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Derek Yohn Dec 2013
The coming of the light was disorienting at first, like the shimmer of the surface of the sea when viewed from beneath.  Ossie Mae was swimming up to meet it head on with the fearlessness that only the children of the Great Depression possess.  That stark light called out to her bones.

     Ossie Mae could hear faint sounds of work:  the crinkling of cellophane wrappers, muffled footsteps, and an incessant chatter of beeps nearby.  She broke the water's surface and spied a silhouette moving gracefully around the room's only bed.  The lights' intrusion subsided, and Ossie Mae was able to recognize  hospital scrubs as the silhouette's garment of choice.

     "Am I dead," Ossie Mae ventured feebly.

     "I don't know," the silhouette responded.  "Do you feel dead?"

     "I don't know what dead feels like."

     "Then how do you know you were ever alive?"

     The question hung in the air for a moment while Ossie Mae gathered her wits.  "I don't reckon it matters, does it?  What happened?  Where am I?  What is your name?"  Now the questions flowed like water over the falls.

     "I am Nurse Cassandra.  This is a hospital.  You are here because you fell and broke your hip.  You came in alone...is there anyone you would like me to call for you?  Family?  Friends?"

     Ossie Mae's pupils dilated slightly, as if looking past Nurse Cassandra, searching.  "No.  My husband, Jack, passed away eight years ago.  We never had children and the few friends I have are all in nursing homes or moved away to live with their babies and grand-babies, or to Florida.  It's just me now...," Ossie Mae said, her voice slowly and steadily trailing off.

     Nurse Cassandra, who looked to be a woman in her early fifties, set down the clipboard she had been scanning while Ossie Mae spoke.  She sat down next to Ossie Mae and took her hand.  Ossie Mae thought to herself that for such a young woman, Nurse Cassandra had old eyes.  They were kind and gray, but seemed old and out of place.

     "Is there anything I can do for you, Ossie Mae," Nurse Cassandra asked gently.

     "Well...my daddy was a simple man, and he always told me 'Ossie Mae, you ain't got to know what you want in life, but it sure does help to know what you don't want.'  I sure do miss Daddy...but I reckon what I don't want is to stay in this hospital any longer than I have to.  Could you get me out of here?  Please?  I don't belong here no more."

     "Are you sure?  Really sure that is what you want, Ossie Mae?"

     "Yes'ums.  Yes ma'am."  Flatly.  Definitively.

     "Then of course, Ossie Mae.  I can help you with that."  Nurse Cassandra stood up, reaching into the pocket of her scrubs.  "One escape, coming right up."

     Nurse Cassandra turned to Ossie Mae's I.V. drip, moving quickly with practiced hands, emptying the contents of the syringe into the port on the line.

     And so it came to pass:  Nurse Cassandra, Ossie Mae's Angel of Death, sent her home to Jack and Daddy.
flash fiction attempt #2....

i am still undecided if i should continue to pursue this genre....

your thoughts?
It aint the same everwhere
I know it took a man
To stand and stare
Down them gallows
In Zebullon county square

Lil Mae
age of 21  
saw her man with another
moaned
"I'm gonna make you pay"

now  some of you wanna say

"Lil Mae get a gun make that man pay"
To mad to see
to hurt to care
Lil Mae stormed her way down to
Zebullon county square.

Bobby Lee wasn't  a simple man
to proud to be dumb
could read and write
Yet he never let no one know

Bobby Lee workin late
bumped into a drunk,
back on that old alley

Bobby Lee took a beating by four whites
the blood poured out into the streetlight

Soon enough the sheriff came a runnin
"whats the matter here!!"
white men shouted
"the boy had it coming, he took my money
try to **** me, sheriff I had to do something!!"

12 days later 12 men had a shine
sentenced ***** Lee to hang
Saturday morning half past nine
sun be coming up behind him
so his shadow
would grow tall on that line.

Sun rose cool that day
Folks lined up to watch Ol
Bobby Lee pay.

Soon they all began to scatter
preacher man shouted
'"whats a matta"
Lil Mae had come with blade readied
for her last stand

"Preacher man" Lil Mae shouted
"you goin to hell, no doubt about it"
"Im gonna send you there by my hand."
silver plated blade glistened in the sky

"lord my soul , dont let me die!"

Blood sank  from the preachers throat
Lil Mae watched  til his last choke

Crowd screamed "NO!!" but it fell on Gods deaf ears

"Lil Mae" came her mans voice
"why you do it?"
She reckoned "I had no choice"
"I love you but you put me to it.
you and this preacher man ripped me apart."
Lil Mae's man stood in the middle of the square
tears draining life, sobs stealing air......

Bobby Lee innocent as he was
unwrapped his noose
and slowly walked away

Lil Mae stood her ground on them gallows
but it gave way
half pass nine
she fell in line
the sun made her shadow tall
dead before her body
went through the gallows fall
i havent ever written anything this long and i am sure it needs major revision its a song i hope but would like feedback.
JJ Hutton Dec 2012
Spending the last day with Maegan Finn,*
who, turns out, prefers to be called Mae

11:35 p.m.

I burn the popcorn. Just the pieces against the bag's underbelly.
Like a nightclub bouncer, I decide which pieces to let inside
a white, ancient bowl. One, on which, a former roommate scrawled
"THIS MACHINE KILLS MUNCHIES" upon its side in red, permanent ink.
I never said the night would be

perfect. But when I walk into my bedroom carrying the snack fiasco,
I know Ms. Maegan Finn doesn't mind. Something between her vine-framed,
honey irises and my gaze, some mischievous energy, causes her to lower
her head. She allows a smile. She's sitting on my twin-sized bed. Her back to a pillow
to the

wall. An empty pillow beside her waits for me. With one hand she moves her hot chocolate
to the side, with the other she lifts my calico comforter for me to climb under. I never
said the night would be

perfect. But I know Ms. Maegan Finn doesn't mind. Because when I say, "I'm sorry. I didn't really plan for this," nervous laugh, "this is the worst final meal of all-time. You can leave if you want.
You don't have to go down with the ship."

She responds, "I don't mind," raises an eyebrow as she reads the bowl. Dismisses it. And grabs a handful of popcorn. On the television, a white-haired man with heavy jowls and tree bark wrinkles begins to talk.

...planet Earth will be recycled. The universe recycled.

"So, when does this guy think the world will end?" I ask.

"Midnight."

"Chris said two."

"Two p.m.? Like today? Like already past?"

"Yeah."

Maegan shakes her head,"Stupid *******."

11:40 p.m.

"So, if I hadn't botched dinner, what would you have chosen for your last meal?"

"Well, Joshy-poo, I'd have to say popcorn and hot chocolate."

"Seriously."

"It's salty. It's sweet. The temperatures compliment each other.
It shouldn't work, but it does. If the world wasn't ending,
I'd suggest you open a restaurant."

"C'mon. What would your last meal be?"

...with friends. Cling to your loved ones as the final minutes pass by.
The world becomes perfect. The calendar pages turn no...

"Do you remember Waffle Crisp?" she breaks gently.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Hold on."

"Any meal on the planet. Anything! And you choose-"

"Waffle Crisp."

"Oh, that terrible commercial with the grannies in disguise."

"Grannies and all," staring at the reflective surface of the hot chocolate,
she begins talking in distant pieces like reading off a teleprompter,
"Waffle            Crisp            reminds

me           of           my

              dad."

"I see."

A commercial is on for ******. I never said the night would be

perfect.

...picking the right moment is easy with...

"Why do you think of your dad?"

Maegan releases a deep exhale/tension-laugh.

"I don't know. I mean, I

guess it's because every morning -- well, before my parents got divorced --
he'd come down the stairs, mess up my hair -- God, I'd get so mad --, and
he'd say,
'Mae, may the world learn from your perfection today.'
He'd kiss my forehead. I'd eat Waffle Crisp. I remember the smell -- the shapes."

11:51 p.m.

...less than ten minutes. Go outside with your families
look to the

heavens...

"How's the world supposed to end? Has he said?" Maegan asks.

With a finger raised, I finish chewing my popcorn.

"The planets are aligning right?"

"Yeah, I've heard that. I've heard the Mayans just
ended their calendars on the

date. But I don't know how either of those scenarios make the world end, though."

"Exploding sun?"

"Maybe an asteroid?"

"Could be," I say.

Ms. Maegan Finn rests her head on my shoulder. "You should ask another question."

"Um, okay."

...Security Systems. Are your children safe?

"I got one," I grab the remote and turn down the television. "What is something you haven't told

anyone? One secret that otherwise would die with you."

"I hate the name Maegan."

"Why?"

"It's a terrible name."

"Is not."

"It is too. First off, not only did my parents indulge the cruelty of switching the 'a' and 'e',

but

then they went ahead and gave me the most common girl's name on the planet.
I don't stand out until I say, 'Excuse me, you misspelled my name.' It's not funny.
Hell, even when I say that, their usual response is, 'No, I didn't misspell your name.'
Because they'd know."  Flustered, Maegan puts the white, ancient bowl of popcorn on the ground. "And get this away from me."

"What would you rather be called?"

"Mae. Just Mae. I always liked it."

"Alright, Ms. Mae."

...hoisted unto judgement. Some without absolution...

"What about you, Mr. Josh? What's your secret?"

I take a sip of hot chocolate. I look at the bare wall behind the television, and wish I had
decorated it, but I

never did. The paintings are even in my closet. They just need to be put up.

"I love you."

"What?"

"I love you, Mae."

Mae smiles wide. Puts her hand on my shoulder, "Your'e joking right?"

"Nope."

"That's a bold secret to tell," she laughs.

"Not the reaction I was expecting."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's just -- what happens tomorrow? When I have to see you again."

"I'm betting on the exploding sun."

"Or the asteroid."

"Or the asteroid."

11:59 p.m.

...a matter of seconds until we are cast like dice into the blackness of...

Mae takes my hot chocolate. Places the porcelain cups on the carpeted floor. With a "c'mere" she peels me off the pillow, off the wall. Moves the pillow to the head of the bed. She guides my body until I'm lying down. Straddling me, she leans down. Traces my shoulder blades, then softly latches on to them. She leans further.

...9, 8, 7...*

A kiss.

A long kiss. The weight transfers from my body into her, then is carried toward the ceiling by some mischievous energy. At the end of the world, Ms. Mae Finn kisses me. Kisses me despite popcorn. Despite hot chocolate. Despite love confessed too soon. Just when I never want that minute to end, it




ends.



12:00 a.m.
          
               But a new minute begins.

"That was perfect," Mae says.
He Pa'amon Aug 2018
"And in a funny way, the shaving of my, uh, head has been a liberation from, uh, a lot of, uh, stupid vanities really. Uh, it has simplified everything for me, it has opened a lot of doors maybe." - Stephen Malkmus, Jo Jo's Jacket

the first layer of skin i shed
was the bra

rid of the foreign metal sculptor producing a deep rift between skin
my third eye, swallowing gazes

rid of my **** , my ***** , my rack
replaced with sacks of fat and nerve and milk ducts
hanging, existing, for no one else
not even myself

the second layer of skin was the painting of the face
the concealing and erasing of imperfections, the lines of laughter of sorrow of life
redirecting attention and importance to the bow and symmetry of the lip

no longer did i have to put myself on in the morning
i woke up as i was, as i needed to be,
bare and uninhibited

my skin now breathed, and for no one else
not even myself

and then i grew another layer of skin,
made of dank tangles to protect my age,
i stopped shaving the years i'd walked this earth, shedding my womanhood

the skin grew to my armpits, little tufts of sweaty, odorous mother nature dozing in a fleshy convex nest

and to my legs, were the tangles wrapped around my ankles
preventing the spreading of the legs for every life
for not every life wanted what was not tame
and what was not tame no longer wanted to be.

my body did not conform,
for it was not brought into this world to be consumed for the pleasure of others

it exists for no one else,
not even myself

and as i was engulfed in this hairy wonder of my own body
i shed the last layer,
the shaving of the head

my brain, my being breathed
porous and exposed
vulnerable to weather and whispers

but i was all at once naked and calm,
having finally peeled away the layers of ***** over-sexualization and constrained femininity that had molded this meat sack that serves me,
a bundle of circuitry and solution balancing and bobbing on the neck

for i exist for no one else,
only myself
inspired by the song Jo Jo's Jacket by Stephen Malkmus
Samantha Shaw Nov 2011
I am still a Child. by Samantha Shaw



Phor (father), Mae (mother),

I tried to do as I was told,

I’m trying to obey you, trying not to betray you,

but I don’t understand, I’ve been sold?

am I a resource?  One of exploitation and sales?

I don't understand mama, what if all else fails?

Where am I going and why is it dark here?

For in my small confinement, all I can smell is my fear

It is Dtoolahkom (October), the day is Tuesday,

and since you're flying me to Malaysia, where will I stay?

Mommy, I'm frightened, I don't want to go

No, not with that scary man I don't know.

His hands are clammy, he smells of bad cabbage!

You may not believe me, but he's a ***** old savage.

He's asked me to do things,

things I won't pronounce.

Ever since his grubby hands

undid my blouse.



My name is Mae,

Mae Luang of Myeik, just south of Bangkok

I must whisper to you, for fear they will hear my talk

I used to be happy, my family used to be sound,

but now there's no money, and I've a hunger so profound.

My tummy, it aches of pain and sorrow,

sometimes, it looks away from my tomorrow.

Fifteen years, is the age of my soul.

An adult, so I'm told,and that is why, my soul has been sold.

I've been told, "It's your duty", "Uphold our family name",

but will it still be honor when taken in vain?

I know money is out there,

it is mine for the take,

but do I really have to let my frail body be at stake?





Up in the sky, so high, we can fly,

so no man can touch me,

this little girl won't cry.

My sigh is as deep as the lake I've been kept under,

but, I see Malaysia airport, my dreams now torn asunder.

Reality hitting me with fists to thin stomach

down the spiraling hole, down to earth will I plummet.

He's coming towards me,

takes my hand and my bag,

breath smells like whiskey, I can't help but gag.

Into the car is shoved my physical being,

onto my head placed a bag to keep me from seeing.

The dark, what I fear, when rancid breath is near,

my body cringes and my eyes start to tear.

I can't help but regret this predicament I'm in.

For I know, what's to commence,

is world's most immortal sin.





We sat in our stalls after "work",

this little girl and I,

we spoke very little, she was young, a bit shy.

When I looked at her face,

so delicate and small, she whispered in my ear:

"Get out, save us all.

Run as fast as those legs will run,

don't stop until you've reached setting sun.

Onlythen will you be able to free your bound being,

and tell of our story, let the whole world start seeing.

Our lives will be redeemed, I believe in you Mae Luang,

now go and fix the rights that have been wrong all along!"





With her words in my chest,

I held my head high, and sprinted out the door when the night guard came by.

I ran until I felt my lungs would burst,

in my head rang out "the children come first!"

I'm glad I remembered to grab some money that night,

the money I "earned" helped pay for my flight.

Back in the air, my head cleared of bad thought

trying not to remember, all negativity forgot.

From that day on, I vowed to change Thailand’s wrong-doing

and now, years later,

I am the head of the board to end child trafficking.
This was a story I created for my geography class.

We were instructed to write a fictional story regarding a certain issue in a particular part of the world.

I chose child trafficking in Thailand.
Randy Johnson Mar 2018
She was 79 years old when she passed away.
She was my aunt and her name was Ina Mae.
When a relative passes away, it's always sad.
Ina Mae was the only blood aunt that I had.

She was special and she was Mom's only sister.
Many people loved her and many will miss her.
She was a wonderful lady and a loving mother.
She had a bond with her five kids who loved her.

She was a human being who can never be replaced.
She and mom are in Heaven which is a better place.
When she died in 2017, it was bleak.
Ina Mae was both special and unique.
Dedicated to Ina Mae Dooley (1937-2017) who died on February 24, 2017.
MalakF Jul 2022
O, come a little closer - hear what I have to say,
I know that one piece of writing can be interpreted in so many different ways.
O, but do pay attention to my word-play,
To the picture I’m trying to portray.

O, I hope by the end of this you will understand the image I am trying to convey,
But do not get me wrong, the end of this is something I am attempting to delay.
O, it is saddening to know that sooner or later my rhymes will fade away
So I will replay, replay, replay.

O, how I pray that what we have will not decay.
Like all the flowers & bouquets that I watched wither/die a bit more every day.
O, but how pretty were they?
Sad to know that each & every single one was thrown out like the contents of an ashtray.

O, how you must have noticed the repetition of O’s - I think they are here to stay,
Unlike my pathetic, childish rhymes that I am struggling to hold at bay.
O, do not get me wrong - the rules to rhyme are so easy to obey,
They are so easy to slay.

O, like tray, cafe, puree,
For god sake, even JFK.
O, please tell me - do you see the problem on display?
Do you see what I am trying to say, what is coming my way?

O, it feels like a betrayal
No, no, no that’s not a rhyme.
I need to rhyme, I need us to be okay.

Ray, clay, Bombay.
Tray, fray, mae.
Ray, clay, Bombay.
Tray, fray, mae.

O, please stay
I need us to be okay.
O, I know repetition of words is not a rhyme,
Nothing more than copy & paste.

Ray, clay, Bombay,
Tray, fray, mae.
Ray, clay, Bombay,
Tray, fray, mae.

O, please I don't want us to stray
I hate how we went from white to grey.
O, please I don’t us to end this way,
I know I am barely rhyming but I will try my best, okay?

Look - ballet, allay, hooray,
Hay, weigh, olay.
Look - ballet, allay, hooray,
Hay, weigh, olay.

O, please stay
I need us to be okay.
O, I know repetition of words is not a rhyme,
Nothing more than copy & paste.

I’ll come up with more,
Dismay, replay, is-lay.
Tray, cafe, valet,
Delray, Alleyway, Chevrolet.

It is not that I don’t know how to rhyme,
I just need something to rhyme for.
Rhyming is synchronisation, it is compatibility
I just need to know we are.

Please, stay, stay, stay,
Don't go away, don't go away, don't go away.
Please, stay, stay, stay,
Don't go away, don't go away, don't go away.

Ray, clay, Bombay,
Tray, fray, mae.
Ray, clay, Bombay,
Tray, fray, mae.

I know I am barely rhyming, but I will do my best okay?
Please stay,
Don’t go away.
I always associated rhyme with compatibility, and although sometimes certain words that rhyme does not mean the same thing - such as "tree" and "flee", but in a bizarre way, they connect through rhythm. Rhythm can be such a beautiful thing, like in songs - where it can be jumpy, makes you want to dance and generally has a nice flow to it. Music is only one example of the input of rhythm. In general, a rhythm means consistency, a pattern in some way. To me rhythm (although it is not always the case) connotes good & happiness, like the act of skipping in a field of flowers.

Whereas with repetition, I always interpreted it as a point to emphasis, a dire need to be paid attention to, to be highlighted, acknowledged, underlined and to be focused on. In a way, it screams desperation to me. I don't believe it flows smoothly. Instead, I see it as pressing the car brakes quite abruptly & harshly, that your water bottle, phone and even yourself are yanked out of your seat - with the seatbelt suddenly burning your chest, or a child throwing a tantrum (crying, stomping their feet, throwing themselves on the floor & screaming).

In this writing of mine (partly completed), I speak about rhyming and how I do not want to stop - where at the same time there is the presence of repetition. And if you see repetition as a "scream of desperation" as I do right now, then as you progress through the page, you will be able to see that my rhymes become an embodiment of exactly that (desperation) - not only through stating clearly my urgency for rhyme but also by my rhymes themselves becoming repeated - thus my repetition of "O" fades away around the end - but that does not mean repetition is not there anymore - all that happened is that it took another form. Repetition becomes the only way for me to rhyme. Does that mean they are still rhymes or are they repetitions? If a word is repeated does that mean it rhymes or is it merely a duplication of the word? Can we distinguish between them? Is repetition more powerful or are rhymes? What do we make out of this?
Mike Hauser Jul 2016
why yes her name is daisy mae
more than a tad bit crazy say
wouldn't you be after all

if all you heard was daily horror
the world will end starting tomorrow
sitting waiting for the hammers fall

with talk of tornadoes quickly coming
and earth quakes rumbling by the dozen
as crazy feeds daisy mae daily meals

along with mother's natures natural disasters
there's also man made unnatural clatter
clogging  up daisy mae's grinding wheel

she stays awake silently alarmed
expecting the overtake of daily harm
to spill over into her simple world

so she sits at home all alone
afraid of all that could go wrong
in this drowning flood of life's turmoil

why yes her name is daisy mae
over the edge a tad bit crazy say
don't you think most of us are after all
We all miss you, Mae.
We miss your finesse,
Balancing the *****,
You were consistently naughty,
But no crack ***** *****.
Thank you for all those bold solicitations,
Invitations UP,
To see you some time.
Adoring your rhythms
So lyrical & sublime:
“I used to be snow white,
But I drifted.”

We miss you, Mae.
We miss your libidinous subtlety.

Mae West: an articulate woman in her day.
Not Lisa Lampanelli crude,
Yet still fun.
Far from--in any sense—
A *****.
EP Robles Aug 17
A whisper soft—across the vale,
Where Rona Mae Ronda treads—
Her footfall light, a breeze’s tale,
Through meadows gold—she spreads.

No need of day—her presence brings,
A twilight soft and kind—
With every step—a thousand springs,
Awake in heart and mind.

The daisy turns—her face to see,
As Rona Mae Ronda glides—
Through clover fields—so carelessly,
Where innocence—abides.

The robin pauses in his flight,
To hear her laughter’s sound—
For Rona Mae—by day or night,
Turns all to sacred ground.

She leaves no trace—yet all can tell,
Wherever she has been—
The very air—begins to swell,
With what the soul—has seen.

:: 08.12.2024 ::
Donall Dempsey Dec 2015
MAE HIRAETH ARNA AMDANOT
( THERE'S LONELINESS ON ME FOR YOU )

Her shadow is
laughing.

Her shadow is
taller than a tree.

She is a key
for which there is

no door

a Polaroid photograph
dying in the sun

( fading into the nothing
from which it comes ).

My mind slashes through time
grasps this memory

of her
clutches it to itself

until once again Death
orders it to

. . .let go.

It...does so.

Her shadow
laughing.

Her shadow
taller than a tree.
Hiraeth, pronounced "here eyeth" is a Welsh word that has no direct English translation. It is defined it as homesickness tinged with grief or sadness over the lost or departed. It is a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness, or an earnest desire...a homesickness for a home you cannot return to, or that never was.

Hiraeth is best buddies with the Portuguese concept of saudade (a key theme in Fado music), Brazilian Portuguese banzo (more related to homesickness), Turkish gurbet, Galician morriña, Romanian dor.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."


Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,

I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *
Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?


Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,

where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA.,
friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,

of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *
Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.


even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.
1.  What makes this poem special, if anything, is the trust and confidences we share with each other, that allowed me to perhaps catch just little bit something special of each of you, where I could.

2. Can anyone explain to me why the site labels this poem explicit?
Creep Dec 2014
She's adorable. With her golden eyes and that cute laugh... If only she loved me back... If she'll come, maybe.
"Holy Rome!! ^^"
"Italy!"
She came!
"Holy Rome, what did you invite to this flower field for?"
"I just wanted to... enjoy the beautiful sight with you... build our alliance..."
"That sounds wonderful!" She picked flowers and sat down next to me.
"I picked you some flowers! Aren't they nice?"
"Yeah... They are pretty. Thank you."
She smiled in excitement and ran around the field. After a while, she got tired and sat down.
"Holy Rome! Look! The sunset!" She pointed at the sky.
The sky was orange and pink and we watched as it quickly set under the horizon.
After the sunset, Italy went home and left me all alone on the flower field, her flowers still in my hands. Another opportunity missed. To tell her I love her. To share my thoughts and feelings for her. For that romantic kiss during the sunset I was planning. Maybe next week.
---
I trudged home quickly and quietly, I just missed my moment to tell HRE how much I really love him... when i skipped through the vibrant field he brought me to, all i could think about was how he brought me here anyhow he was watching me the whole time... i could feel the red blood rushing to my cheeks, even now on the porch of austria as i sweep, just from thinking about HRE...

I sigh and continue to sweep, back and forth, back and forth, scampering all around the house, in a hazy daydream of HRE and me... oh how i love his tender smile... and the way he takes power and shows strength to all the other countries... I'm glad he and i are making an alliance... it gives me another excuse to see him :)

suddenly, i hear a crash.

"hey... italy..." a drunken austria walks into the room and staggers over to me. i look at him, frightened, as he leans down onto me, leaning on my shoulder and his mouth by my ear... he whispers "i love you italy..." he laughs a haggard laugh at my shocked face, his drunken alcoholic stench engulfing my nose with its smell and staggers back out the door where he came from.
I am left standing there with my broom to support me as i stare at the door, still so surprised, my mind whirring with so many thoughts....

---
Today I saw her again.
I volunteered to help her with her chores.
(at first I typed chairs ^^")
"Italy, um... do you need help... today?"
"Not right now Holy Rome, but maybe later."
**** IT. I lost my chance again.
"Are you sure?"
"Now that you mention it, where do you keep the vacuum?"
"Oh, follow me."
I showed her the way to the closet and gave her the vacuum. "Here, this is what you wanted, right?"
"Yes thank you."

I watch her vacuum as I stand to the side out of the way. The way she sings while working, the silent vacuum makes it much easier to hear her. Her occasional smile at me makes me blush every time. The way she stops and pants, it's just... adorable.

"Holy Rome?"
I snapped out of my thoughts. "Huh?"
"Can you help me put this away?"
"Oh, sure."
"Okay! Thank you!"

She surprisingly has manners. If only she could teach some people those manners, because then this life would be a whole lot easier! But, after I helped her put the vacuum away, she turned around and KISSED me! She kissed me, **** it! She told me she was leaving soon to another country.
"But, you can't!" I said. I was so upset I couldn't handle it.
"I'm sorry... I have no choice." She looked as if she was about to cry.
"Hey, Italy. Even if we don't see each other again, just remember that I love you..."
"Okay, I will."
---
I gathered my items into a suitcase and left that day.
I miss him already... i left him with that confused and tearful face of his... oh how sad... i didn't tell him i love you... how could i forget? DX but i gave him the kiss... maybe he'll understand my true feelings for him....

with these jumbled thoughts, i leave for vienna... where i shall stay with austria, he has offered me work in his summerhouse, in exchange i get to stay in his house to sleep... hopefully i can become stronger in a new country, and be like HRE.. i sigh and shake away my dreamy, starry eyes.

---

After the trip, i finally arrive to austria's house. he greets me at the front door, with what i think was an attempt at a **** smile? I'm not sure what he has in mind, after the stun he pulled the other day when he was drunk. i push the thought away and focus on preparing the lavish dinner he has put me up to, with glazed duck confit, salads, soups, everything.

i set up the table and serve all the food in the main dining room table. he sits on one end and on the other end of the long table, theres an empty chair. he simply says, "Go get changed into something presentable, then come down here and join me for dinner."
I look at him in shock, quickly recover, and run up to my room to follow his orders.

---
I went home, seriously depressed and beaten. Why? She's so sweet and nice that it's just too sad to think about. Oh, Italy...

Wait, she said something about going to Austria's... that must mean forever! I was pretty sure that maybe she could come back one day. But I guess not now that I know exactly where she's going... she might not come back. I won't ever see her again. Our "goodbye" wasn't even long enough for a goodbye that meaningful... I wish I could say goodbye at least one more time.

I walk into my home and sit on the couch. I'm too depressed to do anything. I don't want to eat, I don't want to walk, I don't want to breathe but I have to...
---
I rush down to the dining room, with the finest tux that i own and sit down in the chair across from Austria. He looks at me with a new look i havent seen before... im not sure what it is but it seems... familiar.. in the creepiest way. i shyly look up at him as i tuck the tissue into my shirt. he watches me even more closely this time and i look away.

"why dont you have some pasta, italy?"

i greedily take some pasta, pour the heavenly marinara over the perfectly cooked noodles. it is divine, and i slurp up the noodles with a fervor so unmannered, i blush at my rudeness, but im too hungry to stop.

i can still feel his stare.

is it what i think it is...?
lust? 0~0

---
Now you have to eat, Holy Rome!
But I don't want to.
You have to!
I don't want to!!!!!!!
Fine. Just watch the plate of perfectly made pasta you made yourself right in front of you go to waste, then!

I sigh as I catch myself fighting with myself. "Had to be pasta, didn't it? HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE! YOU ARE SUCH A BAKA!" I yell at myself. I suddenly start remembering all the fun we had together. At the Neko Festival, where we dressed as cats and danced together. In the flower field a few days before.

I started humming "Draw A Circle" to cheer myself up. But then it just makes me remember when Italy and I made a duet of our own...

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pk9nQzW30bI )

After I think about how much fun we've had together in the past, I think about her twin brother, Southern Italy. I've never met him before, but from what I hear from Austria, he sounds like a ****. I'm kind of glad that Italy doesn't have some of her childhood with him.

Wait a minute.

If Southern Italy is ruled by Austria and Italy is too...

I have to save her!

I have to force myself to stand.

STAND HRE!

I finally stand up and quickly run out the door. Italy! I have to save her! Please let her be safe! Safe from Southern Italy! PLEASE!
---
I blush and look down at my food. it can't be...

"how r u liking ur food, italy?" he asked with a weird smile and a strange tone to his voice...
i tentatively replied, "pasta is always good. um.... may i be excused? i have some work to get done?" he stared at me with a bit of disappointed, replying quietly, "whatever you need to do, my dear." i quickly left, all the while feeling his strong stare on my back. i shudder and hurry up the stairs and slam the door quickly, locking it as well.

well that was creepy. i wish HRE was here, he'd protect me and id be able to confide in him on what i think austria is up to.

I settle down on to my bed after i brush my teeth and change.
mmmm.... so soft.....

right before i settle off to sleep, i hear a sudden noise, a crash. i rush outside my room and quickly head to austrias room to see if he is ok.

"... mmmm oh italy is so cute.... i just want to kiss him sometimes.... and his cooking... simply marvelous..." muffled noises are heard from the room. i back up hesitantly, unsure what to do as i can see a faint outline of him holding a picture... of me. i back away slowly, completely freaked out. i try to escape his notice as quietly as possible.

too late.

"italy? is that you i hear, my dear?"
I stop, unsure what to do. austria comes out the room, still clutching the picture of me and wraps his arms around me. I stand stiff, incapable of moving.
"you look so **** in those pajamas of yours..." he whispers eerily into my ear. i turn red, and try to get out of his grasp,but he is too strong... he pulls me closer towards him and begins to kiss my neck...i gasp and squirm trying to get him too stop, but he just pushes me against the wall and pins me there. he starts tugging at my shirt and I struggle to break free.

suddenly a loud bang explodes through the hallway.
austria doesnt stop, he starts to take my shirt of, bit by bit, trailing a line of kisses and moans down to my now bare chest.

he whispers... "i see southern italy has arrived to help me..." he looks up, and gives me over to southern italy.
No! why?
I close my eyes shut, too scared too look.

Suddenly, another bang.
"who's this?" austria asks southern italy as southern italy continues to caress my pale, heaving chest, him moaning every so often.

"ITALY!" HRE yells as he comes to the rescue.

I open my eyes to see him charge at Austria.

---
I headbutted him. I kicked him. I scratched him. I did as much as I could to get him off of Italy. I pulled him away finally. Why the hell is Southern Italy here too?
"Southern Italy?!"
"What is it you *******?"
"Why are you here?"
"Because I feel like it!"
(All of this was happening as Austria is passed out on the floor!!!!)
Italy was standing there, her shirt off- WHAT?! I blocked my eyes so I could help put her shirt on without seeing anything.
"Why are you being so cautious?" Southern Italy asked/
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"You don't have to block your eyes..." Italy said. "Austria told me what was happening..."
"What?!"
Southern Italy sighed and said, "You idiotic *******! Italy is a guy!"
I froze. What? How? I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I looked at Italy with he- um... HIS shirt off, it's true... She's a boy.
I started to cry without warning and ran away. I couldn't bare it. I kissed him, I hugged him, I LOVED him! A guy! It's official...
:D hope you enjoy ^^ its a hetalia axis powers fan fiction with Ashley Mae Renton. she's awesome, check her out :D
thanks so much for keeping up with my craziness, Ashley ;) ^^
(italics is ashley, I'm bold)
Charles Bivona Jun 2014
You must register with an employment agency,
he said through a muffled yawn, to defer
your studnet loan payments for the next six months.

But don't worry, he continued, clearing his
throat and sipping what I presumed was stale coffee,
you don't have to accept any jobs that you're offered.
Lily Mae Aug 2014
In the silence of it All~ (Flowergirl and Lily Mae)
Poem Image
Flower, sometimes when I stare up into the clouds
I feel such a part of something divine
like there is an energy that passes through me
from all times and I feel so loved

Yet…here we are you and I
cupping our hearts in our hands
while sending unconditional love out
to the ones we love and I wonder..

Flower do they feel it?

~*~

Close your eyes Sweet Lily and you will know

Connect with the passion burning inside you
that he alone has brought luvingly to your soul
feel the vibration of the universe as thoughts intertwine
among the orange streaks across the sky

The blackened night brings favor for you and I
for in the silence is where our thoughts collide
when everything around them stops and is still
that's when they truly feel us

That's when they close their eyes.....and they know too
Donall Dempsey May 2016
MAE HIRAETH ARNA AMDANOT
( THERE'S LONELINESS ON ME FOR YOU )

Her shadow is
laughing.

Her shadow is
taller than a tree.

She is a key
for which there is

no door

a Polaroid photograph
dying in the sun

( fading into the nothing
from which it comes ).

My mind slashes through time
grasps this memory

of her
clutches it to itself

until once again Death
orders it to

. . .let go.

It...does so.

Her shadow
laughing.

Her shadow
taller than a tree.


Hiraeth, pronounced "here eyeth" is a Welsh word that has no direct English translation. It is defined it as homesickness tinged with grief or sadness over the lost or departed. It is a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness, or an earnest desire...a homesickness for a home you cannot return to, or that never was.

Hiraeth is best buddies with the Portuguese concept of saudade (a key theme in Fado music), Brazilian Portuguese banzo (more related to homesickness), Turkish gurbet, Galician morriña, Romanian dor.
Terry Collett Jun 2015
And Mrs Shepherd said
come up
and see me sometime
-she was no Mae West

but she did her best-
and so I went
to her apartment
and she invited me in

and said
sit on the couch
and I'll get us drinks
so I sat on the couch

and watched her
get two tumblers of scotch
and she had a neat ***
compact body

and fine hair
in a kind of
Clara Bow style
and she came back

to the couch
and sat down
handing me my drink
and she said

how'd you like me?
it was warm afternoon
the sun was strong
and poured itself

on her red carpet
you're fine
I said
she smiled and said

no I meant
how'd you like me to be?
laying out here
on the couch

or the floor
on all fours?
there was a picture
on one wall

of a vase of flowers
sunflowers big and yellow
I'm not sure
what if your hubby comes in

while we're at it?
o don't mind him
he's miles away
she said

put him right out
of your head
so what will it be
me spread here

with class or me
on all fours
and you take my ***?
the scotch was good

nice and smooth
and a dog barked some place
-she was no Mae West
but she did her best.
A MAN AND WOMAN ONE AFTERNOON IN 1971
xmxrgxncy Jul 2016
Bows on your toes
and the stars in your ears
Hair in a plait
You don't invoke any fears

Miss Mara Mae
Just look what you've done
The sky over you's turning grey
Miss Mara Mae
Now you've had all your fun
And the whole world will have to pay

We're not your playground
We're not your vice
You've an interior of cold
Under the sugar and spice

So Mara, Mara, Mara Mae
leave us alone for just this one day
Let us be free to roam and to live
Because we don't want what you have to give.
No clue.
Donall Dempsey May 2017
MAE HIRAETH ARNA AMDANOT
( THERE'S LONELINESS ON ME FOR YOU )

Her shadow is
laughing.

Her shadow is
taller than a tree.

She is a key
for which there is

no door

a Polaroid photograph
dying in the sun

( fading into the nothing
from which it comes ).

My mind slashes through time
grasps this memory

of her
clutches it to itself

until once again Death
orders it to

. . .let go.

It...does so.

Her shadow
laughing.

Her shadow
taller than a tree.

*

Hiraeth, pronounced "here eyeth" is a Welsh word that has no direct English translation. It is defined it as homesickness tinged with grief or sadness over the lost or departed. It is a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness, or an earnest desire...a homesickness for a home you cannot return to, or that never was.

Hiraeth is best buddies with the Portuguese concept of saudade (a key theme in Fado music), Brazilian Portuguese banzo (more related to homesickness), Turkish gurbet, Galician morriña, Romanian dor.
I have a slavery folktale of my own
I am Mae Rock, and I was once a slave
Always taught being black you must behave
How did I get the name Mae Rock?
I was named for Unbreakable, Unstoppable and Strong as a Solid Rock
The Plantation owner named me that for that very reason
I would often rebel after being beaten and refused the plantation ways
I knew I had to getaway
During those slavery years, you would find me reading the word and praying morning, Noon and night
One slavery night, I tried to escape
I crossed the river that was in South Carolina on state line heading for North Carolina
Ever so close leading to the North
When morning came, the plantation owner discovered I was gone
They had their dogs to track my scent and foot prints, but because I went through the river, they loss total track of me
I was determined to never go back to the plantation nor slavery live again
Sometimes I would tire, but knew I had to push on with all inner strength I could muster
The Lord guided me throughout my journey
I met fellow slaves along the way
In my Southern Draw is all I knew
I encouraged the other slaves to make their way North and escape to Freedom
Mae Rock’s words were, “You have to live and breathe as any person walking this Godly Earth. The Heavenly skies spells “Freedom”. The ways of the oppressed plantation owners could no longer being tolerated”
Suddenly a crack of Thunder, Flash of Lightning came along with the pouring rain and a rush of the mighty winds
It was decreed at that very moment that all slaves had to be free
It was as if that was God’s decree, and he had spoken
Freedom came loud and strong
All the slaves knew where they belonged
Head North for a better life
Mighty and true
Success in pursue
Mae Rock’s Legacy for generations to come, “Live out your dreams with spirit and destiny. Be true to yourself and to others. Don’t ever be silent, but always vocal. Time will come in your favor, but you must believe”
A Slavery Folk song says “Dance before the Lord as he is the melody through circumstance, and breaks all barriers. Enrich your mind and voice on one accord. It’s assurance that comes from the Lord”
Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot,
Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off
Before it has a chance to go two blocks,
At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth's Garage
Is on the corner facing west, and there,
Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.

Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps-
Five on a side, the old bubble-head style,
Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low.
One's nostrils are two S's, and his eyes
An E and O. And one is squat, without
A head at all-more of a football type.

Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.
He was good: in fact, the best. In '46
He bucketed three hundred ninety points,
A county record still. The ball loved Flick.
I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty
In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.

He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,
Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,
As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,
But most of us remember anyway.
His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.
It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.

Off work, he hangs around Mae's Luncheonette.
Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,
Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates.
Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods
Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers
Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.
Marian Dec 2012
Under clouds of day,
Sits my friend, Mae,
A friend of mine;
Who has always been gentle and kind!

A friend who is a dear,
With a loyal heart and listening ear,
A friend who is very kind;
A friend who listens to the blowing wind.

Under clouds of day,
Sits my friend, Mae,
A friend of mine;
Who has always been gentle and kind!!*

~Marian~
For my friend, Mae! Who is gentle and kind and always full of wise sayings! May your life be filled with sunshine, love, peace, and joy forever!!
liv Oct 2018
you were supposed to be here
death gasped you faster than I ever could
I regret the moment thinking it would be longer
It's not fair for someone's future to be taken away so quickly
You deserved the sun and the moon
But instead you were given to the stars
I miss you Gracie Mae...
brandon nagley Dec 2016
i.

Sto mystikó kípo sas,
Where thy purple rose shalt be;
Where thy flower bed wilt hath many roses, where thy breathe
Shalt Never cease.

ii.

Sto mystikó kípo sas,
Where hue's and tints hath life;
Thy husband wilt be with thee,
Guiding thee into God's light.

iii.


Sto mystikó kípo sas,
Where petals never fall,
Where the angels sing, their voices ring, bouncing to and fro the pearly gates; painting melodies in the spirit form, colliding back to temple walls.

iv.

Sto mystikó kípo sas,
With a palace for a queen;
The queen is thou, window's thou canst look out; where glass is clear, as there's no fear, inside thy garden
Of majestic scenes.

v.

Sto mystikó kípo sas,
Tha sas xanadó;
That's to say, I'll seest thee again soon one day, in thy secret garden,
Where thy love wilt always grow.

©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Rita Mae nagley dedicated( golden grams) rip grams, I'll meet you at your new heavenly mansion in your secret garden.
This poem is dedicated to my grandma nagley, my dad's mother who passed away yesterday around little after one something in the afternoon. Though Rita Mae nagley passed away she passed away at home with my aunt there and I'm glad I saw her days before her death with my mom and dad. Hospice was giving her 2 weeks two a month to live just days ago. Though as a Christian I know as others doctors and nurses have no idea when anyone shall pass. Just as when many get sick, or may have cancer a doctor says you have so and so left. My god can do all things even heal those who think they have weeks or months left to live. God gives us miracles. And I'm not in that much sorrow from my grandma nagleys passing. Why? Because she accepted Christ as her savior years ago as did my grandpa nagley who died when I was five in 1993 from smoking cancer to the lungs. I know where my grandma's at
Unlike sadly many others who don't know where their loved ones are at. My pastor made a good point a while back in a sermon. He spoke on all the funerals he's done. He said if he noticed all the times going to hospitals, how angry, broke down many would be in the hospitals seeing their loved ones pass as if was the end. And he noticed a difference with those families who knew their loved ones accepted Christ. Christians don't fear where their loved ones go we know there in heaven. Christ told us in John chapter 14 not including all many other verses of heaven in the Bible and it's description ( John 14-
1 Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me.

2 In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.

3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.

My grandma is reunited with my grandpa now as surely grandpa has waited for her for years .. to my golden grams, ya sas( that's goodbye in Greek,) reason I titled this ( in your secret garden) I remember months back even though grandma was going through a bad phase of dementia my aunt didn't want my grandma to leave the house. I knew that wasn't my grandma. She was a free bird that had her own mind/soul and spirit. Nothing could lock her in a cage . Not in her mind, not in any way . My aunt told me one day to see out the back window in the kitchen, grandmas little garden. It was one rose grandma specifically loved with beautiful bricks surrounding the one rose standing high above all other greenery. Grandma heard my aunt from the living room speaking about her rose, grandma came in the kitchen, looked at me looked out the window she said with big eyes, you wanna see it?? You wanna ? Nodding her head in anxiousness. There was one purple rose my grandma adored in the back yard she wanted to see it. So I took her in the living room while my aunt and dad were in the basement. My aunt told me before earlier( don't take grandma outside, don't want her falling down the steps, understanding. Though I knew Grandma wanted to see it. So I helped golden grams get her shoes on as she used to help me as a child, so I thought I should be helping my grandmother now after all she's done for me and everyone as a kid . I got her shoes on her feet, for a moment I felt like a parent. Though nothing felt wrong I knew it was alright and a beautiful moment. I took grandma by the hand took her outside down the steps out the front door to back behind the house. And she got to see her purple rose only feet away from her. Seeing the look on her face a memory to keep. Knowing how much it meant to her to see her one tall purple rose. And now grams, you have all the purple roses plus more in the heavenly kingdom.
Ya sas for now golden grams . Ya sas means goodbye in Greek. But ta léme sýntoma which pronounced ( tha leme syntoma) is  see you soon. My grandmother has much Greek in her as Dads side does. Rip golden grams.
Word meanings below-
Sto mystikó kípo sas ( in your secret garden). Greek tongue.
Thy- your.
Wilt- will.
Hath- have.
Thee- you, thou means( you) as well.
To And fro- in a constant movement backward and forward or from side to side.
Canst- can.
Tha sas xanadó- I'll see you again( Greek tongue.
Seest-see .
Bliss Dec 2018
Mann hi mann sochti hoon..
Ke kash tere aane jaane ka pta hota.
Toh phir mae tujhe rok kr kehti...
Tham ja, zara sun toh mujhe,
Aa chl aaj thoda ek doosre ko jante hai,
Samajhte hai, ke har badalte mausam mae tu
itna khoobsurat kese ban jata hai?
Zara samjha toh, kese tere aane se kisi ki zindagi khushaal aur kisi ki khamosh ** jati hai?
Aey waqt chal aaj thodi si guftagoo krte hai.
Kuch sawal jawab krte hai.
Aey waqt zara aaj do pal mujhe bhi deja.
Kuch tu mujhe sunata ja aur kuch mujhe sunta ja..!!
So Lets plan a date?
Just you (time) and me
Kendra Canfield Feb 2012
my middle name is Mae
             I 'd lost it for a while

wondering
             "what's your middle name?"

as from a stranger
             "what's your middle name?"

"Mae."
             m  a  e   like the month
             but with an "e"

an "e" because
            I wear it for my
            great grandmother
            who shrugged off the
            "y" in the 30's

(I think)
            I'd lost it for a while
            I took it off
            I let it float away
            it felt a little tired

I needed it to be
            what it used to

But I'll wear it today
            an old dress
            from a distant summer
            a middle name

I'll keep it near
            hold it sacred
            lest I forget

those who wore it before me
my name's not may.
Mae
A bright light came shining through
shining brightly saying I Love You
As the crash came, I saw her face
she just smiled and left without a trace.

She was sent as an angel for my protection
to take my life towards a diffrent direction
If I know Mae, she did all that she could
She talked to God as I knew she would.

She took me under her wings only to fly
She removed a situation so I wouldn't die
Mae made it clear for me to understand
She said God wants me to be a better man.
Mae Francis is my mother-in-law who died 3 days after Christmas in 2010. I was in a terrible car crash 12/18/12 and I saw her face. I dedicate this poem to her. She was a great woman with a great spirit. Love  Forever
brandon nagley Sep 2015
A normal man
Wilt sayeth a simple goodbye, on his deathbed;
A poetic man wilt recite
Poetry in his dying breathe's


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©DEDPOET DEDICATION
Matthew Harlovic Jun 2014
Good Morning, Good Morning, Good Day Sunshine. The Night Before was A Hard Day’s Night. I, Me, Mine, I mean, I Feel Fine, Better, than I ever felt In My Life. I spent midnight in the Strawberry Fields down by Moonlight Bay. I was Searchin’ for Maggie Mae but met up with Penny Lane so we ran around in Circles till it started to Rain. Yesterday was Something , but I can change I promise you that I Will. From Me To You , I can be more than The Fool On The Hill. Yes It Is, a little silly, but I Just Don't Understand. Why you constantly lose faith in this Nowhere Man. But We Can Work It Out, Because, well I Need You, but all you got to do is believe Like Dreamers Do.

© Matthew Harlovic
I tried doing a different style of poetry. This is where I'd take a band or singer and use their song titles to create a story. Therefore everything in bold is a song title by The Beatles. Enjoy folks.
DieingEmbers Jun 2013
Her name is MAE
she's far away
but visits me both night and day
She loves to write she loves to pray
and brings such beauty like the Fae
and how I hope she always stay
and never think to runaway
that gal from that there U.S.A
Cheers for always being a friend and for all your healing prayers hugs to you MAE
My Beloved Cat, Daisy Mae,
was once my best friend,
and then one day
The Lord called her
home to a place
called
A  Pet's Paradise
for her to go.

She died within my arms,
my eyes did flow with tears,
I felt my heart break into a thousand
pieces, because she was so dear

She was my best friend for fifteen years,
I had her since she was a kitten, and
I was watched her grow up to be
a cat, and I loved her all these years
until the day she died and left me
heart broken.

Daisy was like family,
She was always near and dear,
and when her live came to an end
my heart broke apart.

Daisy is now at Rainbow bridge for animals,
happy and a new, but for me I am still
broken and my heart is broken still.

I know one day we will be together again,
oh what a happy day for me,
I Love you dear Daisy, and I Long to see you
once again.

Your crying owner,
Lucie
Rhandom Rhymer Apr 2011
The Hello Poetry community
Contains a broad cross section of humanity
The witty, the somber. Those laden with grief
The loving, the loveless, those seeking relief

The bold and fearless. The timid and meek
Some write with passion, some tongue in cheek
Some hide behind masks and impenetrable walls
But many bring light to these labyrinthine halls

One brighter than most that turns night into day
Is the shimmering aura of sweet Lily Mae
When she opens her soul and leads you to feel
You instinctively know her compassion is real

The heart of an angel beats in her chest
The dove of peace she could take as her crest
Her thoughts and emotions are open to view
Her poems are loving, with words that ring true

In times of uncertainty, filled with despair
I sought comfort in the words of this damsel so fair
And invariably they have proved a godsend
I am humble and proud to call her, ‘my friend’
At the mailbox, again:
“Who loves me, baby?”
Well, let’s see: there’s a flyer from Mercury Insurance,
Reminding me that most middle-income customers
Save an average of $4 million smackaroons when they switch too.
The Penny Saver USA.com is here,
Thank God, almighty!
So now I know that Thomas Roofing & Paving
Is having a special on 20-year leak-free flat roofs;
"All work guaranteed & insured.
No job too big or small.
Free estimates/Emergency services/License # I8U-69."
And thank you, Jesus,
For another $4.99 Farmer Boys 3-Egg Breakfast
Combo with Coffee coupon, and that
Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready, $5.00 cheese or pepperoni,
Mae-West-“why-don’t-you-come up and see me sometime?”—mailer. And, of course, another technology Siren’s song:
Verizon FiOS delivers entertainment this big,
Dish me up some dish NETWORK, $19.99 a month . . .
Are you ******* me?
For 12 ******* months?
AT&T;: whack me off on 120 channels.
DIRECTV.com - DIRECTV® Official Site‎
Worry-free 99.9%  . . . cue Joe E. Brown,
"Some Like It Hot“ Osgood:
"Well, nobody’s perfect!"
Time Warner/Sprint/T-Mobile;
And ******* Leather, Polk Street, San Francisco.
******* leather?
Must be for my neighbor: that ***** ****!
And here’s the weekly 8-page color fold-out from Stater Bros:
Lowering prices every day, large cantaloupes
(Jessica Lange, are you back?)
10 for $10.00, 32 oz. Gatorade
Or 24 oz Propel in 30 assorted varieties @ 79 cents
+ CRV: California Redemption Value?
Nice euphemistic cover-up for a TAX.
Nice, nice, very nice, CA elected state officials;
Nicely done, Sacramento.
Everywhere else in the country you get real money—
A fixed number of pennies, nickels, or dimes—
For your plastic bottles and aluminum cans.
But in California, the licensed recyclers
Get to pull the market price out of their *** each morning.
California Redemption Value?
What ******* genius government kleptocrat thought that one up? Conspiracy Alert: who gets all that CRV money?
And what are they doing with it?
Feeling plain, Jane?
Marinello Schools of Beauty, want you,
Offer you hands-on training in cosmetology,
Skin care esthetics, manicuring and vaginal deodorizing—
Just kidding, Babaloo.
Food tip for the Third World:
Never try to write poetry on an empty stomach.
Sizzler 6 oz juicy & succulent.
RENEGADE DEAL:
El Pollo Loco guacamole chicken sandwich,
Coupon free, small drink and small chips,
When you purchase a guacamole or jalapeno sandwich,
includes pepper jack cheese and a southwest sauce.
Gardenas sandia con semilla, 7 lbs 99 cents.
GARDENAS: “en precios, servicio y calidad, nadie nos iguaia.”
Bud Gordon’s Quality NISSAN:
One at this price after a $1500 factory rebate.
TERMINIX: get them before they get you!
The Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Arthropoda, Class Insecta
Bug up my *** again.
And a form letter from the VA
Asking me to please update my whereabouts.
And a form letter from the VA asking me
To please update my whereabouts.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Bite me, Mr. Frost!

An outing, at last.
I am going for a walk around the inside of my gates.
I live in one of those gated over-55 lunatic asylums.
There are gates. It is gated. Get it?
GATED! We feel safe here.
Probably a good thing at our age:
Self-imposed institutionalization,
Putting oneself in an asylum to ferment and die.
The fact that so many of us
Need it so bad at only 55
Says something itself about the current state of
Baby Boomer metal-fatigue.
I am now standing at the far end of the golf course.
I wait at the far end of the 18th Hole.
A ball bounces past my head and
Rolls off past the green into the far rough.
The 18th Hole is perched atop a small plateau,
Out of sight, far above the horizon for anyone teeing off.
I am Puck, invisible and impish.
I pluck the ball up.
I scamper to the green.
I pop the ball into the hole.
Which is better than popping a hole in the ball,
Surely, kind of a drag,
As we were once fond of saying.
Deflated Ball.
Deflator Maus.
OPERA can be ****.
Bodice-ripping corsets, whorehouses and naked ******!
Hardly what you might expect from
A night with the Welsh National Opera,
But they found their way into this production of "Die Fledermaus."
Ripe language, contemporary jokes and
Toilet humor thrown in, adding immensely
To the pleasures of Strauss’s operetta.
"Die Fledermaus," or The Bat’s Revenge,
Is all about drunkenness and adultery.
Despite being written in the 1870s,
It remains equally pertinent to today’s pub culture of excess.
Daring; Colorful; ****: PGA golf.
I steal a golf ball on the far end of the 18th Hole.
I pick up the Titleist and stick it in the hole
(Steady Jessica, not yours.
I hide behind your bush.
(Cue up PSA, First Lady Bird Johnson’s 1960s
Nationwide Beautification Campaign:
“I want everyone in America to plant a tree,
A sherrrr-rub, or a booosh.”)
The golfer now searching frantically:
Why is the cup always the last place they look?
Then, wham, bam, he looks:
A legend is born.
A hole in one,
His name forever immortalized
On a plaque over the bar, the proverbial 19th Hole.

As you know, I speak for all mediocrities,
Safe in my 55+ gated-community.
I go next to the Club House,
"The Lodge" as it’s called.
Each afternoon, the usual suspects
Claiming first come/first serve tiered mini-theater seats
Where Netflix matinee gems are screened.
It is two minutes to DVD show time.
I walk to the front of the room.
I stare at my audience.
I count the house slowly,
Making meaningful eye contact with each wrinkled face.
I cup my hands behind my back and speak:
“I assume you are all here for my lecture on Kierkegaard.”
No one reacts.
I turn to leave but do a double-take and smile.
One old woman in the top right corner of the amphitheater laughs, Perhaps the one other human being within the gates
Who has also smoked a joint today.
For an instant, I am overwhelmed with paranoia,
Perhaps I’ve gone too far over the line:
No longer “oh-he’s-a-character;”
I am now “that creep is ******* nuts.”
Is it time for someone to approach my family,
My next of kin, my “who-to-contact-in-event-of-emergency” number? Who will make the call on behalf of the HOA—
The Homeowner’s Association—
The Tsars, the Duma, the Supreme Soviet in these parts?
They are the power inside the gates;
Those who determine the state’s enemies,
Who govern its community norms.
Power within the gates.
Law within the asylum.
Little Hitlers one and all.
Hopefully they reach my sister first.
She’s been briefed.
KEY POINT IN THE NARRATIVE:
The new narrative is non-linear.
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We grow more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen;
We become more intimate with a legion . . .
Did someone say a legion? SPQR:
Am I having some sort of genetic-linguistic seizure here?
Am I channeling Benito Mussolini again?
Il Duce speaks to me from the grave,
Still blowing smoke up my Hopi-Jew-*** ***,
Filling in my insecurities,
Plugging the holes in my character
With delusions of classical Roman grandeur, glory and empire. Hmmmm? Quite an appetizing pitch for the average *****,
A message so completely, so ethnocentrically slick,
Olive oily, and so seductive.
A non-Italian would have thought
American Legion or Legionnaire’s disease,
Or The Foreign Legion, The French Foreign Legion.
The French: a virulent, promiscuous people.
Do you want fries with that, Simone?
No, I don’t get out much.
Only an occasional brisk walk around the asylum,
In and around the golf course, around but inside the gates. (LINKS) Bill Gates. Daryl Gates. Billy Bathgate’s Gates? Ghiberti’s Gates? The Hot Gates? Thermopylae? 300 Spartans/700 Thespians:
“The noun causing idiots to think of
Two girls sloppily eating each other’s mighty vaginas,
When they hear mention of someone being an actor.” http://www.urbandictionary.com
Not even close.
No, I rarely venture out.
This is Hemetucky.
There are methamphetamine-stoked
Teenage zombies at the gate.
Note to costume control:
Perhaps camouflage clothing is the safe choice?
No loud red Hawaiian.
No garish Indonesian batik.
Fleet of feet are these Hemet tweakers,
These cranked up Riverside County teenage barbarians,
These Huns & Visigoths,
These amped up, ravenous jackals.
And why stop there?
These Vandals & Vandellas.
A Motown flashback:
“Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.”
With or without Martha—
They remain dangerously lethal.
Yes, let it be camo clothes for me.
Those **** heads may be young.
They may be fast.
They may be able to run me down
On a dry grass dog-legged fairway savannah,
Tearing the meat from my carcass.
But the sons-a-******* have to see me first.
Besides, we know who are real friends are.
Hooray for our media peeps!
We become more intimate with a legion
Of television personalities on 125 different channels.
Most of these we know by name and context.
We know their families, their friends,
Their histories, their tragedies,
Their favored hyperbole and manner of speech.
Sometimes we establish intimacy with celebrities
Strictly on the basis of universal body language.
At times–in the absence of any other
Empathetic facility of identification–
We connect on instinct alone.
Instinct: perhaps animal at its core,
An animal kingdom affinity group,
Connecting on a bio-linguistic level,
Particularly when the Korean, or Spanish,
Mandarin, or Arabic,
Japanese, or even Hebrew language version is broadcast.
All languages cryptically alien,
A dense boundary, a barrio border wall,
Undecipherable, impenetrable concrete.
But we’ve never spoken to our neighbors,
Nor do we know their names.
Celebrities are the neighbors we know best;
Although the intimacy is an illusion,
Permission to invade their privacy presumed,
Tacit in the relationship between celebrities and their fans.
I am an independent contractor now,
An outside consultant to the NSA.
Try as I might I cannot crack the enigma,
Kim Kardashian remains far beyond my code-breaking prowess.
I repeat myself:
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We are more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen; we become more intimate with a legion . . .
Back to you, David Ulin:
“Sometime late last year—I don’t remember when, exactly—I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read. That’s a problem if you do what I do, but it’s an even bigger problem if you’re the kind of person I am. Since I discovered reading, I have always been surrounded by stacks of books. I read my way through camp, school, nights, and weekends; when my girlfriend and I backpacked through Europe after college graduation, I had to buy a suitcase to accommodate the books I picked up along the way.”
Thank you, David L. Ulin.
I cannot help myself.
I grow more eccentric each day.
My eyeballs glued to that flat screen!

Cosmo Kramer: "The bus is outta control.
So I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat,
I get behind the wheel, and now I’m driving the bus."
Jerry: "Wow!"
George Costanza: "You’re Batman."
Cosmo Kramer: "Yeah, yeah, I am Batman.
Then the mugger, he comes to and he starts choking me.
So I’m fighting him off with one hand,
And I kept driving the bus with the other, ya know.
Then I managed to open up the door,
And I kicked him out the door, ya know,
With my foot, ya know, at the next stop."
Jerry: "You kept making all the stops?"
Cosmo Kramer: "Well, people kept ringing the bell!"
(Share this moment with a stranger.)

I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.
Boom Chaka Laka. Boom Chaka Laka.
Boom Chaka Laka. BOOM!
Isn’t it time Salieri tempted Constanze–
Frau Mozart–with a plateful of Capezzoli di Venere:
“******* of Venus.”
You had me at hello, Kidman.
I know you too well, Nicole.
I knew you from before,
Way before Tom’s Oprah couch freak show.
Listen to me, Nicole:
We are face to face
With the most profound question in American literature:
"What is the grass?
The flag of my surrender?
The flag of my disposition?"
I resort to Socratic maxims: Know yourself;
The un-****** life is not worth living.
Is it stress? Is it lack of conviction?
Everything Jeff Lebowski neither wants nor needs in his life?
I watched you *** in "Eyes Wide Shut," Nicole.
Now I know you with my eyes and your legs wide open.
Thank you, Sidney Pollack.
Sidney knew.
Sidney dealt us cards
From his Hollywood Tarot deck.
We are intimate, Nicole.
I watched you squat.
Our family got the news today
Our bubba's gettin' hitched
Young Daisy Mae, she's near fourteen
Got our boy bewitched
He's sayin' that he loves her
He's making her his bride
She's the first to get him this close
Though not too many tried

We've got to get things ready
Send invitations and make candles
We've got to get the good jars out
The one's that still have handles
The minister is on alert
We've got to make some shine
Grandpa says he'll make some up
But, it will not all be mine

Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow

This time there'll be no shotgun
Like the last time for old Ben
This time the guns are empty
Not the way they were back then
The banjos will be tuned up
There'll be music in the air
The cops won't try to stop it
I think most will all be there

The ladies will be planning
Just how to serve up all the grub
While Bubba has to find a suit
And therein lies the rub
He's never worn a suit at all
Not even for a day
He's only dressed in coveralls
And that's how he's gonna stay

Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow


It'll be a **** dang doodle
A hell of a good time
It'll only be completed
When they run out of the shine
there'll be singing and some dancing
Underneath the harvest moon
We can't wait for it to happen
It cannot come too soon

There'll be readings from the bible
Which the minister will read
And as good holy Christians
Everyone will heed
There's sure to be some fighting
Before the couple say "I do"
I mean, they are both cousins
I'm gonna go...aren't you?

Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow

— The End —