"lumped" poems
The third moon brought forth from the shadow dark.
Gentle breeze freewheeled across the lakeshore.
Windswept was the air, in peace night was marked-
Unyielding stillness, blooming fairness more.
Silky pastel cloth, gushing curtain soft.
The window let in hushed waft soothing cool.
Fixed firmly on shore with poles planted stiff,
A pavilion meek light heartened the pool.
By the portico was a tree bent down
Whose white flowers bloomed lovely as a nymph.
Its jagged branches, lumped of golden-brown,
Delicately grown each emerald leaf.
Underneath its shades were cheery plantlets;
Pebbles hard and cold; red earth spongy ground;
Flying whirly bugs, glittering bead lets.
Fair maiden deferred, there then can be found.
Pleasing to the eye, that dignified dress
In white noble silk with fine needlecraft.
Regal as she stood, just for a mistress.
Mystic was her eyes, a soul was grafted.
Filled with potent life in her burning stare.
Profound as the deep, tranquil as it surge.
One may glimpse straight to, utmost one can't bare.
To its mysteries, one gave in and urged.
Verdant her hair was, hearty as it shone.
Longer than she was, white as the moonlight.
In her neck are chains, beads and shells she owned.
Varies in sizes, things that make her bright.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 5:30 AM UTC
Not all men insecure because their spouse makes more money.
The man just happy to have a loving partner.
It's those males with sensitive egos.
Who complains about his lady bringing home more bread?
Who let the old role of a man dictates to them?
While many males isn't lumped together with them.
Take those ladies at the top.
They don't brag about it.
Because they earned the position to be there.
And don't need anything or anyone to uplift them.
They solely believes action speaks louder than words.
Yes, many males comfortable with a working spouse.
That's just more percentage of money to assist in helping the finances of the house.
You might read an article of two.
Boasting of a woman in a man's field.
Or, what it use to be?
And look closely at the writer.
It's mostly written probably by a woman.
Who first brought up the subject of making more than most men.
Except , many aren't upset.
If they know she has the experience.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:00 AM UTC
Dishes clang loud against the sink
Metal spoons bang white ceramic
Anger defies lifelong contract
Sacred and sealed with tears and tact
Adhesive is this stone of hurt
Lumped solidly within her throat
No easy atonement comes forth
Nor minor distraction does soothe
Her rant gathers no audience
No recall of what stoked this fire
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
Be so fractioned
my split personality be split
Never know who's comin' out
Kinda like the laundry mat
Does mine at the Wishy Washy
Funny how things get all separated
Whites all in a pile over here
Darks and colors over there
Breaks it down even further
Gotta lotta red
so that gets its own pile
whilst medium and light colors
be divided
Blacks and blues
just lumped together
Then it just gets all mixed up again
'Cause truth is
don't gots the dough to through
down that many loads
This riles Señorita Clarita
Thinks I'm cheap
so mostly, I end up lookin' like some
techno tie-dyed fruit basket
in girly pants
Yeah, still be wearin'
my sister's hand-me-downs
Be some hard times for
The Poet Launderette
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
I was moving out
Parked my bike down the street
With a cart hinged on the bolt beneath the rusty pole
connected to my seat.
The yard was steep, and the stairs leading down
the front
Vanished each car-
go carrying trip
of dictionaries and travel guides that
could have been lumped together in boxes
separately tossed into the neon
green
synthetic fiber
rain-proof buggy
Connected to my seat.
I ran across the lawn, one last time
Buckling the watch I found from high school
remembering it’s broken and not caring
then I saw men wearing polos beneath
Greek symbols beneath a doorway
and held my breath as they stared at me.
This vacant lot held something which I carried back
to find
my bike was gone, replaced
by a life-sized depiction of a bike saying
“no bikes--” A girl inside, explaining where I could find mine
I walked down the grey spiral of handicapped access ramps
surrounded by aquariums or tvs
which comprised the store's interior.
The last ramp faced an exit and went straight past
refrigerators next to vending machines
In the alley behind this office supply store were two old men
Roasting my bike on a chain beside the others
Disconnected, hung
its tires lying on the ground beside their feet
and the carriage slung aside like a bloodied gazelle's neck.
“What the ****
A woman got into my face “don’t use that word”
***** a perfectly good word, after all, it’s how we
got here”
One man smiled.
He felt bad.
They helped me put the bike together and I walked it back to my house.
I saw my car down the street.
I thought about the long trip to the interstate and wondered why I’d
rode my bike
Then I went back up the stairs of the blue sided hill,
to see the roommate I hated
and thought about stealing his SNES and stereo
but took only my one possession
and walked past rotting turkey bacon in a plastic pouch
on the top of a table
beside some legos
and left.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
my DNA is a self-made daisy chain
strung together with the best of intentions
and a few yards of dental floss
it's always getting tangled up in moon beams
and boot strings
tugging me in one thousand directions at once
like the sea pulling at the limitless shorelines hem
i am magic
my flesh reflects the hue of the desert dust the winds bathe me in
speckled with freckles that occasionally line up with the stars
what a fool i'd be to paint myself into obscurity
with make-up brushes and lipstick hues
no
i choose me
excessively sensitive to the energy of all other living beings
always feeling everything
all the pain and happiness
love and fear and angst
at once
lumped in with the leaves of my tea
destined to forever reside within
me
the high-priestess of the immeasurable things
the guardian of treasures unseen
constantly filling my sundress with ***** pebbles
broken feathers
and all the stardust i can find
i've spent the last one thousand life times
being everywhere at the EXACT same time
you should know
you were there
and oh
such love i've found
hiding in the shallows
in the mud
and under the edges of your finger nails
even in the darkness of the vast
and ever-stretching sky
there is so much light
so very many precious gems
hoisted into timeless settings along the milkyway's head-dress
i promise
where i am right now
is the best place to be
and if you don't believe me
crane your neck towards the stars
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
The pills taunt me from beside my bed
as I lay here, tortured within by each
painful heartbeat burning within my
chest and weighting my back to the lumped brick
of springs and polyester fiber.
Those blue beauties sleeping silently in their
sun fire home, why can't I sleep too?
One, two, five, ten, my throat counts
my way to freedom
Ironic, how we all have different definitions of
salvation. I adopted these babies to
"save myself," so the doctors think
Tonight it's Judgement Day.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
Don't categorize yourself with someone else, don't lump yourself into a specific type. One similarity does not a commonality make. A million and one people may all have done what you've done or felt what you've felt but that does not breed you together into one common group or make their goals yours or your goals something they have any possibility of reaching. It may sound cliche but you are the only you, no one else could be you or truly understand everything you've ever felt to the core of your being since you've become you. And this you, the one you stare at every day in the mirror, is not the you you've always been and is certainly not the you you'll always be. You are continually changing and becoming more than you've ever been before. If you keep trying and doing and working towards something, anything that's better than what you are right now then you've already surpassed every category, type or group that you lumped yourself into. You are not a category. You are not what anyone else thinks you are. You are what you try to become, what you hope to become, what you've always dreamed you'd become.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
Staring into stars, the lonely people drink their tears
And genuflect to empty car parks and swallow their fears
Like Ernest Hemingway, they grit their teeth and laugh
********* a pocket bullet, contemplating aftermath
And the shadows bend and grow…
And the embers shine below.
Geared for success, the lonely boy begins to starve
His chest heaving from stress, his wish for waterfall in cars
Freeways self-entitled, forcing ants into the gutter
While a lonely father cries and the boy freezes and sputters
And the doorway opens up
As the mouth is finally shut.
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
You need to straighten up your tie and keep your noses clean.
My mother’s eyes in moonlight silently judging me
Inhumanity, why don’t you rule these streets?
I bite my bottom lip and gaze down at my feet
Lumped chunk of nicotine
Pushing itself out of me.
I want to stop blending rainwater with my leaking eye-sockets,
Crying for another with which to share my gold locket,
Tossing and turning, wondering where I will be next
And for God’s sake, can I do it, am I trying my very best!?
Why can’t I get up on time like every normal human being?
Why do I always get sick, why do my guts hate me?
Why are all my joints always crackling and aching?
I never want to live, don’t ever try to save me!
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
Staring into stars, the lonely people sit and smile
Counting all the faces staring back, retracing miles
Celestial serenity, striving for an energy
Never needing inquiry, embracing the no thing!
Should these calloused hands be empty?
Do I need a beating?
Will these pruning hands deceive me?
This Universe is in me.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC
I arrive in Lima
The sweat-sogged poverty
lumped onto concrete
pushes at my heels
The tight black air
swallows the nakedness
of prostitutes and thieves
Pockets empty like a traveler’s stomach
growling beneath the world of Los Incas
In Cusco
My head throbs in the thin air
with the sound of boys
trying to shine my boots, my sandals
my bare feet
no problemo
women sell fresh papaya and guava
sweaters and trinkets
Hawkers surround me
like a tightly stitched T-shirt
Cusco
The Navel of the Earth
A bulging belly
throbbing
digesting
living
Sunset
I spread my toes
over the evaporated flood waters
of the Rio Urubamba
where it once flowed
from the fingers of Manco Inca
over the fleeing conquistadors
at the top of Ollantaytambo
Momentary brilliance
before you retreated to the jungle
Spain, always gnawing at your heels
It’s a mouth-full-of-coca-leave’s journey
to Macchu Picchu
I enter the dream
spitting wet leaves
on the silence of a dead kingdom
Gasping for air that once filled lungs
of Inca messengers
carrying news of defeat and conquest
over the great Andes
Los Incas Caminos
The cloud-dripped mountains
spread green across my eyes
I see ghosts
a steady move of feet through the depleted air
Porter, takes my backpack
carries it against his brown crusty skin
ancient, sun-baked descendant
of the Earth’s naval
A toothless, painless smile
It must have been different
before we came
with money the color of unpicked rice
Now I hear your belly-groan
Between the perfectly fitted stones
of Sacsayhuaman
My voice bounces circular
off invisible walls
because your magic has survived you
Macchu Picchu
Unknown and majestic
Hidden from blood
from the stink of vultures
No more
Black raven feather
drops on my skull
floats on the shiny gray stone
under my feet
which are wrapped in dried, brown skin
naked, without a heartbeat
It’s past sunrise
the tourist bus has arrived
and the flat shadow of the crowd
blocks the light of the ascending sun
that tries to penetrate
the perfect holes
of a perfect wall
in an imperfect dream
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
Staring into stars, the lonely people drink their tears
And genuflect to empty car parks and swallow their fears
Like Ernest Hemingway, they grit their teeth and laugh
********* a pocket bullet, contemplating aftermath
And the shadows bend and grow…
And the embers shine below.
Geared for success, the lonely boy begins to starve
His chest heaving from stress, his wish for waterfall in cars
Freeways self-entitled, forcing ants into the gutter
While a lonely father cries and the boy freezes and sputters
And the doorway opens up
As the mouth is finally shut.
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
You need to straighten up your tie and keep your noses clean.
My mother’s eyes in moonlight silently judging me
Inhumanity, why don’t you rule these streets?
I bite my bottom lip and gaze down at my feet
Lumped chunk of nicotine
Pushing itself out of me.
I want to stop blending rainwater with my leaking eye-sockets,
Crying for another with which to share my gold locket,
Tossing and turning, wondering where I will be next
And for God’s sake, can I do it, am I trying my very best!?
Why can’t I get up on time like every normal human being?
Why do I always get sick, why do my guts hate me?
Why are all my joints always crackling and aching?
I never want to live, don’t ever try to save me!
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
Staring into stars, the lonely people sit and smile
Counting all the faces staring back, retracing miles
Celestial serenity, striving for an energy
Never needing inquiry, embracing the no thing!
Should these calloused hands be empty?
Do I need a beating?
Will these pruning hands deceive me?
This Universe is in me.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
famished lychee
bent on treason
almost unknowingly furious/
dragging feet
all the way
to gather the fairest feathers,
now lumped under dreary
epitaphs.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
A "Memories" poem by the immortal Barry Hodges aka Edna
Night fell on Montmartre and, gazing into my love's eyes
Over a candelit chequered tablecloth,
Beneath my belt lurked rancid lust,
The seams of my trousers oozing love's sweet song,
My groin lumped in desire for her wanton arse-flesh.
Streetlight shone through threadbare curtains
Harnessing proudly over my pounding buttocks;
Hermione's screamed climaxes echoing
In deepest recesses of her third-rate mind.
My clear goal: swallow my salty comings, cow.
Morning exposes a sordid scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spreadeagled cold-as-chilled-salami ****
Puny synapses crushed like mashed strawberries
Blasted smithereens of overpowering *******
Like chicken's entrails in an unwashed sink.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
News, news, news.
Why are you constantly the subject of the evening news?
Why is it a reminder of saga of a black man?
Inner city heartache.
Inner city heartbreak.
And we wonder , if the story is bias.
When they pointing out a black male troubles.
A hard honest worker trying to earn a dollar.
Just to be accustom by a no good robber.
A man refusing to live honestly.
Oh, saga of a black man.
When the news seems to be showcasing them.
Sure we could complain and states it completely wrong.
Sure we say it.
But when it seems to be youthful fools.
What is anyone suppose to do?
We can't say that its hard.
When we are are struggling to stay afloat.
But constant robbery of hard working folks.
Just won't be tolerated.
Yes, this is written about the saga of a black man.
Ministers preaching, but afraid to guide.
Teachers teaching, but many refuses to abide by the rules
Then dropping out and using any means to survive.
Again, saga of a black man.
Those that good in our society.
Gets lumped together will these fools for no apparent reason.
Gangs intimidating and harassing a few.
Because many don't intimidate those that stand their ground.
They know the odds they will be laid down.
We could say its because of fatherless homes.
Except many has a father to call their own.
Its just many trying to think they are grown.
Yes, saga of a black man.
Life is what you make it.
So don't get upset when your son is locked away.
Its just the price they must pay.
And they realize all their power are gone.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
Inside this
depth of the perpetual,
I hold onto the light,
learning that
it is not an illusion
but a constant
fire within
hard as metal
simultaneously lava soft
no longer boneless,
lumped jelly
in a flaccid bowl
Instead I am bowled over
with new power,
plugged into
my own electric universe
in rushes of ******** voltage
that was always waiting for me
to see it
to allow it inside
the tissues of my body
to flow up and through
intestines, muscle, heart and bone
threads from
a glowing orb
that slake
and snake through me
like a river's glory
leaving the spirit on edge for more
and I am ever grateful
to take that light
spin it into a gift
unwrap it slowly
drape it
over me like
a flowing,
unstitched garment
pour its liquid-tipped velvet
onto my follicles, sensitive
tender luminosity
touching all the right places
its silvery essence
flooding me in
drips and slips
healing all the lost
and lonely places,
desolation's imprint
hollows of brimmed-over
despair
I have become
a quivering, stellar bud
bursting forth, each day
burning into new
rebirth in quenching torrents
ripe as ovarian silk
soaked in
cellular juice
inner seeds ready to be flung
unto the earth
into the wilderness
into expansion
ready to
bloom
and bloom
and bloom
again
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 2:10 AM UTC
life has never been held within the ( parentheses ) of breathing and
the periods of sentences. see syntax holds no
importance in terms of the soul and beating hearts, and ( like ee cummings ) i have
never held enough worth in the personal to capitalize myself
but that was before i met You and realized that i have never felt life
(like being alive in your kiss) before that moment that You
turned me into I
and now
with all of my well-formed syllables and crafted lines
can’t seem to draw the image of this fate and the music of our
breath dripping across each others skin; no
rhythm of words could ever manifest within the capitalization of
We or the Beauty of Us.
but tonight, as we crawl beneath covers my blood will
approve of this garden between our curves and holding hands.
I will grow the sun to cast an eternal summer
within your smile
(streetlamp halos have never been enough)
but this poem will always say less than the tangible moments of
glances grazes and the heart I carry with Me (carrying it in my heart)
so it can grow like our family trees, reaching (higher than the atmosphere lifting her skirt
to hold in the immensity) their branches into tributaries that flow into being Alive while
the roots of your spirit sprout spores across my skin,
an addiction to slowly sharpen the moment into
our mouths
rising to breathe in the others breath
our tongues
folding into the song of each others taste
thighs and hands that grip
at the stepping stones you laid across your
stomach,
while a phrase more powerful than ( I Love You)
is carried within the gesture of your hips
and the lifelines of your palm
because i’ve never liked the way my
soul lumped beneath the confines of my skin or the way
the muscles of my body fell limp stretched over bones
until I met You. because You make me see
Beauty and emulate the existence of love and
when I try to remember a past without you, it’s less real than
every played out future held in your eyes
and our holding hands
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 7:26 AM UTC
He chokes
paper and
inhibits law
there in
habitual way
as he
lumped this
load on
my community
with popular
dogma still
ministry of
the house
though the
township nigh
but a
hospital standard
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 8:35 AM UTC
Devastated was the word. Yes, it fit.
The night before found her restless and fitful, up and down, churning, besieged with scattered thoughts. Noisy chattering, fragmented bits of fear, hurt, shame, regret, disappointment and judgement, all jostling with one another, all scrabbling like jackals to be the first to gnaw on her bones.
Why was she carrying the full burden of shame? Had he not shown his flaws?
But as the indignation rose, the words of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn wept through like an Artesian wellspring of wisdom reminding, "But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?"
"WAIT JUST ONE MINUTE HERE, AL!" she protested.
crickets
"Oh no!" says she to herself, as she dusted off her Ouija board, "You will come back here!"
Nervous fingers and shaky vocal chords work together in a synchronized effort to pull him away from his glass of fermented potato and there he was, a bearded wild haired man with an intense stare that left her wriggling under her skin. But she was on a mission and she would not be deterred.
Clearing her throat, she began, "Mr. Solzhenitsyn ---"
Aleksandr raised his hand up in a gesture to stop her
His heavily accented English softly penetrated the air.
"Pебенок, tell me, what do you need?"
"I need to understand."
"Tell me why." he pressed.
"Why?" She forced her words past the hurt that sat lumped in her throat,"I'm trying to make sense of betrayal. How can people insist they truly love even after lies have been uncovered?"
"Tell me Кэтрин, would you agree that morality can often be found to be at odds with passion and desire?"
She nodded.
He continued, "And that good intentions are often found to be at odds with unconscious motivations?"
"Yes." she whispered
Aleksandr sat thoughtful for a moment, then gently and softly spoke. "You understand Кэтрин, your problem is, you want too much from understanding. It cannot turn shadow into light and it cannot right wrongs. So, no Pебенок, you are not in need of understanding. What you need is to accept that a thing is what it is."
He drew on his pipe and smiled tenderly.
"And you need to make a decision.
You must decide if your wounds have made you more ... or have made you less."
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
Fidel Castro, the secular Pontiff
The day began with sadness Fidel Castro is dead despite the USA's bilious behaviour
And ill attempt to **** him, he was able to create a health system second to none
And also made the country with the highest literacy on that part of the world which
will stand the people well in the coming storm
He had many flaws democracy as we understand it was not on the list, mind the way
it is practised in the west is not impressive
I towering political giant his place in history is assured on a page of its own and not
lumped together with King & Queens and other useless historical figure
We expect the lying Cuban mafia will try to enter, bring their I-Phones
and cheap day loans, one hope when they find life will tear them apart that they will
not forsake the socialist revolution and what Cuba was before Fidel Castro and can
so easily a place for gambling and prostitution again
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC
The world might come to an end
but I will never bend
to attend the cell
ringing like damnation to hell.
This incessant ringing fills me with rage
like a tiger enslaved, enraged in cage.
'tis everything frightening
the evening's storm, thunder and lightening
pleasing silence no longer remains
grief, anger, frustration domains.
nerves rattle like a boiling kettle
knees weaken, heart's pounding fails to settle
deep breaths no longer help
words trapped and lumped.
fear, panic, dread
deprive me of the valor
to pick the call and end the terror.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
This day has a cumulous attitude
Cirrus mixed in with the brood
Actually all kinds of clouds are mixed within
Is this a message from Our Father
Even the Cumulonimbus are on the spin
Teasing to bring forth rain
Stratocumulus are everywhere
Lumped together in rounded masses,
In line and in waves,
Perhaps to fight against such strain which surpasses
We may have to pray
Nimbostratus to bring forth rain
Until then contrails, God has given us, will ease pain
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
I’m lost in my own house
Memories are painted everywhere
They remind me like painful scabs
That my house was once a home.
I’m lost in my house
Because it feels like you are
Around every corner
But I can’t find you anywhere.
Your absence is everywhere.
It has left wells
Invisible inside each room.
Cold, dry, and hollow, they echo you.
They make me swear
That I can hear you
(your pitter-patter,
or your snoring,
or your breathing)
They make me swear
That I can still see you
(laid down to nap
on the couch,
or on our bed)
They make me swear
That I can still feel you
(lumped beside my feet,
sprawled on top,
of the covers of our sheets)
The only thing real
The only thing left
Is your scent
That still clings to the blankets
Even with all these empty wells
In all of these empty rooms
I have only one hopeless wish.
Just one little wish.
To find you in our house
To make your way back home.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
One dull summer evening,
I look up
and I see it
A big bob of cob-web,
lumped into that shape
Hanging from a fine thread,
like an upside down snake
It sways around,
responding to my fan
Stereotypical Indian music plays in my head,
and I stop looking up at all
Right below, coffee I sip
And it descends on me,
the thought -
What are the odds,
that into my coffee,
the snake will take a dip?
Low, for sure,
but maybe I can help
I turn on the fan speed,
and start drinking there more often
One day I come back,
from a hot sultry day errand,
the ones you just can't avoid
I sit down with my cold water
and realize,
long before I look up,
that the snake has gone
No more head bobbing around,
no more of Satan's spies looking down
I look around, and down on the floor
lies he
Just a film of dust now,
acknowledging the fan,
fluttering mildly
I guess for my coffee now
I will have to find,
a new hope
of an equally rich finish
Till then, just hazelnut, chocolate
or maybe something a little Irish
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
I pretend that I hate nebraska
because that's what teenagers do
we b i t c h
and we w h i n e
c o m p l a i n
about our home towns
our home states
our home countries
we justify our desire to be
g o n e
a w a y
o u t of this place
with made up facts
about our ****** up hometowns
we never stop
to think
there must be a reason my parents chose to live
h e r e
honestly I have nothing against nebraska
my resentment comes from the desire to be
f r e e
which is just one letter away from
h e r e
so freedom can't be too far in the distance
the truth is nebraska can be pretty great sometimes
there's an honesty
an energy
an optimism that could only be found
in a state where even the city kids
know about the country life
and even though summers bring
90 degree weather
and humid humid h u m i d air
while winters bring
subzero temperatures
and
1
2
3
4
5
6
inches of snow
we don't complain too much about the weather
and a "nice day" could be
30 degrees and snow
50 degrees and rain
80 degrees and heat
we take what we can get
because nebraskans are not
g r e e d y
we made this state our own
but still we get lumped together with
iowakansasmissouricoloradoohioillinois
but we are not k a n s a s
we are not m i s s o u r i
we are not o h i o
and we are not
i o w a
don't even suggest that
we are
N e b r a s k a
and nothing else
we take pride in our state
though there's not much to be proud of
but we are p r o u d anyways
and I think that's beautiful
other places are about
c o m p e t i t i o n
biggerbetterbiggerbetter
but in nebraska we are all each other's neighbors
friends
caregivers
nebraskans stick together
no matter what
and that's why
when your car is barreling across that bridge that links
nebraska and iowa
across that **** river
you will see a rusted green sign
welcoming you to this state that always has nice days
takes pride in every moment
and sticks together
you will see words painted in white spelling out
"the good life"
because sure no matter where you go
life *****
but at least here the people are
g o o d
and some times that's enough
this is not the good life
this is the extraordinary life
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC