"mainstays" poems
The doctrine lines,
The white brick walls,
Coffee creeps,
We still drink,
Our tastes have just changed,
Who took the last of the ******* sugar?
It's been empty for weeks,
But mainstays stay, mainly,
Another 24 hours,
Some look less,
Another victim of violence visitation,
Rattling sign, the wind makes it's appearance,
We made it,
Johnboy the ****** tells aboot,
His momentum,
Taking his mom oot to dinner,
He wore his tattoos on his face,
One cheek said sin, the other, ner,
Shakey Sam comes every meow and then,
Saying nothing has changed again,
Lights are flickering,
While Jesus Jane is on another rant,
You know, aboot Jesus and whatnot,
Atheist Jocoby just groans,
The coffee is a bit burnt,
So is my tongue,
New cats, alley cats,
Dogs and birds,
I couldn't tell you which one I am,
Emergency alarms a buzzing all around,
We just turn down the sound,
As it's another go round,
to speak,
I'm James and I'm an alcoholic,
Hi James,
Turn over turn on,
Hold hands with scumbags turned saints,
All because of the fire we got from a drink,
A smoke,
A burnt down life turned to building,
We hug once again,
And step ootside,
Open door policy,
And fire in the sky is there waiting,
Some run,
Some cry,
Shakey Sam wonders aloud,
Will his dealer deliver,
****** Johnboy calls his mom,
Jesus Jane prays,
And Atheist Jocoby drives away,
I put the sign back on the door,
And make a new ***
I want to hear that story,
Of how that newcomer once got shot,
By a disgruntled **** in San Francisco bay,
At least I don't need a drink today.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 11:03 AM UTC
*Paint the Umbrella
A Riot of Colours
The Rain can't wash Away
Throw caution to The Winds
A Little dance to the
Reverberating Beats of
Rains splash into Puddles
The Umbrella Aloft ,Swirls
Kaleidoscopic hues at Play
Green is the Colour on the Spectrum Wide
Harbinger of Peace and Tranquillity
The Monsoons The Mainstays
Paint the Umbrella
A Riot of Colours
The Rain can't wash Away*
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 2:58 AM UTC
Momma was a bleeder
***** on the stairs outside the complex
Mainstays all unraveled
mildewed and rotting on the concrete decks
Her ceaseless curtain calls
belied the prescriptions for falling down
She was a butterfly hurricane comin’ from the coast
makin’ eddies swirl sanguine pools
Even Kruger wasn’t dumb enough to jump in her grey-outs
the guy simply walked away
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 7:01 PM UTC
The mighty Chicago Tribune got hit last night.
Well, its newspaper box did,
the only one picked from a spot-assuming
row of four corner mainstays
to suffer that indignity of toppling.
I found it this morning, blue-
and-white face down fifty feet further on, and
eating pushed-down daisies from
the commuter rail's prairie-grass embankment.
It couldn't tell me those dead-men
tales of daily mischief's end, but graffito-
tagged its side did sigh, "Someone
feels my news ain't got the values it used to."
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 2:33 PM UTC
splendid anticipation twisting sapling towards skyroots again
porous attrocities absorb all happenstance toward equilibrium
prance in trance, dance enhance
the words are subtle still and vague
privy to thoughts portrayed by strays, mainstays frayed by microwaves
this cancer causing communication, new information trending towards midlifestations
I still see the spark, still taste the quark. yet improvisations on the fly are hindered
loquaciousness is all a hoax, jokes and folks hold this shaky oak
some still breathe for the trees
most still wish only to seize
but the smiles ring through all these trials all the whiles no reconciles
flies are gathering on this **** and still my feeling wont equit
where is the man from the sky? the one who wont shell our eyes?
was it a woman within the weaves, the stars unfolding
remolding us as lumps of clay and changing the meaning of the word geigh
sleighride with me onto the seas, now frozen by your cold wilting weeze
rhymes and verses traverse like hearses picking up where my thoughts stop short
clicking and twisting, familiar sorts sing songs of us between retorts
it all points to that familiar end, when i cower away and wont defend
the points of light in pupils stares
between this line nothing impairs
tear away the peeling, reeling and the chewey center within
its not a sin to mend the seams and come forthright
steal from my mind just one last kiss, an idle embrace you've never held, grasping
at least that's what the clouds are hissing, evaporating what ive been missing
mix it all in one big *** stewing all the things that i am not
you label me a fool in vain, for i have danced between the rain
impossible sorts of things i've felt, callussed noses refused to've smelt
whisper all the words in pairs, double the potency of stares
climb up the rungs one by one and suddenly the songs i've sung
will bellow in through the wind and you'll wonder if there's time
to find the reason within this rhyme
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
"OVERWHELMED!", for lack of a better word. At 7:30am(CDT), my piece "For My HP Friends(response to Eliot York), reached an altitude 5k 'reads/hits. Although the piece was penned in 2013, I mean every word written as I did then.
But, this isn't about me, it's about "you", all of the poets, writers, young/old, newcomers, and mainstays. It is for those who have passed away(God bless you), or have moved to another site(we hope you will return, at least I do.) It is for all who enjoy what we do, or think we do, best; writing about our deepest thoughts; what makes us laugh, what makes us cry, coping with adversity. It's about "living", learning of different cultures, visiting with words, places where we may never go, realizing that regardless of where we live, we are very much the same in thought and deed, discovering the common denominators between all of us. It's about "lending an ear", doing our best to comfort, strengthening a "family", which HP has developed overtime.
Without "YOU", this piece would never have never been written. Although my name is on it, it contains the signatures of each and everyone of, "YOU!"
I will be forever, grateful.
Richard Riddle, February 07, 2016
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
Born into a world colder then glacial tidal waves, yet naked in the sun of tomorrows we forever wait.
Wondering where the light began, how the showing of brightness produced the fractal pattern complexity unending.
Blink, but do not give away illumination for the lone black vacuum tumultuous constant of anti-nothing that cradles all things with mass.
Holdfast to logical constructs that articulate a suitable fashion, not those worn until their withered threads broke the binding of founding to an untested journey of life.
Of, intentional sacrifice of habitual mainstays that dust has long removed the visible passion to once it had belonged.
A burning inside for something tangible that out runs a heart alluding capture at every grasp.
How does one contain a pyroclastic flow of emotions that pour from a soul breaking oceans down to their knees, vomiting dirt and dust, while begging the stubborn clouds for water?
"We owe no compensation for the loss of liquid you horde, for the cost required to return you cannot afford".
Much too is the passion of a human heart, hasty to burn in a quickened rush, ending in an overly lamented rust.
But not all fires simply burn out, some roar, some kick, and many shout, and it is not the fear that they will die.
It is the belief that something ancient pulls through the lone black nothing to those born of even stranger tides igniting a raging inferno.
Showing candles burned at both ends can begin old emotions in young hearts that have never known a solid direction for passions unbound by limitations of vacuum insanity.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Cup of Tea in the Hand,
a Pointless Neologism on the Lips
“Tea is one of the mainstays of civilisation”
-George Orwell, “A Nice Cup of Tea,” 1946
In the afternoon (and you can look this uppa)
I don’t want a teafluencer; I want a cuppa
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 10:46 AM UTC
as the
poet on the roof,
‘tis I,
asking you Lord,
would it have soiled
a vast eternal plan,
to throw some seasoned salt,
on mes écrits?
let this soliloquy
make my case,
my summer
soul-on-ice,
hungover from
**the sorrowed sobriety
that stayed, retained,
the sense of loss
that are the mainstays
of my isolated days**
long after I’ve left,
the black velvet of
my screen, and I,
***wonder where poems
come from, ceasing to
wonder, perhaps as simple
as some sweet old critter
being a human whisperer***
**** the czar
and
**** me too.
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 2:07 AM UTC
Freely forming metrical mainstays
poetic occasion to phrase
the fairer and gentler ***
thus the following turns of phrase
to bestow acknowledgement
regarding wonderful wise ways
of collective she who assays
to create safe/secure home/ hearth
as bedrock and fount of ample
maternal duties tiredly sashays
with keeping house receiving praise
the second Sunday each May, her
tired body sprawled on chaise
lounge, perhaps basking in solar rays
communing with Gaia, who ****
bruiting with sky goddess
defying forecasters prediction, no slate grays
pose dampening effect on huzzahs
regaling torchbearer diploid as amaze
zing newlife, where loving labor pays
more than fine spun gold cherishing
offspring in her nurturing ways.
Paean dutiful daily deference, I dole
ensconced with pineapple getup
surfing the cyber sea, this hyperbowl
lee, yet deserved dignity deifying dames,
who bear brunt whole
ding potent biological reproductive role
de facto duty honorably decreed
tribute paid despite commercialized
money making hyped up rigamarole,
nonetheless yours truly accentuates sole
sans, progenitor of human race
saddled with disproportionate/ unfair toll.
May 10, 2019
May 10, 2019 at 1:57 PM UTC