"logged" poems
To be a gentleman in a Chatroom,
One must always introduce themselves as a number.
As an age.
To inform the fine maidens of the Chatroom that,
'Yes! I am legal.'
So that way they feel obliged to tell you:
'Why, I am too!'
You must also accompany such a number with your gender.
Just so that they won't get confused,
And know that you are a
masculine
manly man
of manliness.
It is of the Gentleman's Etiquette to note your existence afterwards.
A simple 'Here' would suit.
Or spice it up with a
'You?'
Afterwards.
Make sure you always ask how your possible future **** partner is feeling, it's only polite. If they say
'I'm feeling wonderful, how about you?'
or
'My day's been ghastly. How about yours?'
- No matter what the answer, make sure to reply with a steady:
'Nothing much', or if you're feeling impatient, 'nm'
Just to show that no, you don't really care
and want to get straight into business.
- Which shows that you are a man with a clear goal in mind, and as we all know, women adore men with confidence!
The next step is the bargain.
You need to sell yourself to the feline with flair,
Ferocity,
Wit, style, charisma.
'Wanna fuck?'
And if they reject your courteous advances, all you can do is tip your hat and carry on to the next lady in waiting.
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 1:48 AM UTC
Time stamped messages
Instant gratification
Checked in
Logged on
Time stamps
I C U
Instant disappointment
Overlooked, ignored
Time stamps
Phone updates
Notifications
Instant insanity
Time stamps
Back check lies
I C U
Checked in elsewhere
When, where, why
Time stamps
Insomnia
Where R U
Ah, I C U
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and tolled, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at "Buzzard’s Breath."
"The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la ****
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the Mother Lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, "Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! Boys, *** the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the Earth, and the heat increased by day.
"Buzzard’s Breath" became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
I wove my own web and netted my prize,
I cold-pressed my words and refined my disguise.
I goggled at life and faced up to that book,
I tumbled and tweeted and baited my hook.
I blipped and I blogged, I bantered and blushed,
I followed and friended, I grovelled and gushed.
I doled out the instant, ten grams at a time,
To fuel my addiction for caffeine and rhyme.
I reshopped my pic, I swiped left, I swiped right,
I pinned and I posted deep into the night.
I gloated and gossiped, I chatted and cheered,
I logged in and logged out without favour or fear.
For is it not fun - this mad media storm?
Viewing and voting from dusk until dawn.
Yet love me or like me, let it never be said,
That despite how it seems, it’s gone to my head.
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
Worst part of loneliness is being without you
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Worst part of loneliness is being without you.
On most days I can fill my life with something
Rather than nothing or feeling sorry for myself
Sorry that now my Darling has gone pain free
Trouble is that we thought we’d live forever
Pausing seldom to think of a reality of ageing
Ageing is deadly. Parts wear out and die off
Reality dawns on us too late. Missed the bus
Typically missed spent youth comes to haunt
On those occasions when tobacco was king
From that day on. The fuse had been lit.
Loneliness now is your legacy to me as I lay
On those days in Queensland when it pours
Never in small droplets. No it really rains. !!
Engulfing the storm drains and rivers n lakes
Like the whole heavens are crying “She’s gone
I ache from the loneliness. I am so missing you
Now I appear to the outside world I cope well
Every holistic solution know to man do I try
So many all the days of the week do I count
Some say they are a great remedy for grief
I argue not ,I think this does work well for me
So in my opinion the loneliness is the worst
Because you were always there to praise me
Exciting my day by your loving exclamation
I love you my darling , I love you , do you know
No doubt in our minds. We loved each other.
God knows how long he plans for me to suffer
Worst part of loneliness is being without you.
I start my day with a sort of positive stance.
Thinking I know exactly what’s in store today.
Having logged all appointments methodically
Only I do it alone. So very alone , very alone.
Unless I come to grips with this I’ll be very sad
Though I hate the loneliness this without you.
You my darling meant so very much to me.
Only through the tribute do I place thoughts
Unnecessary for anyone but you to hear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip. 12 th October 2018.
It’s getting easier at November 26th 2018
With the aid of Gods guidance and Poetry
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
Plumbing
screaming in pain
cleaning her drain
it was very clogged
I am very logged
loved my plumbers crack
she gave my *** a smack
faucet beginning to leak
from the point of the peak
ended up in bed
she gives good head
wanted bill to be free
told me during my morning ***
I said you lost your mind
so I poked her from behind
how about half price
she said sorry no dice
please free she would beg
as she played with my third leg
running wild was my imagination
you could feel my frustration
after the plumbing was all done
it turned out she was a nun
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
Poem written by Philip October 12th 2018 Ref 026. An Acrostic:
Worst part of loneliness is being without you
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Worst part of loneliness is being without you.
On most days I can fill my life with something
Rather than nothing or feeling sorry for myself
Sorry that now my Darling has gone pain free
Trouble is that we thought we’d live forever
Pausing seldom to think of a reality of ageing
Ageing is deadly. Parts wear out and die off
Reality dawns on us too late. Missed the bus
Typically missed spent youth comes to haunt
On those occasions when tobacco was king
From that day on. The fuse had been lit.
Loneliness now is your legacy to me as I lay
On those days in Queensland when it pours
Never in small droplets. No it really rains. !!
Engulfing the storm drains and rivers n lakes
Like the whole heavens are crying “She’s gone
I ache from the loneliness. I am so missing you
Now I appear to the outside world I cope well
Every holistic solution know to man do I try
So many all the days of the week do I count
Some say they are a great remedy for grief
I argue not ,I think this does work well for me
So in my opinion the loneliness is the worst
Because you were always there to praise me
Exciting my day by your loving exclamation
I love you my darling , I love you , do you know
No doubt in our minds. We loved each other.
God knows how long he plans for me to suffer
Worst part of loneliness is being without you.
I start my day with a sort of positive stance.
Thinking I know exactly what’s in store today.
Having logged all appointments methodically
Only I do it alone. So very alone , very alone.
Unless I come to grips with this I’ll be very sad
Though I hate the loneliness this without you.
You my darling meant so very much to me.
Only through the tribute do I place thoughts
Unnecessary for anyone but you to hear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip. 12 th October 2018.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 7:16 AM UTC
you taste like candy
and i am starving and swallowing your tricks
i dreamt of a greasy hotel and
a box to sleep in.
i am not a cannibal,
i am not a sky diver
& and i am not a pilgrim,
but i hunger for your body
and i'm falling for your holy curves.
i will hang from your window and dance in the sunlight
even though i am not a pink velvet curtain.
i am a garbage-collector poet,
fresh from the allabaster market
who has found the words once lost
in a dark fox hole
near the bend of a lazily flowing river.
all i need is a dime and a glass vase,
a short story and a wet cigarette.
i've come back to town--i climbed right out of that stop sign
standing on a shotgun bullet-holed volkswagon
with a 7 day hangover
holding burning grace in my hands and you say
"lead me to the garbage"
carrying with you a bag of soggy french fries
and i stop to show you a dying tulip,
and we watch as it floats into a cloud.
we'll hide all our money in a glowing furnace
and as i try to write this with a water logged pen
you show me pictures of shirley temple with her head in a noose.
my name is not moses, and i do not want to be remembered.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
Plot a course through downtown doors
then drift along the concrete shores
of asphalt oceans navigated
under stars
imitating
broken curbside glass--
over crunching gravel miles
measured in half-hours
and meted out in heavy, fogging breaths
and squinting, midnight eyes...
Counted out the blocks, counted steps
and concrete squares by metered
three-four thoughts dancing across
reflected skylines, just behind the eyes.
Each step's a held breath,
each footfall a prayer on crumpled paper,
each set of shoulders, a hanger for...
coats are homes
for hands
rolling up in pockets
fishing for some solid anchor,
sinking into years of walks and silent words like these.
*** * ***
Listing hard, adrift for years
water-logged and pocked--
no anchor--
shredded sails and leaning masts
tell stories
of deck fires:
leaping rats,
and charred strakes
Clear deck,
empty hold,
abandoned helm.
this coat's Atlantic fog.
Frayed rigging like cobwebs stretch
down and across
like lines on faces aged by the frost
on midnight walks.
Strike the colors, mate...
Admit you're lost.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
1
The hardest thing you will ever do
Is care for someone who has no interest
In caring for themselves
It is grocery shopping at 2am
Shortly after work
When this morning I realized
There is no food in the house
It is a week’s worth of food I can barely afford
2
Growing up there were 2 churches in my neighborhood
On Wednesdays
The one closest to the elementary school gave away bread
On Fridays
The one near my grandmother’s house gave out canned goods
It was always fun to see what arrived in the big brown boxes
It was like Christmas
Except if it was close to Christmas
Because the boxes were always a little more full than usual around then
3
She sits all day in a robe
Mismatched socks
A cigarette between permanently pursed lips
She is the closest thing to crazy cat lady
That I have seen in real life
Except
These are not cats
These are children
Still dumb enough to not see that something is wrong
4
He is an old man
Doing what old men do
Around the time of forgetfulness
And the time where your body stops doing what you tell it to
Like to not **** your pants
5
They are like houseplants
And goldfish purchased from the same market
Living things whose only interest is dying
Like sheep open mouthed at the beauty of the rain
Sheep sometimes drown in the rain
6
I feel like I’m drowning
In a shallow pond
The kind of drowning that takes effort
And humility
The kind where the gasps of air are enough
To fill me with hope for a little longer
It is water-logged hope
At the bottom of a drying well
When the mouth at the top
Look so much like laughing
7
I know
Airing out your ***** laundry in public
Doesn’t clean your clothes
As much as it lets everyone know how bad you can smell
Which reminds me
I have laundry to do in the morning
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 7:02 AM UTC
Is there a way to say what I feel without having to hide in strawberry fields.
I look for a way to disguise my cries, with clever language and creative lies.
Despise me if you really care about another mothers terrible heir.
Dare to spare me a little change, I need a sip of something strange.
The taste of nature smelling sweet now signifies I am complete.
I don't mean to say what manages to emerge.
When it comes to gluttony, we always tend to purge.
Scrambling through the dialogue I've logged within my cerebellum cell.
Heaven is a Neverland, this place, a kind of Hell.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC
If you get it, you lost it.
I am here
(On this platform it is evident for your reading now)
I express myself
(Heads scratching, wondering what and how?)
I share pieces of me
(A defragmented glimpse of an experience deemed ‘worthwhile')
Callous, sensuality?
(Or a traitor in sheep cosplay?)
A dead-end hi-way?
Or this pawn from yesterday?
Here, your final say
This family we never asked
Amontillado without it's cask
Dry and cheery
Heart’s are bleary
We own this laborious task
My sins are scrollable, thumbed in haste,
Wrapped in ribbons of curated taste.
A gallery of masks, all timed just right,
My shadow dances in the ring light.
What of shame when shame gets likes?
What of thought when thought’s in spikes?
I weep in drafts, but post a grin—
The world won’t wait for the shape I’m in.
So brand the bruise, then sell the hue:
A wellness tip in sponsored blue.
This self I host in feedback’s cage—
A pet, a post, a digital page.
I bare my soul (or just its shell).
You’ll never know. I sell it well.
I logged on seeking something undefined,
A tether, maybe—some reciprocal ache.
But all I found were mirrors misaligned,
Each smile too wide, each word opaque.
The comments pile like leaves, not read.
Applause from ghosts, replies from ghosts.
I feed the feed, it feeds instead—
A hunger that consumes its hosts.
I draft a truth. I dress it twice.
Add polish. Then delete.
I write in blood, convert to nice,
Make trauma fit a beat.
No lesson left. No higher shelf.
Just one more version of myself.
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 10:16 PM UTC
Seven score and eleven years after the Emancipation Proclamation;
I'd like to thank my community for finally acknowledging his memory.
Wanting to view historical document written by Rev. Martin Luther King,
logged on and took a virtual trip to our ever expanding National Archives.
His views on day of historic speech, "Heartwarming to see this marvelous,
gigantic group of people here from all over the nation to give witness."
I'm giving credit to ABC news for being allowed to hear the man's words
from his own mouth without having to read them in black and white.
There's no argument in regards to race differences and that we the people,
have miles to go before we are at similar mindset in climate of opinion.
Spotlight should shine brightly on how far we've come as we the people,
away with all the negatives of no hopes of ever achieving racial harmony.
If MLK were alive today he'd see many positive changes and would see
his dream is still alive and well though we have miles to journey's end.
Yes, Dr. Martin Luther King, you are appreciated as we honor your day.
I have many reasons to thank you and all who paid the ultimate sacrifice.
My children are allowed to attend any public school they wish without fear.
I can now sit in the front of the bus without fear of arrest or a mob beating.
There are no laws preventing me from front door entry of public buildings.
Thanks so much! I'm free to date or marry any person of any race I choose.
The list above is just a small sampling of all the changes his life evoked.
I'm thankful he was gifted to our planet in period of time he was needed.
He is missed by the planet and those of us who are grateful that he existed.
Dr. Martin Luther King was true Visionary with foresight to see great things.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 7:16 AM UTC
I froze my *** off filling my tank yesterday.
Me and Tyson are watching early morning news.
Still **** at poetry writing but getting better.
I logged on to Google+ to see your new pic in color.
You look great in black and white on your profile btw.
You are so ****** gorgeous and thoughts
of you make my heart leap and keep me very warm.
I heard another siren five minutes ago.
I'm staying at home to work from my home office.
I went to whattalking and saw the enlargements
of your face then printed out your pictures.
No copyright violations intended and please don't sue. : )
Your gorgeous face is now my desktop theme.
My heart is leaping and I have butterflies in my stomach
thinking about you and seeing your pics Betty Ponder.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
Carved from marble,
marvelous and draped in my covers,
floating above my head in a puff of smoke or
as a cartoonish memory
I stay in bed today,
peeking through the blinds.
Surrounded by no one but my
soft and artificial menagerie,
I'm bubbling at the lip.
There are sacks of rice sitting
right above my hips and they're
heavy. Who will help me hold them?
Pressing a thumb to the surface and wincing;
I can feel the grains shifting under my skin.
Today I cooked the rice.
, I swear.
Heat built up in the *** til steam was lifting off my skin^
Hard crunchy bits to tenderize,
softening under the lid.
When I felt that click,
I broke out my wooden spoon
and ate a big plate.
The warm fluffy substance blessed my full cheeks and belly.
For the first time,
I felt like I wasn't hungry.
Maybe tomorrow when I bathe
I'll grow 3 or 4 times my size.
Water-logged
I will fill up the tub,
ceramic squeezing my fleshy form into a
rectangular shape.
Stick a spoon in
and eat me piece by piece.
May 1, 2021
May 1, 2021 at 9:12 AM UTC
We waded knee deep in the puddles
of vacant lots when the flood filled
our gutters to the brim.
When the rain died down and the water pulled
itself from the streets we watched the rainbow
of oil swirl around our ankles,
walked the wooden footbridge that broke
apart under the weight of our feet,
the water-logged wood rot
splitting while rusted nails slid
out of place. We followed the streams
back to the plaza, back to fake IDs
and the ash-stained tobacco shop.
We found ourselves under flickering
lights, leaning against the rusted
siding of the family market, faces hidden
in a mask of smoke. We got lost
in the electric hum of the laundromat's cyclic drone.
They paved over it all -- covered freckled
skin with cloth and hot tar,
crushed vacant houses like hollow skulls,
ignited neon lights and street lamps,
strip malls and drugs stores
that burn holes into old hiding places.
They still try to sift through shattered glass,
silence the hiss of the popped bike tire,
wipe away the blood flower that blooms
from my scabbed knee.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 10:29 AM UTC
They say to take time with wounded hands, because they like to feel
But who the **** listens to THAT anymore?
We live in a world where ambivalence is feared, instead of felt
In sickness and in health there are just some secrets hidden by stealth
but people
people don't keep promises anymore...
Could you look me in the eyes and honestly say, that you're aware of the creatures that will try and chase you away?
Demise promises to whisper them sweet songs
Chemical induced lullabies to keep them at bay
at bay
and out of sight
But only if you say to me just like they used to that " Hey, everything is going to be okay"
or
" Everything will be alright "
But I suppose all this **** is in my head
Day dreams sewn with chronic anxiety and manic depressive thread will only make the button eyes for a teddy bear better left for dead.
And this toy you found was already water-logged and torn
and little boys who claim to be 'all grown up' tend to get easily bored
because for a 'man' who said he could love me through any weather
you sure didn't put up a struggle when water made the veins turn blue
atrophy
through
and through
along with your 'forgotten' 'love' letters
But I suppose people just aren't meteorologists anymore
and for your sake
I'm glad you found someone so much better.
God knows I wont
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
Print screen my whole being,
in the cadence of seasons changed.
Generation X's sweet heartbreak.
Strangers share the pain.
We walk the walk online,
nowadays,
in these times that are a changed.
Changing no more - subtly maybe.
The footfall of history stored,
in Google baby,
& terrabytes & ram.
A virus called.
And the rhyming stalled,
until;
Man made museums in nothing, but,
soldiered components,
smaller than the eye can see.
Nano moments,
lost in scrolled screens,
likes and comments,
compassion shared
around,
the world,
until forgotten;
fads
fade
away,
into familiarities.
Then we logged out of life,
and left reality behind smokescreens,
of PCs
HD ready, on blue days -
Blue Rays,
now smaller.
microsized.
Our brain waves microwaved.
Attention spans,
in the palm of our mouse shaped hands.
Say goodbye to the old days,
guilty as charged,
in
the strife of low battery life;
running out of charge.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC
Two Frenchmen,
One newly retired,
One still a few years out,
In high back leather chairs
Beside an empty fire place,
Guinness & coffee & conversation
To bring closure,
And to think how to begin again....
"I'm burned out!"
Mssr. Rivere declares,
"Away with books;
Away with the horn!"
He says, and I can tell,
That he feels worn.
Is this how we come to our ends;
Spent in years and worn of halls,
Chalk and marker memories,
And the clattering of chairs....
Old opening lines, closing remarks,
Grading done and logged,
And now it's out we're turned
To walk upon the parks,
Once quicker steps now trudging
Up and down the eternal stairs?
Memories' mellowed now,
And sometimes failing;
Shall we go sadly sighing,
Or do we go out flailing?
At these crossroads,
Care-worn teachers,
Revert to old philosophy,
To faith, and to our friends...
Ancient lines to lead us
Too soon to be old men....
Must look all ways, we,
Then venture out again
To see what lies beyond
The pasts we leave behind;
Take pause this afternoon
Upon the marge
Of journeys new
We must begin.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
I put you on my wall today
As soon as I got home
And I smilled at how you were crooked
And I tilted my head to really see you
And that's when the water sloshed out of my ears and I was drowning
Your eyes became bubbles that helped me breathe
When I ****** them in
I became one with the pressure
The fluctuating force that I knew all to well
Spilling from my ears like a cloud too heavy to hold its weight
You drift off the wall and float with me, fragile, yet permanent and meaningful in my mind
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC
When the clouds below turn to into carpet
Up there in the cold morning light,
The VFR pilot jitters and frets:
Time to check fuel, to come up with a plan
To search for a hole in the billow below,
And bring the craft in to land.
So it was when a pilot coming back from a lark,
Flew in a circle somewhere over Williston,
Above clouds turning thicker and dark.
In his office sat Phil, across the state line,
When the radio crackled, pleading a break:
"VFR practice," he thought, "He's probably fine."
Phil headed to lunch, had an errand to do...
Drove downtown for a couple of hours,
Returning somewhere around 2:00.
The radio tone carried tired despair
When Phil walked back in from his break
And heard the pilot, still stuck in the air.
Phil knew that the fuel must be drained
In the old Piper Cub overhead,
So he logged a flight plan and ran for his plane.
He flew to the east and banked to the north,
Rising above the gray carpet below,
And spotted the wanderer holding its course.
Coming in fast, cutting his distance by half,
"Super Cub over Williston, this is Bonanza
On your left. How much fuel do you have?"
"About 30 minutes," came a despondent reply,
Standard answer, but gauging the hours,
Phil calculated the response was a lie.
"I am going to fly by your side.
Follow me and dive when I dive;
Keep contact and enjoy the ride."
The planes in tandem turned around;
Phil flew by IFR to find the runway end,
Backed off the throttle, and led them down.
The tail dragger followed, did not complain,
Dropped into the soup gliding blind
Except for the strobe on the faster plane.
The old Cub flared when Phil said, "Land!"
Settled onto the runway end as the propeller stalled,
And Phil had saved a desperate man.
On the hangar wall now hangs a plaque,
Though Phil himself is gone,
The Governor's gift for bringing a flyer back.
--------------
My brother once watched Phil Petrik of Sidney Aviation fly off the Sidney runway, disappearing into a pea soup fog, carrying our father and mother on an emergency flight to Billings, to save my father's life.
I lay this poetic rose upon Phil's grave as a slim tribute to a man who earned my admiration and life long gratitude. Rest In Peace, Phil Petrik.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
My touch can start brush fires.
My fingers are ***** matchsticks,
the kind your mother warned about.
My petaled lips spark against yours
like flint against steel.
My volatile breath, an overcast of smoke
creeping from the belly of my throat.
My twisted tongue douses your chalky skin
with fuel, a gasoline spreading to your logged limbs.
I leave your organs to curdle,
and by morning glow,
you’re nothing but a burn victim.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC