt and injured,
It is too late for a second thought, then.

And as a bystander,
I cannot reach out and pull them from it.
I can call out my warnings,
My cautionary tales,
And even my proof that the light,
In all its beauty,
Harbors a special kind of evil
That they clearly cannot see,
But I must let them learn.

As much as it hurts.

I truly believe that what we put out
Into the world
Will come back to us.
Perhaps not today,
Or tomorrow,
Or anywhere
In the forseeable future ahead.
But it will return.

And though my human nature
Demands I bring order to the wicked,
Expose their evils for the world
To shudder at,
And cower away from,
It is not my job.

These forces which surround us
Bear that burden.

I, a small and staggering presence
Among billions,
Can only perform what I know it right,
And good,
And kind,
And hope that my fellow man,
Instead of drooling at the sight
Of fool's gold,
Will find a true beauty in this instead,
And choose to abandon all that deceives.

On a day which has no date,
No time,
No existence until it is ready,
Justice will come to the evil ones,
And those foolish enough to follow them.

How gloriously the wicked will fall,
Their cries ringing in ears
Which heard their sneers and cruel remarks,
Underhanded jabs and petty,
Childish words,
So many times.

Ears which will hear the music
Of that which was sown,
Being reaped
In the rays of a glorious sun.

Those untrained minds,
Which sought the disappointments
Of easy friendships
And sparkling facades,
Will fall, as well,
Regretting their decision to
Believe in the unreal,
And abandon their sense.

And I, at the end of it all,
May stand with fewer than I started with.

But, with those solid few,
Apart from the unstable masses,
I will still stand stronger
And better than I was,
And with minds like mine,
Rooted in goodness, kindness,
And grateful for the difficult journey
Which brought forth the lesson that
Examining a person's cover
Is well worth discovering what lies beneath.

Young, Wild and Free
There is no game and there is no compass
How I despise, another fall
Another diminishing glimmer in my eyes.

Brown cascading with Blue
Lips on lips,
Hips and Sips
I could like you but I don't know how.

For monogamy is a practice unknown to me
A language miles away, from where interconnectedness flies away
It's greatest fear is it's mastery, for a life lackluster at it's very seams.

Monogamy, a prized practice
Forever at its lips bidding adieu,
I would like you but I don't know how.

How do I dignify a surmise,
You're beyond deserving of more.

I like to smoke and I'm not sorry,
I like drinking until I can dance and I cannot forgive
I find my comfort in a glass of whiskey,
I find my charm breeds with corona.

You deserve more than a mickey,
You are my delicacy beyond this honey brown purity.

You should be dignified,
You should be invited to the ball and not the moshpit.

A million words and a million girls
So I cower in fear
Simmer in the millions of men

For every woman you see, there are a million men for me.
I cascade in this, I comfort in the crowd.
I find comfort in daydreams, ripping seams, lips

Distance is my mechanism,
Hope is abundance
I want nothing but your gaze,
But to save my soul with a simple graze,
I seek comfort in the crowd.

I'm lazy,
I've grown lazy with indecision,
A indecision that has bred on fear,
A crippling, cold, vindictive tar suffocating all reason.
Horror lulled me into laze, and now I await
I await a love that consumes me

But how may a love come to me when I stay begging
Begging by a bottle, holding comfort in the crowd.

I seek comfort in the crowd, but the crowd does not fulfil me.
The crowd is a youth, it is not a lifetime.
I seek comfort in the crowd, but the crowd cannot seek comfort in me.
Julie Grenness Mar 2016
Now, it's our time to  laze,
We've reached our Autumn days,
Chilling air, smoky haze,
Russet and brown, golden days,
Leaves descending,
Time for sweeping,
Bulbs for planting,
We head for dormancy,
Grey skies, no more sunnies,
Heating on, fleecies adorn,
Every day, a nippy morn,
Winter warmth already?
Yes, comfort food keeps us steady.....
Now it's our  time to laze,
These are our Autumn days.........
Feedback welcome.
BL Jul 2018
Nobody helped him as he struggled
Their eyes watched as he tried to insert the card
He wore his clothes with dignity
But what they saw was someone poor and lowly

Beads of sweat started to form on his forehead
The line behind him started to grow longer than before
Judgement met his gaze
While the security officer just stood there with laze

“What’s happening” they ask indirectly
He turned around to seek for assistance
But the crowd’s eyes ignored his plea
For the man who asked for help looked *****

What has become of the society?
What happened to everyone’s compassion and sincerity?
But then again,
Who am I to ask such words about  kindness?
When I too, was guilty as charged,
For I didn’t help the man when he struggled with his card

© 2018 B.L.
All Rights Reserved.
I would love to hear your opinions about this poem.
there was a little pony he just loved to laze
roaming round the field  he just loved to graze
one day when he  was chewing on the grass so high
in between the grass he heard a little cry
there he saw a mouse the poor chap was stuck
he had trapped his leg somewhere in the muck
dont worry said the pony i know the thing to do
i will dig the soil away and free your leg for you
the pony  dug away till the mouse free
digging  very fast as quickly as can be
now the mouse was free and he said goodbye
the pony watched him walk away in the grass so high.
Waverly Aug 2012
the drive took longer
than expected.

I was just going to the store
for four dollar whiskey.

We have argued for some time now,
and hold our breaths
when we crunch our food
in the morning.

We work: 9-5; and come home to laze
away from each other,
or to roar
about unkept promises
in the shared den;

We work: 9-5; and come home to laze;
to glisten in the beedled glow
of TVs
in separate rooms,
on separate couches,
on separate floors.

I have faltered,
and you have quoted.

I needed to get out of the house
because we have worked too hard
to shake it;
and screaming is a discomfort
we can bare
and that's no good
I've realized lately.

And the highway,
with its litany of bruises
and the brutality of a billion
dandelion reflectors
seemed like a blackening pavilion
for catharsis.

There  was no one beside me;
the roadway pummeled

It was a terrible silence.

I screamed in the ***** odor of night,
and whistled
in the hushing door;

paid for my little bottle of godliness
and took hard swigs
in a ****-laundered parking lot
of an abandoned Food Lion.

Crabgress crept up through the concrete--
breaking and burdening--
and drifted in suffocating meadows.

The empty grocery store has an opaque facade
and a shimmering tiny lion;
I am home.
Jordan Iwakiri Nov 2011
All the pretty birds
perched on leafy branches
chirp to the waking morning,
“I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?”

And the puppy dogs
all starve for something
While the cats of fortune
laze about the alleyways.
But the pretty birds
all the morning long,
“I am here. Where are you?”

The tardy businessmen
and their non-fat lattes
squirm in BMWs,
Honking at traffic
with the most colorful swears,
“I am here! I am here!
I am here! I am mad! I am here!”

High-octane housewives
power walk the parks,
Gabbing. And the old folks
tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks,
Mumble to long gone loved ones,
“Where are you? Where are you?
Where am I? Where are you?”

But those ****** birds-
Those pretty, ******, little birds-
They have it figured out.
They know the secrets
to Happiness:
‘I am here.
Where are you?’
Hank Helman Dec 2015
It was her father’s fault of course,
He had cared for her too much.

He’d tendered love as a comfort
A cure,
His affection an antidote,
And she believed him and came to  
Depend on its sway.

He, her father, was a generous man with no money.
Well-educated and unwilling,
He refused to convert
And enlist as a worshiper of things.

How can you spend your life alone in a car, he asked.
Days, weeks, months trapped in solitary confinement,
Commute used to mean benefiting from a lesser sentence, he told her,

A judge would give you credit for picking up litter,
Or apologizing to your primary school teachers
For all the terrible things you'd done,
Then a month off your jail time, he explained,
His palms up, his shoulders in a shrug.

Now look at our roads, he said,
Everyone round shouldered and condemned,
In a cage, stones for eyes, barely breathing.

On the tram I meet people, I love the public square,
We are meant to mingle he said,
We need each other to make a life.

And so when her mother died,
Unexpected and sudden, what death isn’t really,
He took on simple work close to home.
He wanted her to know he was near, that’s all.

He understood the comfort young children find in
The literal sense of things and so,
He sat with her through every lunch hour and,
They ate soup and sandwiches together each day.

This saved her mind.
She knew that  now.

He, her father, was a chronic enabler of love.
In the fall they would laze on a park bench,
Yellow birch leaves like fashion stickers all over her rain boots,
And chat quietly as they tossed unfrozen frozen peas on to the pigeons.

On these afternoons he retold her stories about her mother,
His childhood, her grandparents and
The hard times,
When even a nickel could ignite the most outlandish of dreams.
Can you imagine, he would say,
Only five cents and we all thought our luck had finally changed.

He was an explainer and a tolerant,
He told her the sun rose up each day
Only to search for one new idea and that
She had a magnificent brain and
One day it would be her idea the sun would shine bright on.

He told her the purpose of her life,
Everyone’s life,
Was to think pure thoughts,
Small decisions that would help save the world, he said,
Contributions often so small no one might notice,
But each one would make a difference.

He said science called this the butterfly effect,
She loved the name.

He was thoughtful and fair
And so everything he stood for was impossible to duplicate.

He never forgot her birthday,

The dolls came in battered boxes
With crumpled corners and broken plastic windows.
Weathered cardboard coffins,
With magic marker scribbled on the back,
Gruff autographs like ‘return to vendor’ or ‘write-off,’
Words she paid no attention to,
Even when she began to understand what words can mean.

Her birthday cake- always a single slice never a round,
She had never seen her name in icing,
But why would that matter,
When she could wake up early in late November
And see all three of her names in elaborate calligraphy,
Etched into the frost of the front room windows
For every passerby to see

His all saint’s grin,
He told her every day of her life
That he saved the first smile of each day for her,
A smile he hid in his pocket, or under her pillow, behind her ear.

Her kingdom for a year was two card board castles in the living room,
Where, with official pageantry, (her father had a scroll),
She was crowned the Grand Duchess of Washer and Dryer,
Her word was law for the day.

He surrounded her palace,
With brightly coloured bowls and
Casserole dishes filled with water,
A protective moat into which he placed plastic animals,
Whereby he proclaimed in a court room voice,
All would become flying horses and loyal dragons
If danger ever dared to mock and threaten.

So when he died she was ready.
She wasn’t,
But as an adult she told everyone she was.

After the funeral she dressed the same,
She ate, she worked,
She offered her ****** Mary smile generously to small children,
She said please and thank-you in a clear voice,
And gave a dollar to every street person she could find.

She was near him when he passed.
She understood the comfort old men find
In the literal sense of things,
And for weeks she slept shotgun
In the chair by his bed.
She wanted to be near, that's all, and
She fed him soup, no sandwich, every day.

We all die he told her only moments before his turn.
Our only calm is our end, he said in a whisper as weak as
Mormon tea.
Do not regret, he cautioned her,
My life was mad and complete, he promised,
You were my good idea and the sun rewarded me,
He said in a voice so soft
She wanted to lay her head on it and drift away.
Then he smiled his first smile of the day,
Pressed a plastic dragon into her hand,
And withdrew.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Yesterday she was nowhere to be found
In the earth or under the earth.

Suddenly she is all here - a bright soon
Of a tomorrow in earnest and potluck joy, embers and pyres, iris and the merriment of ochre.

A star groomed by outer space - spilling wet ash
And fissured out by the tailored saw of the wood.
Now something is stirring in the smolder.
We call it a girl.

Still wowed.
She has no idea where she is.

Her eyes, chalcedony stones, explore ripening doomsday and an ivory moon rock.
Is this the world?
It confuses her. It is a great numbness.

She pulls herself together, rousing to the new weight of things
And to that maternal figure nuzzling her, and to her down burrow.

She rests
From the first infinite shock of light, the empty laze
Of the curious and their curious questions -
What has happened? What am I?

Her ears keep on inquiring, blissfully.

But her legs are impatient,
Mending from so long nothingnesses
Her tiny hands are restless with ideas, they start to try a few out,
Swaying this way and that,
Grasping for balance, learning fast -

And she's suddenly upright

And stretching - a giant hand
Strokes her from top to toe
Perfecting her outline, as she tightens
The knot of herself.
Now she comes to -
Bold, beautiful - Argentina
Over the weird world. Her nose
crimson and magnetic, draws her, consciously sounding,
A petite yaff, aimed towards her mother. And the world is warm
And gentle and softens her daze. Touch by touch
Everything fits her together.

Soon she'll almost be a woman.
She wants to be a Woman,
Pretending each day more and more Woman
Till she's the perfect Woman. The immortal Woman
Will surge through her, weightless, unbound, a twirling flame
Beneath silver gusts,

It will coil her eyeballs and her heels
In a single outlaw fright - like the awe
Between mortar and firework.

And curve her neck, like a crocodile emerging from the placid pond
Among lilies,
And fling the new moons over her shimmery banner,
All the full moons and the dark moons.
Booming, ineffable delight.
Hugo Feb 2020
Invite me to a masquerade held in a large hall
Most guests would be in suits, those you can see
Almost all are dark males, all quite are tall
All can't dance , because all of them are me

Few in this hall are some of my peers
One of me in a mask basks in their wonder
To them this mask is wise,and one without fear
The face behind though is foolish a coward and a blunder

Few in this hall are some of my enemies
One of me in a mask delights in their distaste
To them this mask promises violence with energy
Behind is the face of exhaustion and no anger to trace

Few in this hall are some of my mentors
One of me in a mask  indulges in their praise
To them this mask is one of potential and future
Beneath lies the face marred by failure and laze

Few in this hall are some past lovers
One of me in a mask savors their longing
To them this mask is a story with a knight and a tower
But beneath Is the face of a lier gifted with talking

Few in this hall are my fellow Christians
One of me in a mask flaunts his humility
To them this mask is of true religious commissions
The face behind long faced spiritual sterility

The last in this hall are my family
I face them with half a mask of strength
To them the strong half mask, and the true half face of apathy
The half mask hides a face exhausted with it's life's long length
Honestly I'm not even sure if this counts as a poem😁
Jackie Mead May 2018
I'm not in a rush to leave this place.
I'm in no hurry, it's not a race.

I'd like to take it real slow.
So many stunning  places to go.

I want to travel far and wide.
See much more of the English countryside.

Beautiful beaches that surround us in Cornwall and Devon, remind us we live  in our own corner of Heaven.

Mystical places with tales of legends to tell.
So much to do and see, I'll do my best to make it sell.

Tintagel such a mystic place, where legend has it King Arthur had his chair.
He had a roundtable it held many Knights, all ready to defend, always ready for a fight.

In York a Viking museum to tell how they came upon our shores, with longboats, a 60 man crew, paddled with their oars.

Bath has the best Roman baths to be found, laze and spoil yourself in the steam rooms built in Roman surrounds.

In Wales, there's Snowdonia for you to climb, or the less active can take a train ride.
A castle in Caernarfon where Princes are appointed by H M The Queen, the sword on the shoulder duly declares arise HRH Prince of Wales, the crowd are waiting for the new Prince to be seen.

In Scotland there's Edinburgh with a castle tall and round sits atop a very high mound.
The lowlands and the Highlands are a sight of well known beauty, driving around the lochs at night keep your eyes open for a monstrous sight, nessie fact or fiction,

Of course there are the lakes of England too, Windermere the largest draws the biggest crowd. Find a cottage out of sight, snuggle up with a loved one, cuddle tight.
Put on your water skis, hire a boat, sail your wind surfing board, fire up your jet ski any of these activities can be fun and available to be done, daily.

The Cotswolds, for take your breath away beauty, small villages, luscious village greens, cricket playing in the field, Large Houses, Lord of the Manors, old worldly pubs, thatched pubs and rivers waiting to be seen.

There are Dartmoor, Bodmin Moor and Exmoor too, Peak District, Lake District mountain ranges, many a zoo.

I'm not in a rush to leave this place.
I'm in no hurry, it's not a race.

I'd like to take it real slow.
So many stunning  places to go.

So much to do, so much to see.
On your doorstep, no need to stray.
Whatever you do, wherever you go, have a happy holiday.
The sun is out, its a beautiful day and no other place I would rather be   I hope you enjoy and it doesn't sound too much like a travel board announcement.
J Sep 2011
Ode to the good old days 

When we did things in such simple ways

We could laze and sit around for days

And pass time through and through

Not so quite like modern days

With flashing lights and cloudy haze

No, not at all like modern days

With all the work to do


In a year or two or three or more

A thought comes knocking 'round your door,

A thought that strikes you to your core

And brings you hope anew

For the good old days are in the past

And we all know that it can't last

But soon to join these days, too fast

Will be today, so dull and blue

It never really takes too long

The present joins the past's sweet song

You'll soon forget all that was wrong 

And treasure it all, in time
Marley ONeill Feb 2010
Someday I shall dwell
In a townhouse by the square
Surrounded by a picket fence
Which guards yellow daffodils
The color of butter, the scent of cheer.
A strip of the town shall be laid
In cobblestone, each side of the road
Embellished with tall, San Francisco buildings
Each its own, and each a new hue.
In the morning I will wake
The same time as the sun
And amble down the seashore
Discerning every seafull, eyeing every seashell,
I shall smile as the wet sand
Squelches through my toes
And the tide comes in,
For I will be happy.
In the afternoons, I’ll laze about,
Meet a friend for coffee,
I shall linger at the bay where the ferries come in
Smell the salt as it spritzes my skin.
There will be a cheerful man on Mondays
Who pushes a white cart up and down streets
Wielding balloons of every color
For giggly children, hands covered in lollipop residue.
I shall smile at night
When the moon rules the sky
And gleams through my window,
For I will be happy.
there was a little pony he just loved to laze
roaming round the field  he just loved to graze
one day when he  was chewing on the grass so high
in between the grass he heard a little cry
there he saw a mouse the poor chap was stuck
he had trapped his leg somewhere in the muck
dont worry said the pony i know the thing to do
i will dig the soil away and free your leg for you
the pony  dug away till the mouse free
digging  very fast as quickly as can be
now the mouse was free and he said goodbye
the pony watched him walk away in the grass so high.
Pinkmoon May 2021
Her golden fingers
weave across my
cotton candy hair.

With my eyes closed
I let her kiss my face.
"Drink me in," she says
"for I am fleeting."

I laze as long as I dare
listening to the rituals,
The wave of notes and
flutter of wings around me.

I am the decay. I am the human.
Yet, Spring and her sprites
Is there nothing better than warm sun on your skin in the spring?
Joseph Perales Jan 2011
I feel the summer on my skin
as I laze about in lush grass
my closed eyes colored pink
I lay and feel the the clouds pass

I open my eyes to see a silhouette
the sun masking her face from view
yet I could tell she was familiar
someone that I already knew

moreover some one I loved
quite deeply and quite whole
I could feel her smiling eyes
I could hear her shining soul

she leaned herself toward me
using my arm for a bit of brace
her soft hand upon my skin
was enough to cause my heart to race

she leans herself  in closer
still in her angelic eclipse
electricity rushed inside me
I feel my pulse inside my lips

our lips meet in slow suspension
in that moment love is concentrated
this feeling rushes to flood my heart,
our lips softly separate, I'm elated.
This poem was based on this "the summer on my skin, as I sit on the soft grass, a figure approaches from the sun light. I can't see who she is, but I know I love her. She grabs my forearm to steady herself as she leans in for a kiss. I feel all the blood, and electricity, run into my lips, then flood back into my heart, I'm elated " A little rant of romanticism I made while talking to a friend. I almost posted it as a free form poem rather than this. I don't know which one I like more.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
i do remember the scorn your encountered by the next of kin, for not having memorised the alphabet, to some stupid degree of accuracy, fetish of the french i call it... why not put all the vowels first and all the consonants after? so why care for the diabolical aristocratic monopoly on these symbols, having to cite a, b, c, d, e, f, g... rather than a, e, i, o, u, b, c? idiots! or should i say... ***** *******?*

i see friendship as a two tier system,
a friend allows you
to forget your reflective nature,
spelled out in the affirmative (
not compounded): your self...
but allows you the medium
they know you by, in a sense
the reflexive nature, spelled out
in affirmation: yourself.
the reflective nature of things stands
in unison with all the things
required: photosynthesis for example...
god still remains a complexity of language,
or how far language can complicate
matters so that no horrid activity can
fester... god is a word presiding over
the complication of the expression
of language, everything else is dumb-struck
deity orientation where we can laze
for an eternity: drunk, or gluttonous
or otherwise... but find me a drunkard who
composes on the additive? how many
drunk and therefore violent fathers
have crossed the threshold with drink
but wrote no single poem by medicating
on alcohol as an active sedative?
and how many partied on other drugs?
and dumb things drinking, while
the legislators caste in shadow of neither
vishnu blue, scandinavian bleach
hair and ivory skin or the african with
chocolate and auburn and short tailing-off
of curls turned to scorched frizzle of afro...
where among them the true identity of legislators?
nowhere... the masked identity to involve
a hidden tidal wave of the many,
later disrupted by a collective-consciousness
that democracy is, preceding jung's theory
of the collective-unconscious,
democracy is not carl jung... but it's its chiral
composite pair...
so friendship is the allowance of the self in reflex
akin to knee jerking or heart peeping into
rhythms escaping a finality / banality of
the measure of stone of standing still...
there is no friendship when the self disengages
from its reflexive naturalisation into social
circumstance (spelled yourself),
and engages in the reflective naturalisation
into anti-social circumstance of
body tiniest like among jupiter moon alaska
and all other shares of size (spelled your self)...
so then the inverse numerology:
C, one hundred... there is no T unless it be
the time concerned suffering on a crucifix...
but then there's the XI... eleven...
turn numerology on its head...
peer into something abstract associated
with the twinning of words, words twinned
to a bare minimum... so akin in misguided
uses as to appear so akin as to be readily
misused, upon the matter of twinned-pronunciation
without a necessary dichotomy that's already
there, for the optics dare not like,
but the tongue makes a porridge of the sound
then usurps the twinned sounds to opposing
spelling that the optics finds appealing.
Kate Lion Jan 2013
you are my biggest sin
rolled into one
simply because i want to be the one that decides your fate
want to shove all this poetry into your face when you reach the pearly gates
make you read about the greed that overcame me when i realized that you are all i want and all of you is something i will always be envious of in the arms of another girl
i want to laze in your gaze forever- is it prideful of me to think i am deserving of this, your kiss and the way your voice carries through the darkness when we sit in an empty parking lot with nothing but our words touching, the sentences rolling into each other and tumbling in perfect rhythm like a slinky down the staircase is it wrong of me? to have the need to stuff myself till i'm full of the million and a half things i will never be able to choke down and handle and that's why you are no good for me but i still delight in indulging in you anyway
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
tailing off / trailing off poetry, or signature poetry prior sleep
is usually filled with too many prepositions,
and by being filled with too many prepositions
the prepositions tend to be repetitively used;
nonetheless, a study of language is provided,
not everyday you get to see language
in such quanta; yes, quanta, because
physicists will not get away with smartphones
by mystifying words with all those theories
in the subconscious working on the word idiot
consciously in argument with an antagonist;
well it would be hard not to express mystification
of a word in the standard vocabulary package
of conversation, without having so much quanta quarks
stork butter and curd cheese to mash up:
for a thrill in the trill... yar yarn pi's randomised counting rates.
because not everything you read is technically
within the framework of an addressee, or read aloud,
and no one wants to read **** like a bog standard
newsreader prompt on auto-queue of flimsy pages of lies:
i mean, it happened on a monday, but not a joycean monday,
it was 4pm, one gun shot was heard a minute prior,
but then jules anno domini came along and said: stern!
make the eyes stern! then gregory the pauper of paupers
said: it was actually 9am and the gun shot was heard a minute after:
but still the man at the market shouted: '*** yer bahnanas,
toe fo' 'un, *** yer bahnanas - toe quid bunches fowl's worth!'
yes, the h in english is an elongation "umlaut,"
now say it *****, say it *****: bahamas.*

most people wash their faces in the morning
for the eager 9 o'clock slap of reality
for the bossy 8 hour toothpaste feel
on the vertical, without the whips and chains;
i only wash my eyes, knowing that
i'll probably "say" something *****
but see all too squeaky;
then i fuse a hangover with a bit of alcohol
to ensure the hangover stays longer
and feels like the previous night's binge;
we apache and aboriginal down here,
we don't ask for cruise shipments of thoughts
on the sunny side of starboard with the pensioners
under blankets of deceit.

so the first time they tried to **** me was
in a hospital cot,
the nurse almost suffocated me, gave me a heart
condition, fearing the monster with the chernobyl

the second time it was my childhood companion
conrad, who pushed me into a deep dark well
but having clung to the edges i managed to not fall
and climb out, conrad's mother was there too
(sunlight in a sugar crystal, or the punkin for a
pumpkin in canto xii from chicago breezy,
now the poem, reflected with the pumpkin in mind,
or that rowntree pastille twinkle of bleached tooth
and thumbs in thumbs up the ****
for things sold with audacity past the use-by-date;
cold-air balloons nearing titanic!).

the third time? south american poison, brain damage,
the entire prompt for my writing expedition
into ***** wonka's factory of candy tooth smiles.

or as i say of darwinism with relief: am i watching
the athletics or am i simply watching a chemistry experiment?
shouldn't it be called anabolics instead?
a needle to the puzzle muscles of aesthetics without
greek ship oar, *** horse reins, the scythe of wheat,
and we turn protein into carbon dioxide covered
by some plastic surgery on the sheen of lost wrinkles
in balloons on film - well obviously - given the tractor
and the aerodynamic future of fifty hundred different
speed mechanisms - the lax and laze of the populace
requires constant intellectual stimulation:
the 100m record was downsized from 10.5 to 9.5seconds
over the past twenty years, the mob rule is?
talk talk talk.
Ari L Mar 2016
Standing here, in 90-degree land
Where nothing is right
But the drink in my hand

Sweet saving coolness, fine eastern breeze!
I welcome thee warmly,
I welcome you, please

Stand fans may blow this languor away,
But I cannot stand
These bills I must pay

Summer is hot on my heels as I run
Through prickly white sands
– and the daydream is gone

In thick sticky air, seconds trickle and crawl
As sweat from my temples
To the sides of my jaw

The sun's got a fever and my blood could be boiling
I laze inch by inch though my insides are roiling
To be productive in this haze – this hell of a heatwave
But instead I'm in bed, just rotting and spoiling
For the tropical summer I'm melting in, right now. )-:
Michael Hoffman Jan 2012

One day I found all the important poets -
Shakespeare, Bukowski, Dickinson and Rilke
partying in the park drinking Coronas,
feeding pigeons on the green.

Astonished I queried,
"You are all my thought heroes, and yet you laze about.
"Shouldn’t you be writing something famous?"
And they erupted in a literate cacophony of guffaws,
their eyes tearing,
their cheeks shining red with mirth.

Shakespeare turned to me and said,
"Forget it kid !
Meter, metaphor, rhythm and rhyme -
it’s all just groundlessness.
All the adjectives in the world divined just so
only lead to a place in your heart
you’ll never really understand anyway.
It’s simply a mystery, ineffable."

Bukowski tried to ask Rilke about the letters
he'd written to that frustrated young poet,
but he was so drunk on cooking sherry
he could only mumble, gesticulate and grin.

And then sweet Emily said,
"Yes. William is right.
Rainer Marie tried to explain it.
Charles tried to drink into it,
yet it remains the glass bead game -
ungraspable by dearest turn of phrase.
So we have decided to put down our pens
and take a breather."

She quietly handed me the bag of crumbs,
suggesting I toss a few here and there
for the pigeon's lollygagging by.......
"They're hungry, the simple little dears," she said.

— The End —