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Vivian Mar 2014
he's
tripping, but not
coerced by gravity;
rather a Molotov cocktail of
endorphins lobbed straight at his
prefrontal cortex.
some find this
distasteful,
some find it
deplorable;
god help me,
I find it adorable.
(it's the only time he'll
admit he loves me)
Dave Gledhill Jul 2015
The pen, they say, is mightier,
but is it keener than a knife?
This brittle blade of insolence,
unleashed to lash at life.

'Yeah, innit, Bruv, he got right up in my face,
cos my phone was out in lesson time
and he called me a disgrace.
Like, so, whatever, mate,
I told him where to go,
trying to tell me English,
while I'm textin' my new ***.'

The pen is not mightier,
it is tarnished and obtuse,
a vision of a different age,
wrought blind from its misuse.

Its sapling song of innocence,
split south across the grain
and cast across the classroom,
yanked up and lobbed again.

'Do you get me, Blood?
He was pointing at a seat,
expectin' ME to sit there,
as if it were a treat.
I told him where to stick it
and called him out a clown,
I **** this one-way death pit
as I'm walkin' round and round.'

The pen should still be mighty
and not a strangled stream,
that's crawling up an incline,
like an M. C. Escher dream.

Its muddy banks lie dormant,
both acorn and an oak.

'Cut that ****, you KEENO,
let's ******* for a smoke.'
Emily Pidduck Apr 2014
1937

bushido invasion
memory still vivid in the Chinese
of a slaughter
prisoners
chopped and lobbed into the river
display their heads
let the next line kiss the remains
but the time is ticking
and the water is only pink
prisoners
mowed down
with bullets
and laughter
they can turn and swim
Japanese aim is good
not one makes it to the other side
the pink
is a deep red flood
becoming a dam
with the bodies of
children
ladies
gentlemen

why did those murdered forget
the purple mountain legend
when it burns
the city falls
why did they not flee faster

the policy issued
plunder
burn
******
do not let that little boy
take revenge
5 years old
they severed him

Japanese leaders saw a chance
to remove any pity
in the solider
they ripped out
humanity
inserted
brutality

training exercise
hoist your bayonet
plunge forward
twist
extract
plunge
twist
extract
men with bound wrists
considered subhuman
butchered
plunge
twist
spit

routine puts soldiers at a disadvantage
fire is added
fields are swamped with oil
and laced with people
patrolled edges
keep the cries alive
the only release
death

movement is needed
tanks must pass
chatting soldiers hang out the sides
wheels roll over the bodies
filling the ditches
carcasses
and
wounded
if there is not enough
they found the closest Chinese
and added it to the pile

competition
2 leaders
in a fight to show superiority
uptake a challenge
to win is 100
swords are withdrawn
ignore its' eyes
the race
a beheading
lost count
up the stakes
150

only the beginning
for the women

a hunt commences
females do not leave the house
there is not one in the streets
rounded up
army trucks
bringing in loads
******* like animals
chained to racks
*****
commonly gang-*****
bleeding to death
aged under 8
over 80
a pregnant women
***** to death
her fetus cut out
and destroyed
encouragement
from higher ups

and the advice given
pikankan is acceptable
every warrior should
do not let them talk
**** the pigs
when they are done being women

more than 20,000
maybe less than 80,000
defiled
in the carnage

journalist support
with authentic recounts

but with time
confused hospitalization
of the soldiers
who puked every meal
and gagged from inside out
as the horrors ate them

the only relief
an international safety zone
perhaps 20 Westerners
to help a mere 300,000
only half
at intervals
Japanese crossed the fence
for the women hunt
for Chinese soldiers
recognized by calloused hands

irony
******* on a Westerner arm
a symbol
as he aided
survivors of the massacre
and the Nazis in Nanking
aghast
leaked information
on the horrors
and
****** ordered silence

a single surgeon
a lucky boy with only one bayonet puncture
another
missing eyes
missing ears
half a nose from
100 tied together
set on fire

Japanese photography
of bonding moments
as they watched
a house packed tight
panicked people on roofs
to escape flames
jumping

6-8 weeks later

more refined brutality
enforced prostitution
and intake of *****
****** cigarettes for children

the West
in ignorance
watched the German rise
forgot responsibility
to humanity
in the Asian wars

no apology
denial
unfair hatred
of later innocent Japanese generations
mention of Hiroshima
amuses some Chinese
doesn't bother others
it's not everyone
that's still too many

lacking sympathy
the road to brutality
lingers
Horrifying and saddening, considered by many to be on par with the genocide of the Jews in brutality. If there are any deep questions please message me, otherwise comments are fine. Anything confusing, just ask. Please do not take offensively, I believe most of what I have said is fact, not interpretation.
Obadiah Grey Sep 2010
Remember when bullets bounced off our chests;
when a goose steppin hoard o' mad men held no sway,
thick eyebrowed men plotted plans hunkered in bunkers,
But we could lick the likes of Adolf
-- any day


Remember when bullets bounced off our chests;
when the Ayatollah lobbed fatwas at our ****,
we could raise a middle digit - to the Eejit.
coz Rushdie was quite cusdie
-- what a farce.

Remember when bullets bounced off our chests;
Al Qaeda n the cowards planted bombs.
bin laden poked the eye of big bald eagle
was it legal; when he brought it home
-- to moms.

Remember when bullets bounced off our chests???
Obadiah Grey Dec 2010
Whatchyaneed


God didn't give me a soul;
just lobbed me a baked bean tin
with something rattling inside,
said, "there ya go young un---
make do with that"-- so I did;

think it maybe a con job though,
the rattling thing must be getting soggy,
because it's stopped making noise.
Anyway I got curious; like you do,
bought myself a can opener and took a peek,

Discovered God must be a comedian
because there was a conker inside--
although beans on toast is my favourite meal,
and Conkers--------
my bestest game ever.
LD Goodwin Sep 2013
There are no little wars,
no little death or destruction.
No little event
filled with lies, deceit, and corruption

There are no good wars,
not for those affected.
The dead, dying, and homeless,
the shell shocked left afflicted.

There are no little lover's spats,
although they all appear to be.
Devastating battles, ego verses ego,
with no one ever set free.

Poised with a finger on the button,
thinking either one has weapons of mass destruction.
They find the ***** in each others armor,
and give their esteems a sharp reduction

Should I stay or should I leave here?
That, is always the question.
Either way the sun will rise
on a battlefield of tension.

And what of million dollar missiles
lobbed upon a question,
while Detroit looks like a warzone,
sorely in need of reconstruction?

*I had a fight with my wife, I wanted to leave. But my battle isn't with her, it's within me.
Should we attack Syria, or should we take that money to rebuild this great nation?
Harrogate, TN September 2013
A metallic flash of crushing energy and voracious sound exploded through the facade of the Union Station. The sleek classical columns and Constantinian Archways crumbled into a zephyr of advancing smoke and billows of dust. It was like watching the collapse of Sampson after a haircut at Delilah's.

A flash of light
and thunderous sound
knocked all the people
to the ground

chunks and bits
of concrete flew
the Union Station
in a whiff just blew

apart into pieces
dust and jagged glass
nothing withstood
the tumult of the blast

scattered and broken
in desolation lives ended
innocents slaughtered
dreams suspended

what vexed and angry force
could light this terrible torch?
crumbling arches tearing keystones
this iconoclastic scorch

a sickness you say
of body, mind and spirit
too aggrieved and resentful
derangement gets the credit

ghostly shadow's gather
specters of force and might
pervasive threats devastate
some will not return home this night

happenstance of time
fickleness of fate
strange coincidentals
all pass through this gate

Who set this fuse?
who lit the torch?
that blew apart
our country's heart

a mind of ugly sickness
and a soul full of pain
a heart bent on malice
the definition of insane

does the culprit stand in glee
at the carnage of this act
does that type feel anything
for this murderous attack?

What profit them
from the agony of terror
holding our imagination hostage
only compensates the bearer

Before this dreadful perversity
all sat well in the land of plenty
freedoms serenity guaranteed
citizens crowned with sanctioned liberty

but the evil doers hate us
for our beliefs and what we have
this heinous deed of mayhem
alone shall make them glad

whoever lit this fuse
and lobbed this bomb
rest assured ****** terrorists
we'll place you in your tomb

The sirens blared throughout the plaza of the station littered with debris.

"*******. *******."

"What happened?"

"Whaaa"

Sirens blared.

Cries lifted up to the Lord. Moans and groans of incomprehensible injury were uttered.

"Where is she?"

"Donna!!"

A young cop came running from across the street. Unable to comprehend what he was witnessing looked on with shock and awe overwhelmed at the extent of the damage. He stood astride a dust covered cabbage patch doll. He kicked it aside.

"Jesus Christ." he gulped.

"What happened.?"

Boom Boom!!!!!!!!!!!

Indeed, what happened?

John Lee ******
Boom, Boom

Washington DC
8/2/09
jbm
Emily Pidduck Dec 2013
I see flashbacks, in my sunken cheeks.
I know how it began - I drowned in five, bottomless addictions.
The first one was a man.

Entranced within his holding gaze,
I strove to please his whims
But it echoed loud, deep inside
You're not good enough
Never good enough
You must be drowning him

So I searched, and found
my deepest flaw,
the first that I must change.
I grew hollow and raw,
and I rattled of pills
the only way to keep me thin.
But he has friends. Many more than you.
They find you dreary and unsociable
Try harder, you act pathetic.
You need to be more lovable.

I went to crashers, and to think,
I'd lick up drinks, for all the laughter.
I was ****, and wild..and they called me ****.
but I had many more admirers.
I thought I was close, so near to worth,
to stand beside his side.
But still I held too tightly,
to that spiteful word virginity.

So I threw it far.
It was so far gone, I barely remember what I did.
There were walls and halls
and bathroom stalls.
Mirrors and paint
and viewers.
And of all that we tried, I hated most that I shared you.
And that happened twice, and turned to thrice, and I knew.
I was still missing what you needed.
But I can't bother him some more.
And so, I bled instead, to self-assure
I still had more, to give.

I made certain, I wouldn't embarrass you in terms of ***.
I cut my arms, and not my thighs.
So I could still drop skirts.
And it worked, I satisfied,
you found me more alluring.
With shirt on top,
nothing below
you claimed 'this *****'
made me glow.
Oh, I was tossed, to and fro.
And my five held me in chains.
At night, my eyes would weep
I didn't recognize my pain.

Then just one time,
I wondered why.
Why did your descending lips
look like fangs and broken dreams?

And all the rage between the seams
pounded my head, I doubled bent.
Before me eyes, parading round
I saw the five, their cold, dead lies,
I gaped and sobbed, collapsed and lobbed
words of hate and eureka.

These were my drugs
I'd made my own
I hid myself, as each part died.
And I buried them inside.

Finally, only whispers.

You can't be good enough now.

Was that love?

Did you love yourself?

                ~~~


Months passed, and only one whisper left.





*Live.                That's good enough
This is roughly worded. Still, I wanted everything to be clear, this happens.
SøułSurvivør Apr 2016
"I never made a mistake in my life.
I thought I did once, but I was wrong."

Charles M Shulz


There was once a greenhouse
Built so strong and high
The architect a genius
And built it to the sky

There was an imperfect one
Standing at the pane
The maker of the edifice
Thought she should be shamed

So he found a polished stone
Just the perfect size
He lobbed it with tremendous force
Got glass in HIS eyes!

There are *some
who're perfect
Mighty, strong, and hale
This is their tragic error

And they should not chuck SHALE!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/5/2016
"Let him who is without sin cast the first
Stone at her..." JESUS CHRIST

I very seldom put a "shine" on my own poetry. But this one MUST BE READ.

I can't really read today. Tomorrow I will have my own Wi-Fi and will concentrate on reading, God willing and the crick don't rise! Lol! Thanks!

-
Wk kortas Mar 2017
She has maintained a steadfast and prudent distance
From places she would have to fabricate answers to tiresome inquiries:
The ageless Rexall pharmacy, the gas pumps at the Kwik-Fill,
The scruffy, three-checkout Market Basket,
(Though that entails driving to Bradford or Dubois for groceries,
Inconvenient at the best of times,
Outright hazardous when February shows its teeth)
But her resolve can be a fleeting thing,
So oftentimes she will yield
To the siren song of the produce aisle,
Where she will, with what forbearance she can bear,
Submit to the interrogative small talk
Lobbed her way like so many verbal mortar shells
By squinting, smirking long-time acquaintances,
All variations upon the inquiry Why’d you come back?

All homecomings are secondary to some departure,
Mostly the mad flight of one marooned by birth,
Deciding, through some alchemy of grit and desperation,
That they cannot face a life of a spot on the line at the mill,
A haphazard and half-hearted marriage with the requisite offspring,
To be finished up with an unremarkable stone on Bootjack Hill.
Her farewell was not such a notion, not in the least;
She was beautiful, not small-town pretty
In the lead-in-the-senior-musical sense,
But breathtakingly so, the kind of radiance
Which held up to the forty-foot screen of the drive-in in St. Mary’s.
There was no question that she would go, must go,
As if the notion of her staying was absurd, even obscene;
So she went, to New York for a brief spell
(She found it gray and cold in every sense of the word)
Then later to Southern California,
Which she found, if nothing else, somewhat more comfortable.
She did not fail (to be fair, her beauty was of a type
Which transcended mundane concerns such as locality)
Securing bit parts on screen here, the odd photo shoot there,
Not well-off, perhaps, but living well enough,
Free from the endless cast-iron skies and ***** slush of January,
The pointless yet sacrosanct internecine struggles
Which rolled unheedingly across the generations,
The stifling intramurality of the tiny lives in tiny mill towns.

And yet she came back, with neither warning nor fanfare,
Greeted by a cacophony of mute and uncomprehending stares,
As if she were some spectre, lovely and yet unwelcome,
Dredging up emotions best forgotten,
Half-truths not bearing the weight of re-examination,
Any number of errors of commission and omission best left buried.
She will, on occasion, make her way to a barstool at the Kinzua House
Where she receives drinks and further ministrations
From out-of-town hunters or younger townsmen
For whom she is not an icon or grail,
And if she is asked what brought her back to the cold cow country
She would say, a bit acerbically but melancholy as well,
At some point, you get tired of being a commodity,
Just something to weighed and assayed,
Your face worth this, your *** worth that,

But, if she was deep enough into the evening’s proceedings,
She would murmur snippets of odd things:
How the falls would pour like the cheers of thousands
Over the spillways of the dormant mills,
The spectacle of the sand swallows returning
(Brown, chunky, unremarkable things
Skimming the disintegrating chain-link
Which surrounded the abandoned middle school)
To the abandoned gravel pit just below the cemetery,
The herds of elk, reintroduced by the state conservation boys
In a futile and wholly romantic gesture,
Which have not only survived
But prospered on the hillsides out of town,
And if those who knew her when overheard her,
They would whisper among themselves
As to how she was clearly on the run from something,
And how everyone knows that the unrelenting SoCal sunshine
Can lead someone from a place like this to madness.
spysgrandson Jun 2016
I carried you
through a minefield, past ***** traps;
though the mortars lobbed their lethal loads
and the rifles spat speeding streams of death,
all was silent, until we reached the end of the field,
and I lay you on the grass

you thanked me, and asked me
to hold you--you were so cold, you said
I put my arms around you, and looked back
across the field--a stretch of fire now, blazing
the night sky, casting eternal light on you and me,
two young brothers I spied, prostrate,
still, on the other side of the field
we had crossed…still

on the other side
Carla Blaschka Jul 2015
Divisions of the night
Each calculated the same
Staccatoed bursts of sound
At regular intervals
Random quotes stick in my brain
“Where is your favorite place to eat?”
Limp beanbags lobbed at remotes
in futile attempts to change reality.
Fake drama as one
non-sister complains to
another that she will tell
secrets to strangers but not to her family.
But I am no stranger
I follow her life hour after hour
Her fake life in exchange
for mine not lived
except in flickering shadows.
Another weekend wasted watching
lives of the inane and ridiculous
Which is still somehow better than
watching mine
Written 7/25/15. Woven from prompts.
Michael Mar 2019
Rest in Country

We'd just lobbed into Vungers from the Dat on R & C,
Innocently strolling was **** Knight and me,
Across the Flags to the Some-Such Bar wherein the girls drank 'tea'.

And I can still see Max beside me striding to the Some-Such Bar,
With the baby-sans about him going just that bit too far,
With their practiced tugs and pleadings going just that bit too far.

And of course among the baby-sans the cowboys moved in too,
Which didn't worry me too much my cash was in my shoe,
But Max was Max and in those days, not like me and you.

‘Watch your wallet, mate,’ says I, ‘in case it comes to harm.’
‘No fear of that’ says mighty Max with patriotic charm,
Then he tucked a cowboy baby-san beneath one brawny arm.

Well! 'You silly ****** put him down’ but Max went like a rocket;
'I'm off to find the White Mice 'cos this *******'s picked me pocket.’
And I groaned aloud because I knew that me and him would cop it.

Sure enough, there gathered round an angry, shouting throng,
In Asia you don't maltreat kids, no matter right or wrong;
Believe you me our lives that day depended on that throng.

And I got hit with an iron bar (the hat protected my head),
Whilst Max had a pistol ****** into his belly and really should be dead,
And across the Flags M.P's I saw, turned white in craven dread.

Australians too, those coppers but no good to Max and me;
The gutless ******* turned about just so they might not see
The riot raging fiercely now about my mate and me.

I'd say forty upright citizens we met that Vung Tau day.
Policemen, soldiers, rascals, all with us two in affray;
Those Aussie ******, save our lives? They'd turned themselves away.

Thank Christ the mob stayed leaderless, our riot's end surprise;
And the cowardly action of those two? 'twas blessing in disguise,
For a Yankee Jeep barged through the mob and drawled 'in here, you guys'.

It barged back out then drove full speed to the end of R&C
Where the Major spoke severely to **** Knight and me.
While quietly back at the Some-Such Bar the girls sat drinking tea.


Saved
This is doggerel, of course, but it is also a description of what happened to me and a digger from my section.
Shindig Shaman he do say
Swinging and swaying
Swaying and swinging
Debbil in de prayer closet all **** day
Cursing and moaning
Moaning and cursing
Boss man lookin' for a man of the cloth
Never seen a witch doctor
Never in his life
From the look in Bill Morris' eyes
He's let it in
Deep. Deep, Deep so **** deep
Like a splinter cut off well under de nail
A thorn in his pride turned into something dangerous
Hidin' in de prayer closet, up in dere
Got up in de prayer closet safe and snug
()()()()()()()()()()()()
White collar black crow slipped around the corner
Said, "I heard you had a job for me"
Big Bill Morris lobbed a *** o' spit towards his face
Wiped off what was left of his smile
Turned to meet the shaking Shaman
Who was there to greet the  fakin' man o' God
()()()()()()()()()()()
They turned their attention to the devil in Bill
With Bibles and crosses and charms and powders
They shook it all in da poor boys face
He started coughing and sure enuff
He coughed that demon right on out
Nobody had said a word
He turned around and walked out
Not even speaking to the priest or the Shaman
Who looked at each other expecting
A moral
Or
A punch line
Sensing none they quit each other's company
And returned to their respective homes
The only places they felt comfortable
In their own skin
And though their prayer closets had no demons
Neither had they anything else
And so they felt sorry for Bill Morris
Lonely tonight
And wondered if God dwelled with the other
Greenie Apr 2017
Last time I checked, there were arms attached to shoulders and teeth studded gums (yesterday). The sky was if one were to look ^up^, and, when passing food trucks in the alley, the nose would  envelop ***** scents with its own series of flares and snorts. Yesterday

I came across your bones in the backyard~ they'd been crusted over by small, cloud-shaped lichens. I fed them with holy water and met no response. The sky may have been purple but it probably wasn't ( I didn't look). With one deep sigh, I lobbed a femur to the neighbor's dog.
Sometimes Starr Mar 2019
I watched the craggy old man at the far end of the bar besiege his liver with absurd amounts of *** and Coke. It was entirely classless, like he was drinking his obsequies in plain sight of everyone. Not that ‘everyone’ amounted to much– it was a Tuesday, and there were seven lost souls scattered around Nightingale’s. Four of them were shooting pool. Big arms, tattoos, Harleys out front. Another two were puffing cigarettes through their fifties, probably talking about this ****** generation of kids and doing lines of 80’s nostalgia. A few seats from them was a loner (sporting a white braided ponytail and a rawhide vest, you know the type) sitting by himself, looking very divorced. He was engaged in conversation with the bartender, a black-haired ***** with enough experience. Occasionally he’d throw some whisky down his throat. Keeps the fire going.

But it was the sorry ******* in the corner who interested me more than anyone else, mostly because he had such blatant disregard for his own life. I watched him guzzle his eighth *** and Coke since my arrival. He was moving around so much, it was a wonder he stayed in his seat.

The light caught his addled face. You could see that maybe once he was handsome, but time had forced him to wear bad habits out. It made me wonder how. How and why.

“You know, all that Coke can’t be good for your bones,”

Awkward as hell, but it was the best I could muster. The words hung in the air, dry as scotch.

“You realla think I give a ****, dude?” he slurred. He sorta twitched when he spoke… I got the feeling he’d been at this for a while.

He belched loudly.

I let the stench of alcohol, depression, and **** excuse my hesitation.

“Well, why don’t you at least change it up a bit?”

I ordered him an old-fashioned. It really didn’t make a difference. The man was going to drink himself to death anyway. You could see it in his eyes.

He held up the drink loftily, considering it. He smiled wryly and looked at me.

“Thanks,” he said, and gulped the whisky down.

I began to grow unsure of the whole thing. Coming to this ****** pub, talking to this reeking old man… Hell, moving to Denver at all. I’d come here to forget things, but had yet to find anything of real substance to push old memories out…

He slammed his glass down heavily on the bar.

“You smoke grass?” He lobbed.

Interesting.

I followed him outside and tried hard not to be obvious as I inspected the joint he passed me. Not wet. I guess it’s fine.

“Do you live around here?” I asked, passing back the joint. The quality of **** surprised me. Strong sativa.

“If you can call this living…” answered the most depressing man in Denver.

I couldn’t take it anymore, so I just asked him.

“What’s wrong, guy? Why are you so **** sad?” I said.

“It’s really ******* stupid,” he said, turning. “It’s actually ******* insane.”

I pulled on the joint and waited for him to spill his guts.

“A long time ago,” he went on, “I was a lot different. I used to kiss all the pretty girls and make 'em cry.”

He sobered up a bit.

“But then one came along who I won’t forget. Too wild to be tamed,”

He looked down at the sidewalk and tossed the roach at it.

“Lost my ****. I rammed my car into that *****’s house and tried to take off. 'Course the five-o caught up with me and I ended up in jail with two felony counts.”

“**** dude,” I offered, “That’s crazy.”

“Yeah, I was a ******’ lunatic. Stopped caring after that. Been bouncing around ever since. Can’t get comfortable. Can’t get a good job.”

“I’m sorry,” I offered.

Nothing interesting happened after that. Bruce went on about his ex for a while, speaking highly of her. He told stories about days they shared in Pennsylvania. He told me all about her art and writing, and how he had obsessed over her for years, making her into a metaphor for death and loss. I listened to him ramble for quite some time, but after about half an hour I stopped caring and had to take my leave.

I lied to Bruce and told him I had work early in the morning.

When I got back to my apartment, I collapsed onto the futon and looked dramatically up at the ceiling. I got up and went to my desk. I opened the little drawer on the left.

I pulled out Nora’s picture from underneath my paystubs and saved bills. I thought about Bruce’s story and the smell of **** and alcohol. I felt pity for him– pity I didn’t want anyone to feel for me. Still, there was a clog in my throat and my eyes stung with emotion.

I sincerely hoped that Nora was having a great time in New Zealand.

I opened my window and let Nora’s picture fly into the unfamiliar city. I collapsed back on the futon.

It wasn’t comfortable
Draft 1
Unknown Mar 2014
Sight has been stolen
We're robbed of our sounds
your pride has been swollen
We're lobbed out of bounds

Minds are abysmal
Burned in the flame
Of all that is dismal
Weakened or lame

Expecting a truth
But receiving a lie
Feeling so used
In dark ropes we're tied

Bound by a pact
Long ago we had made
Drowned in an act
That our families forbade

But once it was done
There was no turning back
A bright shining "sun"
Was the strength in my back

Feeling betrayed
Our life so delayed
Working unpaid
Happiness fades

Always we gave
Something away
Grace was not saved
Robbed of our grave
Damian Aug 2014
The sky looks bruised tonight -
a strip of battered peach flesh.

I'm sure my mouth is getting smaller.
I see it now all pursed up but
it used to be Jim Morrison's
proportions. She licked like
Ms Jolie. This miserly look
***** my eyes inside themselves.

The pigeons look *******,
all ******* up ***** of bog roll
lobbed in gummy globs.

Someone give me something.
There used to be a man who handed
birdseed out to all the kids
outside the library gardens.
Share and share alike. I guess
he was a ******* or whatnot.
Kassiani Oct 2022
What you wanted was war
Thundering and merciless
Wanted Armageddon to roll in
So you could follow every avenging angel
Brash with bloodlust
And feel righteous in the end

I felt the shift in the atmosphere
Heard the horsemen, saw the lightning
But I had long ago grown weary
Of desperate, clashing swords

You built trebuchets
So I built walls
Studying the stillness of stones
Observing the physics of load bearing and
Force balancing and
Standing unshaken as the sky itself shatters

The onslaught was calculated
Unyielding and arrogant
But of all the accusations lobbed over the ramparts
The only ones that drew blood
Were those fashioned after my own devices
Those festering things that grew out of my nightmares
Seeded with the secrets I'd once let fall in peacetime

You've called out endlessly for my head
But I won't bleed out for you here
I've been studying the patience of water
The salty tracks quietly working their way
Through all the hard places
Out to the sea

I won't bleed out for you here
I faced the red maw that would unmake me
I spun my own stitches out of ether
And lived
10/25/2022
Tommy Johnson Mar 2014
I don’t want to go to school or get a job
My creative flow and time are robbed
I sob

Just let me be a hermit in my room
Alone with my mind and its contents
My tomb

My lady sings
Of life’s purpose
And how it’s subjective
She write her letters in cursive
She sings
Of endless opportunity
Enunciating with clarity
Hitting high notes easily
The song

My mind has gone empty
The pond has dried up
Cursed with this dry spell
There’s been a drought
Oh no
I’m praying for a rainstorm
I dance

The music sends a message
And it tells me
What I should do


I’ll go back to school and find a job
I head for the door and turn the ***
I’m lobbed
SøułSurvivør Mar 2016
I lived in a war zone
Streets filled with razor wire
Nothing much to cling to
Nothing to inspire

On one side was my enemy, and
Filled with angst and hate
I lobbed all sorts of insults
The war would not abate

But one of my neighbors
Suggested that I find
Some forgiveness in my heart
To give me peace of mind

And so I started cleaning
Picked up all my waste
Swept up in all the corners
And found peace at last!

Across the street they saw plain
The white flag I errected
It was a thing that gave them pause
Not what they expected!

They threw trash, and they threw dirt
Upon my sidewalk paved
But i expect that I just swept
And gave a friendly wave!

After a while of this response
They were in retreat!
They could never get a rise!
They knew their hate was beat!

And so together as one
We removed the razor strands
And had a big BLOCK PARTY!
We even had a band!


And so "us" and "them"
Finally became "we"
No more HATE! Isn't that GREAT?!!

*At last we're finally FREE!
"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they
shall be called Children of God."
Jesus Christ in the Sermon on the Mount
The coach signaled timeout and called the team to the sidelines.  There were eight minutes left in the biggest game of their lives, and they would be playing for three minutes with a severe disadvantage.  They had committed a succession of penalties within a span of less than 60 seconds, and they would now be playing without three men on the field.  In lacrosse this is referred to as ‘Man Down.’  

Usually it’s only ‘One Man Down,’ or at the most, ‘Two Men Down,’ but few watching that day had ever seen a team go ‘Three Men Down.’  This meant that their star goalie T.J. Braxton was only going to have three defenders in front of him instead of the usual six.

T.J. had been playing great, but he now had to play for two minutes with three men missing in front of him and then the third minute still missing one. It was going to seem like an eternity.  The coach looked over at T.J. and he was standing off to the side by himself not wanting to either look or talk to anyone during the intermission.  The coach understood this behavior because he had been a goalie himself and decided to leave T.J. alone — totally immersed within his own thoughts.

As they did the cheer to break the huddle, it was for their goalie …”1, 2, 3, Go T.J.”  What would happen now brought more pressure than any goalie should ever have to withstand.  Even going just ‘One Man Down’ would in many cases result in a goal for the other team.  Going ‘Two Men Down’ almost ensures the other team a goal, and anything beyond that just puts your goalie at the mercy of the shooters on the other team.

    And Tonight There Would Be No Mercy To Be Found

T.J. already had 18 saves up to this point with only half a quarter left to play in regulation. Saves are when a goalie either blocks or deflects an offensive shot from the other team. He had only let in three goals all game, and the score was tied at 3-3.  

Pennhurst was a powerful public school with large and fast athletes.  They had not been playing lacrosse as long as T.J.’s private (all-boys) school, Haverland Academy, but their natural athletic ability and inner toughness were making up for any experience lost.  

T.J. would have to defend his goal missing three men in front of him for two minutes and then missing one man for the next sixty seconds.  It was his team’s possession coming out of the timeout, and it was all they could do being so shorthanded to even get the ball across the mid-field line.  The coach’s tactic was not to shoot the ball now but to stall and to try and take as much time off the clock as they could until they could get more players back on the field.  T.J. stood rock solid in the center of the ‘crease’ in front of his goal and looked squarely at the goalie at the other end of the field. The ‘crease’ was the large circle surrounding the goal that no offensive player from the other team could enter. He seemed to not be following the ball and his coach wondered what was going on inside his head.

Playing goalie is 80% mental, and he was hoping his star goalie wasn’t going to have a melt down when his team needed him the most.  T.J. would normally be very active inside his own goal shouting instructions to the defensemen in front of him and trying to best position them for the oncoming attack.    

               Something ‘Seemed’ Different Tonight

T.J. had entered a new zone, one that he had never been in before, and one that only he could understand.  As Haverland’s lead attackman charged the opposing goal, the ball fell out of his stick. It was immediately picked up by the opposing goalie and ‘cleared’ to a midfielder standing outside and to his left.  The midfielder made one more pass to an attackman, and the ball was coming T.J.’s way with only three defenders in front of him to help stop the charge. The ball was again passed to one of their senior captains and their strongest midfielder.  

He juked left as he faked a pass and then as he cradled the ball wildly, he headed straight toward T.J. in the goal.  When he got within fifteen feet of the goal he stopped, set his feet, and with a violent and twisting motion fired an overhand shot across his right shoulder at the ground two feet in front of where T.J. now stood.

T.J. was now eighteen and a half and had been playing goalie since he was seven years old.  He had seen and defended almost every kind of shot and from every angle in those eleven years. He had just never had to do it before with almost no defense in front of him.  As the shot left the midfielders stick, T.J. reacted.  He took two steps forward and was able to scoop the ball out of the air at ankle height before it was able to bounce off the ground. Bounce shots were more difficult to save, and his accumulated instinct and experience allowed him to get this one and at least for now keep the score tied at 3-3.

T.J. ran behind his own goal toward the end line. With the ball in his stick he was trying to take time off the clock.  Only one opposing player chased him, and he was able to do a 180-degree spin, avoid that player, and run back out in front of his goal.  He then cleared the ball, the entire length of the field, to a midfielder standing in the far left corner.  T.J.’s team had the ball within thirty feet of the opposing goal with only two minutes left to run in penalty time.

T.J.’s offense decided it was time to step up and play big.  They managed to take a full minute off the clock with uncanny passing until the referee finally called stalling and gave the ball back to the other side.

As the ball came back in T.J’s direction, two of his penalized players retook the field.  They were now playing with only a ‘one man down’ disadvantage and for only sixty more seconds.

The opposing team set up in a perimeter in front of his goal passing the ball from man to man and then behind T.J.’s goal in an attempt to unbalance a still weakened defense.  As the ball went behind the net, T.J. rotated inside the crease never taking his eye off the ball.  He thought they were setting him up for something sneaky because his fundamental blocking skills on normal shots were so strong. More than anything he didn’t want to give up a cheap goal, and he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out that his suspicions had been correct.

As they passed the ball back and forth behind his goal, an attackman turned and tried to lob the ball over the back of the goal, and T.J.’s stick, to an opposing midfielder who was charging the front of the goal from about twenty-five-feet away.  They were hoping to catch T.J. mesmerized in what was going on behind the net and then reverse field and go in the one direction no one ever expected — over the back of the goal.  

It didn’t work!  As the ball left the midfielders stick, T.J. jumped high in the air and intercepted the pass in the shooting strings of his goalie stick.  He then spun around and ran directly to the out of bounds line to his right. It was beyond the defensive box, and he stood there waiting for someone to challenge him.  He was again trying to take precious seconds off the clock to get his team back to full strength. Although a goalie, T.J. was the fastest player on his team and that speed was like money in the bank to a team that was struggling and in trouble with time running out.

He managed to get the penalty down to twenty two seconds before he finally dished the ball off to another long stick defender and then quickly moved back in front of his goal.  That defensemen got across midfield just before another penalty would have occurred for not advancing the ball.  With only seventeen seconds left on the penalty, the offense passed the ball to the four corners looking for a man who was ‘hot’ (open) who could take the shot and finally break the tie.  With only three seconds left in the penalty their best attackman, John Erasmus, took the ball in his stick and with his left hand fired a side angle shot at the right side of the goal.  It was a great shot, but their goalie made a heroic save. He was also a senior and had transferred into Pennhurst two years ago from a Lacrosse powerhouse school in northern Maryland.

With both teams now at full strength, the ball went back and forth for the final five minutes with very few shots taken at either end.  The ones that were taken were weak and from great distance, and both goalies easily picked them up and started the ball going the other way.  Each shot was critical now because the game was tied with time running out.  Possession was more important than losing the ball to the other team by taking a poor shot.  As the lights shone brightly high above the scoreboard, time ran out in regulation.  The game would now go to sudden death overtime, and it would become about the strength of the face-off men and how hot each goalie was going to be.

    It Was Now About The Face-Off Man And The Goalies

In sudden death, the first team to score wins!  No second chances here it’s do or die time, and everything is amped up to an entirely new level.  Many times, the winner of the face off at midfield wins the game because everything is geared towards that one shot, and the pressure on the opposing goalie is tremendous.  Unless the goalie can isolate himself in a ‘zone of invincibility,’ the chances of blocking a shot in overtime due to a lost face off are not very good.  Just like in the NFL, where the coin toss often determines the winner in overtime, the face-off is like that coin toss only with skill and not luck determining the winner.  T.J. thought back to all the coaches and mentors that had brought him to where he was standing tonight.  They were all somewhere up in the stands, and they were all living and dying with him tonight in the goal.

      T.J. Decided That Tonight It Would Be About Life

The Captains met at the middle of the field as the referee explained the rules of sudden death.  All who were listening thought that the term was aptly named.  They shook hands again and ran back to the huddles on their respective sidelines.  Both coaches gave their overtime strategies to their teams, and they did one more cheer before retaking the field.  Both face off men walked slowly toward each other at the center mid-field line and stared each other directly in the eye.  

The physical disparity between the two players at mid-field was huge.  Haverland’s best face off man, George Arle, was 5’6’’ tall and 160 lbs. Pennhurst’s face off man, B.J. Radford, had been an All-State quarterback on the football team and was 6’3’’ and 225 lbs.  Although Lacrosse was not his primary sport,  he had played it for the last four years and by anyone’s account he was a ‘stud player.’  The skill in taking face offs is unlike any other in Lacrosse.  It’s more similar to recovering a fumble in football or picking up a loose five-dollar bill dropped on the floor in Penn Station in New York.  It’s uncontrolled mayhem with the skill to do it only evident to those who have been there. And it’s those players who know painfully well what it takes to win the fight for the ball.

Although T.J.’s face off man George had had a good season, he always struggled against players that were that much bigger than him and usually lost the ball.  The ref. positioned the ball between the two boys sticks who were both crouched down and ready at mid-field.  The whistle blew, and George lost the ball as B.J. picked it up and charged right over George’s left shoulder.  He was headed in a straight line right toward T.J. who was standing fixed and ready in front of his goal.  B.J. passed the ball to a midfielder who kept it only a second before passing it to an attackman who was off to the right of the goal.  The attackman looked to his left and faked a pass to his right.  He then spun around and with all his might fired a bounce shot on an angle from the right facing side of Haverland’s goal.  

T.J. stepped forward, scooped the ball up on the first bounce, and in one fluid motion flipped the ball out to a defenseman on the left perimeter. This player cradled it inside his long stick as he took off down the sideline and across midfield.  The defenseman made a pass to a middie on the extreme other side of the field who then passed to an attackman. This man ran around behind the net and came out on the other side in front of the goal, shot the ball, but it went wide right.  The other team was closest to the ball when it went out of bounds, so it was Pennhurst’s possession, and it was coming back T.J.’s way.

Their goalie cleared the ball left to a long stick defenseman, who in turn made a long pass directly to an attackman, and the ball was once again in the oppositions stick less than thirty feet from the goal T.J. was defending.  This attackman had no intention of passing.  He put his head down and charged straight ahead toward T.J.  As his coach was screaming at him to pass, and it the midst of five defensive players, he fired off a shot.  It came at a side angle, and, with all of the players surrounding the shooter, it was hard for T.J. to see the ball come off the kid’s stick.  

When T.J. finally did see the ball, it had passed the head of his stick, and he was just able to get a piece of the ball with the bottom of his shaft. It was just enough to deflect the ball upwards and over the goal and into the chain link fence fifty feet behind the crease.  On instinct alone, T.J. ran after the ball and being closest to it when it went out of bounds, he picked it up in his stick and slowly walked forward. This gave his midfielders time to transition back up to the other end of the field.

T.J. was living on borrowed time.  Making one save in overtime was huge, but making two, and one with only the shaft of his stick to save it all, was stretching the limits of whatever luck the team had left.  T.J. easily passed the ball to an unguarded defenseman who ‘walked’ the ball up-field and then tossed it to a midfielder just in front of the offensive box.  

The offensive box is the restrained and shorter ‘boxed-out’ area right in front of the goalie and where most shots are taken, and most goals are scored. The midfielder made a pass to his left to an attackman, who tried to make a long looping pass across the face of the box, but it was intercepted by one of the oppositions long stick middies and passed quickly to another midfielder as it transitioned back again towards T.J. This time the ball was coming straight at T.J., and it had taken less than five seconds to get there.  His team was not set yet and this charge could be the end of it all.

T.J.’s team had been caught napping in an uncharacteristic moment of uncertainty.  Pennhurst’s top midfielder again had the ball, and he was charging at T.J. who had only two players set and not the normal six in front of him to play defense.

Surprisingly to T.J., this player then made a pass to the extreme right corner and that attackman ran behind T.J.’s goal giving his defense more time to reset.  This player then made a pass to the left side, and it was once again in the stick of their best midfielder, Matt Makritis.  Midfielders, or Middies, as they’re often called are many times the best athletes on the team.  They have to play both offense and defense and run the entire length of the field while their shift is on. Makritis was a high school All-American, and he was charging at full speed toward the left front facing side of T.J.’s goal.

                       T.J. Was An All-American Too!

T.J. was also an All-American and had recently been on the front cover of ‘Inside Lacrosse Magazine’ and featured as the #1 player coming out of High School Lacrosse that year.  He thought to himself that all of that press would be meaningless if he allowed this shot to go in.  The opposing midfielder continued toward the crease unguarded, got within ten feet of the goal, and fired point blank at T.J.  No fancy bounce shots or behind the back this time.  This shot was straight at T.J.’s head, and from less than ten feet away. T.J. caught the ball in the fat part of his goalie sticks net.  It didn’t stay there though.  The power of the shot caused it to come out of his stick, in what is referred to as a rebound, as it rolled ten or twelve feet out in front of the goal.

A second midfielder then picked up the ball, and not lifting it from the ground, fired a shot right back at T.J. This was more like a golf shot than a lacrosse shot, and T.J. struggled to see from which direction the ball was coming.  As the ball came back at T.J. at a severe angle, headed toward the left backside of the net, he stretched his body out like a goalie in the NHL.  Doing a full split in front of the net, he was able to get a piece of the ball with his right cleat and deflect the ball off to the left side of the goal. As the ball rolled harmlessly toward the far side of the endline, the referee blew his whistle.  The first three-minute overtime period had ended.

    They Had Survived Sudden Death For Three Minutes

Both teams huddled tightly with their coaches and trainers.  This time though, T.J. didn’t leave the crease at all.  He was leaning against the goal with his back turned to the field. It was almost as if he was talking to someone you couldn’t see and totally immersed in a world of his own.  There are several times in a man’s life that define and underline not only who he is, but who he will then become.  This was one of those times for T.J.

                                 And He Knew It

Both teams wearily took the field.  The pressure of an extremely tight game, and then surviving one overtime period, had taken its toll.  As the face-off men bent low and readied for the ball, T.J.’s back was still facing the field.  When he heard the whistle blow he spun around and it was like someone twice his 6’2’’ size was playing goalie.  He seemed to fill the entire net with his presence and there was an ‘aura’ coming from him that surrounded the entire defensive end of the field.

Once again, George lost the face off to the All-State quarterback and star midfielder, B.J. Radford.  This time however, the look on B.J.’s face was different.  Although fairly new to Lacrosse, inside his chest beat the heart of a champion.  He almost stepped on George as he picked up the ball and headed straight over the mid-field line and directly at T.J.  This senior captain had no intention of passing, and he was going to ‘ice’ the game for his teammates and fans.  B.J. was not known as a great shooter but more for his defensive skills. He was a great athlete though, and this charge was not to be taken lightly by anyone on the defensive end of the field.  

                 B.J. Knew This Was His Moment

Without stopping or setting his feet, he raised his stick above his head and shot the ball toward the right corner of the net at over ninety miles an hour.  T.J. saw this one all the way and caught the ball in his stick.  He then ran out of the goal and passed B.J. who was still coming his way as he charged past him and headed straight down the field.  T.J. was out of the defensive box and headed toward the mid-field line.  He was looking at nothing in front of him except the opposing goalie who was now staring at him with an incredulous look on his face inside the opposing crease.

Everyone there that night had their mouth’s open in awe.  No one expected the goalie to ever make the final break, and no one watching had ever seen a goalie possessed with such speed.  The other team was in awe too and just kept watching him run. They were all guarding open men who they were sure T.J. would eventually pass the ball to.

                                  He Didn’t Pass

When he crossed the midfield line, the fans went wild and stood up.  One of his midfielders had the presence of mind to stay back behind the midfield line so that an offsides wouldn’t be called.  In Lacrosse, you always need at least three men back plus the goalie in the defensive end.  Once T.J. crossed midfield, one of the midfielders had to stay back.

T.J. approached the offensive box in front of their goalie with only one thing on his mind.  He had been acutely watching this kid all day and he had noticed one thing.  This was a fundamentally sound and ‘play up’ goalie and one would who would rise to the occasion when the heat was on.  He had transferred into Pennhurst only two years ago and based on his great skill, he had gotten them this far.  He had one weakness though that T.J. had observed — he couldn’t handle the off-speed shots, especially over his left shoulder.

The left shoulder is opposite the goalie stick’s head if you’re right handed. In his case, the only weakness that T.J. had seen,
other than his struggle with off-speed shots, were those directed high up and left.  Like a changeup in baseball, the off-speed shot often confused the goalie’s timing and could cause him to over or under react at just the right time.  T.J. continued to charge the goal.

By this time, two defensemen from Pennhurst were running from both sides to get to T.J. before he could shoot, but his speed was too much.  As he approached the crease from the right side, he raised his stick above his head.  He threw his lower right elbow at the goalie as if executing a shot.  His stick-head never moved, but the goalie bit on the fake.  He waved the head of his stick high right and then easily lobbed the ball over the Pennhurst goalie’s left shoulder.  The referee blew the whistle — the game was over —and T.J.’s team had finally won.

The other goalie dropped to his knees and then put both hands on the ground in front of him.  T.J. went over and picked him up saying: “You may have lost on the scoreboard tonight, but you never gave up. I’m proud to have played against you.”

Haverland had just won the State Championship, and most watching said it was the greatest goalie performance at any level that they had ever seen.  T.J. was voted ‘Most Valuable Player’ of the game. In the fall, he would be off to a top 10 Lacrosse University where he would major in Criminal Justice and take his goalie skills to an even higher level.

T.J.’s coach told him after the game that you can play lacrosse for your entire lifetime and never be able to play or recreate what you just did.  His future college coach, who had been in the stands watching, came down on the field and put his arm around T.J. after the game and told him the same thing.  He went on to say: “T.J., I had my whole speech ready before you went into overtime.  I thought I might have to come down here and tell you that although you lost — you lost really well.

   T.J. Did Not Want To Believe That Losing Well Was Really Possible!

“You had made all those heroic saves throughout the game for your team, and if you had to lose, it would have been a great way to do it.  The only problem with my prepared speech is that you didn’t lose. As I watched you in the goal with your back turned to the field as the second overtime period started, I said to my assistant coach Dave, who’s over talking to your folks, that our new and future goalie is in a zone that few can ever get to.  He will not be scored on again tonight.  Tonight, and for however long this game lasts — he is truly invincible. And I don’t believe I’ve ever used that word to describe a player before.”

Many years passed and one day T.J got an email from his old high school coach.  The coach told him that once again his school, Haverland, would be playing for the State Championship and he wanted to run his pre-game speech by T.J. before his boys took the field.  It was short and to the point.  What he wanted to tell the boys was: “It wouldn’t be the number of players on the field but who those players were and what was coming from inside their hearts that would make all the difference.”  He then went on to tell the story of T.J. in the State Championship Game that took place over ten years before.  

Some of the boys had heard the story, but all were in awe listening to the emotion and passion in their coach’s voice as he retold the story again.  It was like replaying that game with the current Haverland players and right before the most important game that most of them would ever play.  

Haverland won the State Championship again that day and many of the boys said that it was the pre-game speech about T.J. and his team’s overtime victory that fueled their desire and commitment to make it happen.  It was also a close game, and with two minutes to go the score was again tied. Five times during the game they had gone ‘one-man’ down but had only allowed one goal to be scored during those five uneven possessions by the other team.  Haverland was then able to strip the ball from their opponent twice in the final two minutes and convert both into scores — ending the game at 7-5.

Along a lonely hallway in the back of Haverland’s new athletic center hangs a plaque with the story of that night so many years ago.  But to T.J., and all the members of that legendary team, the thing that hangs highest — is their refusal to lose.

The possibility of being invincible would stay inside T.J. and all who were there to watch him play that night. He learned that at the end of the streak where luck ends, sometimes you have to enter that zone …

                                 And Just ‘Will It’ To Happen.
Anais Vionet May 2023
On a cool spring morning, by a clear mountain stream, an enchantress sat skywriting.

Her arms danced at awkward, inhuman angles and as they did, her bracelets jangled a melody which the birds took up in chorus.

The soundtrack was magic. Insects buzzed in beat, animals froze mid-forage, and the wind died, lest moving clouds corrupt her work.

The mask-wearing knight, a killer for the king, was dressed in black. Even the buck knife, loosely gripped in his right hand, was painted black. His boots were cloth wrapped and his movements were as smooth as smoke. He was noiseless death itself.

As he drew closer, the birds suddenly stopped chirping. "Go home boy, " the enchantress whispered. The knight blinked in disbelief and froze but the enchantress did not look around.

She pulled a half-penny from a pouch, kissed it, and lobbed it into the stream.

The knight’s mind went from deadly certain to vague. Why was he here? He sheathed his knife, lowered his mask and wiped his lips. What had he been doing?

Still not looking his way, the minx motioned to the clear, babbling stream, "Come, drink," she said. He drew beside her and with a quick glance, as he sipped water from cupped hands, he saw that she was young and beautiful.

She’d never looked at him, but she knew him in a rarefied, magical way - as if he were her brother, and she felt the sting of his long sorrow, that his wife was barren.

"Your love will bear you two sons if you're home and can bed her before dark," she said softly.

The knight stood, wiped his hands on his trousers, nodded at her, and ran for his horse.

The enchantress smiled to herself and resumed her unearthly work. The sound of horse and rider quickly faded as the birds resumed their spell-song.

Two strapping young men they would be.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Rarefied: understood or appreciated by a small group of people.
Poetoftheway Apr 2017
the cause & the cure,
co-conspirators at war,
my body and mind their battlefield,
the barren bombs of depression lobbed
indiscriminately and carrying the leukemia cells
of a surrendering mind who can see no hope of peace

the neurons spread the word of defeat imminent,
the leukocytes gather for one last anti-hero stand,
the troubles, the ones seen and foreseen, should be
labeled explicit and dangerous, airborne transmitted,
so do not touch the letters of this lament from hell sent

too many mouths to feed, my shoulders sloped
from prior decades undoing; the nine lives,
the held back reserves, expended for no gain
the weary remnant deep marrow hide
but it's hopeless for the man
who was pushed aside
by technology and the destruction
of human touch,
even the body
removed by machine
Graff1980 Feb 2015
Depression is a hydra
Of loneliness
Head lobbed off
Replaced by a friends suicide
Memories of child abuse
Children Soldiers in Africa
I lob off the head of child abuse
A relative dies
A cop kills a kid
Military state
On and on it goes
For everyone cut off
Another one grows
Another one grows
Another one grows
Leaving me heartbroken
Sobbing alone
Facing a beast
I will never defeat
Jamie L Cantore Apr 2016
Hark! the tempest doth devour,
(Hurry, the lair of Hell prepare,)
Raining needles, a sharp shower,
Arrows arc thru the dark air.

Glaring weapons are the loom,
Where the soldiers strain,
Weaving many a fighters doom,
This man's woe, that man's bane.

See the fortress walls to right grow,
"'Tis a corpse tower." maiden said.
And cannon ***** do fire from below,
Each an enemy soldiers'  lobbed head.

Bones for arrows, dipped in gore,
Shot by the spinal cords so long.
Dagger, that once an emblem bore,
Keep that blade so sharp; so strong.

Before the ****** sun is ****** set,
Lances must shiver;
                        And javelins do sing.
Blades with clanging  
                            sound to whet.
Lightning crashes; helmets ring.

Blades of swords to suddenly glare
Send more to the front, let 'em fight,
Where our companions
                        The conflict share.
 Many triumph, yeah: but, O!
                          Yet, they die.
ah, tis in regard to praise worthy of zee
sylph van halen wondrous sigh door house
   where boot LIX ******* ruled thee,
this missive (fertilized ova byproduct),
   sans newly wedded whoopie
between n betwixt carnal existence
   involving stiff joint courtesy of randy
(loch ness hike hood only imagine)

   engendered pleasurable scree
ming, when enfilade eruption occurred
   sans papa's engorged tree
into verdant valley shaped like miniature "v"
when bare naked lady n beastie boy - with re:
tractable shaped magic flute
   mountebank upon late
   (then young) mum when she

acquiesced bing dominated
   during **** version with glee
  club (prickly ***** per papa)
   unplanned romp or x game of thrones
  whereby rampant animal urge beckoned to free
flagellates searching mini verdant zyder zee

which warm fuzzy i.e. cop u lay shun
   nine months later with meself as baby
baked to imp perfection second to none
   this futre puff daddy slated
   tubby conceived via *** pistol gun
in tandem with mull ate mum,
   who cavorted in naked fun
   begat word **** as second brood ding bun
in the oven o me late mum...
   gone against desire tool heave anon!
------------------------------------
(long prose and poetry my atypical mode at introducing myself).

How apropos and divine to stumble (merely by happenstance) across a chance to claim my (virtual) fifteen minute fragments of fame just in the click and nick of time.  

Although gainfully unemployed (do to a series of unfortunate events that now finds me receiving social security disability), I can still vividly visualize utter despair and vouchsafe to acquire the requisite trappings emblematic of psychic misfortune.

Indelible, permanent and unfading abysmal damaging domestic dynamics got etched deep upon the memory of this erstwhile individual! The general gist in the form of quick brush strokes (namely written) of psychologically traumatizing recollection now follows.

I can attest to malevolent mean-spirited objections by my father (and late mother) in regard to my grossly unacceptable attire, deportment and work ethic.

Nonetheless, a sense of righteous vindictiveness manifested itself thru attendant Pyrrhic victories.

Back in those days I (a grown adult male and considerably past the age of rebelling against authoritarianism, and their only not so prodigal heir hiss son) poorly wore mantle and staff of supposed maturity.

Lack of compliance and obeisance with regulations and rules of Harris household (mainly thru being in constant denial to conform, maintaining emotional detachment and estrangement and evincing little or no concern for family members) brewed, festered and lied dormant during prepubescence.

The pressure and tension between and betwixt genetic kinfolk (so palpable one could sense an indomitable barrier), would rank as successfully dysfunctional way before such nom de guerre became in vogue.

Fury and wrath became markedly and noticeably pronounced once exiting the storied four walls of high school.

The venomous barrage and fusillade spewed forth from off parental tongues at an exponential rate and on a par to feeling the stinging cudgel of a horsewhip.

Out of fear and timidity, I consequently and silently absorbed cruel treatment.

Neither the eldest nor youngest sibling bore witness against the tender spirit of their only brother.

A façade as hardened (statue) conveniently adopted.

This embodiment poorly served to fend off onslaught of incessant anger.

This defense mechanism (identified as passive aggressive by mom) offered  minuscule protection as I mentally dodged lobbed insults and affected defiance (in league like poisoned bards and daggers hurled) of said threats and ultimatums.

No matter these bitter pills of blaring character assassination (mine), denunciations, fulminations, incrimination's, intimidation's, vociferous vocalizations (by said parents), I stood my ground at played the deaf mute, which repression and internalization of emotional maelstrom only caused self contamination and manifestation of humiliation.

They (dad and mom) became further angered and inflamed per my total oblivious stance! This reaction added insult to injury.

Deliverance (minus dueling banjos) per tough love lessons amplified to the tune of additional feats at becoming excoriated, ranted and raved against this, that and the other of my habits and nonchalant indifference to pursue work.

Those involuntary, unrehearsed and vicious family chats happened to be replete with heavily exploding and uncorked anger.

That (of course) would be a considerable understatement!

Dad (the de facto, elected and nominal spokesperson for unpleasant chest thumping exclamations, (which conveniently took place no earlier than the stroke of midnight) - emphatically swore (adrip with dramatic livid rage - like rabid beast) all manner of **** vulgarity and demanded from this insolent appearing male offspring immediate compliance.

Defiance and fatigue offered him predictable and usual blank stare upon hearing the kind and lenient sentence to pack bags and GET OUT!  

With dreaded approach of dire and sealed fate (played out in this over active imagination of mine with dad and mom egregiously fiendishly, grotesquely expunged themselves of any last vestige personal emotional belonging), I anxiously bided my time.

Those next couple weeks forced self-evaluation of Atheism.

The recurrent consideration of relinquishing nonestablishmentarian paradigm in favor and lieu with God, miracles and salvation seemed to clash being liberal thinker.

As indicated, the tempest and tirade quickly got turned back upon those who so masterfully tormented this second born, whose steadfast stoicism and subservience to a higher power perchance brought a temporary respite.

That deadline (which happened to be just one of many similar sputtering swearing fulminations, salacious ultimatums valuations of love) blithely came and went without incident - no matter expletive filled intense oath to remove) continued to keep pull to remain an occupant with kinfolk.

What caused especial ire and wrath to fester (per apparent ambivalence, indifference and nonchalance for me to take any job - even shoveling **** - particularly within emotional bedrock and firmament of deceased mother) constituted remembrance and vivid reminder of her father.

My maternal grandfather (Morris Kuritsky) supposedly never paid much heed to regular and steady employment (to support his four children and wife) despite his skill as a swift tailor. Hence my mother (Harriet) grew up and lived in utter destitution and poverty.

Mother subsequently reacted with ferocious vindictiveness upon witnessing a near magic transformation of near identical behavior in Matthew - the single heir to the family name.
---------------------------------------
...from this middle and sole son harris progeny
who willingly shared hoop - ping equal play zure
   arose from wading thru verbiage of letters abc...
...xyz
in various combinations he
arranges/arranged foe his passion to be
somewhat liter aery.


your prerogative, to message or email
(hay4four@aol.com) typed
   back what ever impulse            
juiced where ever spools create poetic strand
asper fingers comprising specific black keys land
to react inspires with nuttin grand
viz **** sapiens
   pearl jam chrome once canned
gene net tick trader joe brand.

postscript: a dream to wit ness
mine current high school senior
   a name y'all never guess
to make the entrance grade for university of penn
   after the truckload of application material
   someone or many doze *****!

http://about.me/matthewscott.harris
LVI Elapsed October 17th's Bore Witness
To A Girl Born With True Grit

Tuss ben big goo me newt to write
and how though trite
thine complex edifice immersed in spite
which doth nobody any good RIGHT
hence hie exerted effort
from within this quite

mindful sib bull ling to detach himself from his own plight
and fashion attempt (however feeble)
   to complete before this night
a communique (my apologies if thee cognition strikes thee
   with dumbfounded hard to comprehend patois),
   but perchance a mite

bit of the following - dashed off in a huff - epistle sheds light
on ceasing to ignore yourself (envious
   of yar fierce sticktowithiveness) scaling height
of apprehension (more insurmountable than  
   natural mountain peak, versus taking flight
and shuttering ye out of my humdrum life (orchestrated
   with mild sax and violins), yea not mooch to excite
but, this effort pressing fingers
   upon select keys eventually generated a byte
size message sent via FIOS fiber optic and mostly airtight.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Tis with great difficulty birthday cheer proffered,
when psyche still stung
by lash of acrimouny, calumny, effrontery, finality rung
humility indelicacy,...zealotry
as if spoken with glee from your tongue.
unwise to sustain estrangement caws
each of us imperfect, aye kin attest mine past awash with flaws,

and admit crushing impact felt from others,
especially late Zison inlaws
but, now yearly occasion of your birth opportunistic
   despite being annexed by anxiety based on uncertain laws
sans human behavior, how ye might respond,
   me owning modest kudos buffer as oopahs

   to risk brokering a detente (which avoidance
   toward thee) undermines cumulative,
endearing hur rahs
visited times gone by,
   which recent past found me unstoppably gurgling
   invariably vibrating uvulas
(yes, ja probably forgot, this bro' born
   a mutant Ninja Turtle) xy awes,

   speaking severe nasal sounds,
   when exhalation boyhood memory draws
obvious twang – another ace in the hole for bullies –
   gnashing identityguard where gauze
superfluous, and those hurtful ingrates lobbed words,

   when they may as well swang fists at me upper and lower jaws,
though decades in the past, the imprimatur indeibly etched,
   yet stinging rebukes from maws
and faux paws trigger remembrance of things past
   (analogous to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder -

in my case countless acromonious, denigrating, execrable names
contributed to Schizoid Personality Disorder –
though predisposition for sundry mental illness
most likely incsribed within mom and pop sic cull genes),
now greater  enlightenment reacting/responding to stress

comprehending my biology, chronology, ecology, geneaolgy
(fyi – Amelie paid consultant at 23andme.com for blueprint
denoting fabric housing jumbled, linkedin, nested past –
results surprisingly showed 1% Neanderthal
   comprise inherited) psychology,
thus explaining insatiable hunger for bananas,
and intermittant urge to swing from tree to tree,

whereby I willingly accept arboreal, corporeal,
   generallly less than ideal traits
which pro active overtures arrest
   (without a warrant), contest, assent everest
(albeit metaphorically) satisfactorily
   extending virtual olive branch (pitted)
recognize immutable imposibility to confront
   excrutciating bygone feelings,
this endeavor, a quest to test mine kempf zone, and endure

current flow of uneasiness (clammy
   and sweaty hands fostered by andiety),
yet exorcizing mailer demons critical
   to experience mindfullness, and requisite
to fast tract expeditious deliverence,
   whereat ye ought not be deprived

   THIS SIBLING (HAN SOLE BROTHER)
   WHOSE LOVE TOOTH HE
   (on account of dentures) DIDST OFTEN BESPEAK!
Anais Vionet Sep 2020
By a clear mountain stream an enchantress sat skywriting.
Her bracelets seemed to jangle a melody as her arms moved.
The wind stopped blowing lest the clouds corrupt her work.

The knight, dressed in black, wore a mask and intended damage.
His knife was clenched between his teeth, as he moved noiselessly closer - breathing shallowly for stealth.

The birds suddenly stopped chirping. “Go home boy,” the enchantress whispered.
The knight blinked and froze but the enchantress did not look around.
She pulled a half-penny from a pouch, kissed it, and lobbed it into the stream.

The knight went from certain to vague - he sheathed his knife and wiped his lips.
Come, drink.” the minx motioned to the stream.
As he sipped water from his cupped hands the beautiful woman
said, “Your love will bear you two strong sons if you’re home before dark.”
The knight wiped his hands on his trousers - nodded - and ran for his horse.
The enchantress smiled to herself as she finished her unearthly poem.
a free form fantasy poem
ottaross Oct 2018
Our headlights out there
In this wet October night
Sink into the cold asphalt
Glowing lumps of coal
Lobbed into a black ocean.
Driving home in a dark evening rain, leaves litter the street, and headlamps are powerless against the depth of darkness
High athwart global sphere
planet Earth doth app pear
tubby totally tubular as a mere
twinkling gem devoid of lesions from hare
brained schemes to exploit near
Gaea, where

legions of self aggrandizement tear
ring into all four corners  
   of terrestrial firmae orb queer
hull us wreaking indiscriminate havoc,

   yet blithe dismissal mare
ring greedily inducing
   brass knuckle sandwich lobbed punches
   punctuating each pugilisitc
   jude dee ish us punch with denunciatory jeer

accompanied in situ with a malicious glare
destroying staunch
   eco-friendly advocates tabulated violations
   kept under lock and key  
  within a filing cabinet dossier
to hell rants Donald Trump and his miscreants
   in reference viz those “FAKE” defiant, hippo critical
   defenders of Earth, wind, fire, and air

subject to rampant wanton (soup per) discrediting  
   substantiated scientifically airtight conclusion,
   sans irrefutable linkedin cause and effect
   against human perpetrators
   rampant environmental abuse

pegged since that first Margarita
   signaled industrial age crowdsourcing,
   crowing, crowning deuce
ex machina leveling landscape until
   scoured bowels of oblate spheroid glacis loose
to wring and extract sought after mineral wealth
   essentially wrenching, hammering, nailing cinch,
   which global gem analogous

   to affixing a polarized noose
specific metals deemed precious
   justifying reckless ramifications thin as gruel excuse
whereat said esteemed Mother Nature privy ledges
   sheared to extract vis a vis akin to a sluice

industrial machinations insyc –
   dynamited, sheared, sound blasted to rob
   (point blank with no criminal sentence),
   especially when conglomerate
   conspiratorial corporations
   violated most every truce

boot at bottom, any vow to tender flora and fauna,
   a dead letter steeped in violations ruse
vitiate prior drafted conservation pacts signed, sealed
   and delivered with “faux” obeissance

uttering lame excuse
in an effort to squeeze and seize
   (by aggressive means if necessary), the goose
that laid golden eggs intended to line deep purple pockets –
   brushing aside accusations with VAMOOSE,

particularly to marginilized Native Americans
   already a shadow of their former glory,
   but production even at the expense of
   slo-mo genocide annihilation a road block
   to sought after mineral deposits juiced

waiting for opportunity to rake landscape bare
   as the Moon (with a eh “No big deal attitude)”
indiscriminately sowing seeds of bleakness
   via uprooting, scraping,

   and pulverizing plants and animals
such as Bull Winkle the moose
and crown such egregious destruction
   claimed as righteousness purportedly pinpointed

   within religious texts to render unto haven
   of innocent creatures, and other organic life,
   the God sent email to reduce
once resplendent oblate spheroid,
   now nothing but a wasteland
   even a nightmare to Doctor Zeus!
(alter knit lee titled: vita in oculis nudato)

goo goo gaga I wanna yell
cuz, synonymous
     with other wordsmiths,
     or...well
whatever will eire'n burr,

     a sought after creative
     passionate pursuit aye tell
ye a boot me own aha...eureka insightful
     revelation explaining
     ma quotidian writing spell,

and phalanges skitter
     across qwerty keyboard
     at light in an attempt to quell
onslaught tidal wave crashing

     upon me conscious state pell mell
which tsunami flood spongy
     heady gray matter with hell
over high tide heals assailing,

     bruiting, clobbering this fell
low inducing (me) to play
     Handel's Semantic Water Music
     on the smallish piccolo cello

which Sirens of Tighten,
     (who just appeared out of thin aire -
     cuz scriveners can resort
     to prestidigitation to make appear

any necessary entity
     without rhyme or reason),
     anyway, this sylph sea Oceanids nymph
     i.e. mermaids didst dee clear

particularly via
     barely audible verbal communication
     sotto voce en dear
ring gently beckoning
     affinity this modest heir

to secret himself within secluded lair
whence, an automatic
     erectile flickr, kickstarted,
     levitated, and manifested

an instantaneous jubilant kik
     lobbed me near
this seductive, sedulous, and sedum
     scented sir experienced hypnotic stare

charming froto into trance scandent state
as if by magic the tubular
     testicular proboscis didst inflate
aptly serving as modus operandi flagellate
thus proving a "happy ending" against being celibate.
SøułSurvivør Jul 2016
You threw Your Heart of Stone into my Consciousness with all your might. It purely stove in that window. Crystalline shards of pure hatred that you passed off as love peppered my tender skin. I threw my hands up over my eyes in a protective gesture that was purely instinctive. Grinning like a Cheshire with sharpened teeth you moved in for the ****. But, my friend, you may have lobbed an ounce of dark ***** black coal at me...

... but it missed me by a mile.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/21/2016
Austin Heath May 2014
Last night I tried getting arrested,
and tried wrestling a plastic bag
out of a tree. The cops are
too forgiving. I lobbed rocks over
grocery stores and down the
empty streets of 4am.
I am relentless only
in my want of death.
I am lonely.
I am lonely right now.
I don't want to be lonely but I have no choice.
So here I am being ******* lonely,
and I won't say **** because I want you
to come to me first, to reach out first,
and secretly I want to be dead
before you make it here.
I want to cry but the tears just fall into that void.
I wish I could just feel empty or numb.
I had so many dreams once...
itsall iwrite Aug 2018
10 poetry crack commandments 06.08.18

rule number uno
its going to make you itch
the bank balance is below zero
confession is poetry rich.
try not to inform
but man of routine
rob will go down a storm
my last man was just obscene.
trust is a never
that maybe a cover
no one understanding not ?
clueless poor old mother.
never self medicating
its no contradiction
pain will never have eradicating
never ending is prescription.
number five was inevitable
not worth what i have to give
**** in village was regrettable
round here this crop don't live.
not doing credit
rule number 6 is no lack
twist change and edit
clever people always pay back.
family oblivious
poetry is my heaven
this world can be nasty and vicious
have to honour rule seven.
decent is number eight
but pen and paper never lobbed
supply on me will infuriate
write down poetry if robbed.
number nine does chill
avoid if you want peace
they have power influence and skill
my advice stay the ???? away from police.
got no buyers
not one sucker to read
cancelled the village flyers
its what inspired the poetry commandment bleed.
do you follow any rules ?

— The End —