"marcy" poems - Hello Poetry

for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars <•> fluids in, fluids out wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together, it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere, so what if it's spat-past midnight, isn't this one of those soul-criticality's, staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive make sense to you? the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out, doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of yeah yeah yeah, my professional courtesy answer to their dire warnings repetitious tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream, a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson, and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid is strong transformed into words water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again water is words, words are water, the difference huge, the difference minuscule, both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids, all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh, staying-hydrated is primate place a new cold bottle in readiness for my 3 o'clock feeding

0

Nov 14, 2017

Nov 14, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC

left-foot

staying-hydrated

for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars <•> fluids in, fluids out wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together, it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere, so what if it's spat-past midnight, isn't this one of those soul-criticality's, staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive make sense to you? the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out, doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of yeah yeah yeah, my professional courtesy answer to their dire warnings repetitious tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream, a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson, and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid is strong transformed into words water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again water is words, words are water, the difference huge, the difference minuscule, both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids, all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh, staying-hydrated is primate place a new cold bottle in readiness for my 3 o'clock feeding

25

Marcy Shultz was a typist. She typed and typed the day through but never wrote a single thing. Each morning she would drink her coffee with a sunken ring at the base of the mug. It was her good luck charm, an assurance that at one point in one moment someone had truly, honestly cared. At noon she would salsa with the air, knowing **** well that she would later devour it. But the air knew nothing, Thought nothing, just stood there. Air is naïve, and she was alone. At night she would shower with the blinds open figuring if someone looked, someone cared. But nobody ever looked, and Marcy never blushed. She'd type little tales on her little laptop. Typed little stories of little couples walking dogs kissing in park benches laughing at rude jokes eating tiramisu in little cafés weaving stories of passers-by carving initials in wood waking up in the dead of night to hear the rhythm of the other's breathing before holding each other's hands and whispering softly in the light of the full moon flooding in like spilt milk from the cracked window saying, "We are together now and if a moment like this is happening, then a moment apart is only imaginary." Then, always, always, always, The little couples would make love. Their moans bled through the window like timeless cries over the milky moon. The cats in the alley would circle about the songs echoing loud from the little couple's little love. Then always, always, always with frustration Marcy Schultz would toss the tales and go to bed and the couples would live on in crumpled paper.

0

Apr 14, 2012

Apr 14, 2012 at 9:36 PM UTC

brad-lambert

The Typist

Marcy Shultz was a typist. She typed and typed the day through but never wrote a single thing. Each morning she would drink her coffee with a sunken ring at the base of the mug. It was her good luck charm, an assurance that at one point in one moment someone had truly, honestly cared. At noon she would salsa with the air, knowing **** well that she would later devour it. But the air knew nothing, Thought nothing, just stood there. Air is naïve, and she was alone. At night she would shower with the blinds open figuring if someone looked, someone cared. But nobody ever looked, and Marcy never blushed. She'd type little tales on her little laptop. Typed little stories of little couples walking dogs kissing in park benches laughing at rude jokes eating tiramisu in little cafés weaving stories of passers-by carving initials in wood waking up in the dead of night to hear the rhythm of the other's breathing before holding each other's hands and whispering softly in the light of the full moon flooding in like spilt milk from the cracked window saying, "We are together now and if a moment like this is happening, then a moment apart is only imaginary." Then, always, always, always, The little couples would make love. Their moans bled through the window like timeless cries over the milky moon. The cats in the alley would circle about the songs echoing loud from the little couple's little love. Then always, always, always with frustration Marcy Schultz would toss the tales and go to bed and the couples would live on in crumpled paper.

46

(a quid pro quo plug for zaftig women) women that tip weigh ling needle to spin vicious circle akin to puppy chasing her/his tail or require digital scale, at the extreme alt right registering heavy ba Jill 'en Jack knifed pail loads whether young or old ought to be appreciated not waifer thin self starved as a rail, instead they suffer unfair injustice like a trapped quivering quail thus this fatalistic, generic, and holistic landlubber wanted to point head lee hammer home one secure heterosexual ******* stronger than omnipotent Marcy's Playground weather beaten pail Trent Reznor's sixty 9 inch rust free steel nail into the coffin of bias against bevy of beautiful babes within the mind of this male, who inherited genetic predisposition for being average, hearty and hale yet feel compassion for those engaged in an ongoing with battle of the bulge, hmm... perhaps hiding ample ***** akin to milky sopping wet grail or accepted unequivocally themselves without envy of lithesome women, who seem to possess flair with nary a flail yet possess much love to avail, and tis wise to love oneself unconditionally despite premium aesthetics considered svelte which mass media accentuates de facto spelt definition of femininity aka runway models donned in faux animal pelt whose deliberate self exhibition prompts madding crowd of man to waggle tongue with slack jaws as if ready to melt or at instantaneous signal telepathically felt drop drawers upon removing blackbelt.

0

Jul 14, 2018

Jul 14, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

Pleasingly Plump Praiseworthy Princesses

(a quid pro quo plug for zaftig women) women that tip weigh ling needle to spin vicious circle akin to puppy chasing her/his tail or require digital scale, at the extreme alt right registering heavy ba Jill 'en Jack knifed pail loads whether young or old ought to be appreciated not waifer thin self starved as a rail, instead they suffer unfair injustice like a trapped quivering quail thus this fatalistic, generic, and holistic landlubber wanted to point head lee hammer home one secure heterosexual ******* stronger than omnipotent Marcy's Playground weather beaten pail Trent Reznor's sixty 9 inch rust free steel nail into the coffin of bias against bevy of beautiful babes within the mind of this male, who inherited genetic predisposition for being average, hearty and hale yet feel compassion for those engaged in an ongoing with battle of the bulge, hmm... perhaps hiding ample ***** akin to milky sopping wet grail or accepted unequivocally themselves without envy of lithesome women, who seem to possess flair with nary a flail yet possess much love to avail, and tis wise to love oneself unconditionally despite premium aesthetics considered svelte which mass media accentuates de facto spelt definition of femininity aka runway models donned in faux animal pelt whose deliberate self exhibition prompts madding crowd of man to waggle tongue with slack jaws as if ready to melt or at instantaneous signal telepathically felt drop drawers upon removing blackbelt.

42

Due to illness that got worse- I needed the assistance of a nurse- Marcy visited me twice a week- About my illness we did speak- She helped me back on my feet A better nurse I never did meet- Marcy is super as can be- Shows by the care she shows for me- Marcy gives her best for me- Made me better one-two- three- Marcy is the best you can plainly see- She takes great care of me- THE END

0

Aug 10, 2015

Aug 10, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC

richard-anthony-sattanni

MARCY THE NURSE-A POEM

Due to illness that got worse- I needed the assistance of a nurse- Marcy visited me twice a week- About my illness we did speak- She helped me back on my feet A better nurse I never did meet- Marcy is super as can be- Shows by the care she shows for me- Marcy gives her best for me- Made me better one-two- three- Marcy is the best you can plainly see- She takes great care of me- THE END

13

since the weather's been warming up and everything's been blooming again i got back to work on my flower garden and i planted each flower in a certain order so you can look at them and hear a Marcy Playground song play i am truly the master of my own destiny.

0

May 19, 2015

May 19, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC

downpour

someone high five me

since the weather's been warming up and everything's been blooming again i got back to work on my flower garden and i planted each flower in a certain order so you can look at them and hear a Marcy Playground song play i am truly the master of my own destiny.

11

'Twas our tribulation nigh Marcy, and eminent with her belief over which train stirred her mischief that brightened any hour with vaunted views and her most furry lark scape suite here in New York.

0

Sep 12, 2016

Sep 12, 2016 at 8:10 PM UTC

poetman

Upper East Side

'Twas our tribulation nigh Marcy, and eminent with her belief over which train stirred her mischief that brightened any hour with vaunted views and her most furry lark scape suite here in New York.

17

Deep within the bowels of the Earth immensely distant from the sheltering sky amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape with here and there a projected craggy, derelict chasm precipitously crooked pointing toward an infinitely wide yawning abyss dwelt kindred spirits comprising a soul asylum where grateful dead (albeit marked via weathered tomb stones) hermetically sealed once vibrant corporeal mortals betook their eternal slumber One among their number included a misanthrope who sported long straggly hair bushy eyebrows shielding cold eyes of steel straggly bearded clammy chin in tandem with a hairy body which when alive (long time ago) upheld upon unshod feet a severely hunchbacked ****** Within dense pitch-black terrain (Mother Nature enlisting a menagerie of life forms accustomed to hellish environment) awash with unrecognizable alien sights and sounds mollycoddling bewitching warlocks, mailer daemons, imps of the pervert chieftains, fiery long and fostered Golems who called underworld their private demesne also alluded to Marcy's playground holding hostage Alice in Chains Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, The Beastie Boys, The Human League, and Village People a Crowded House Emitting wisps of ethereal matter appearing a small medium at large chat snap ping, flickr ring indeed joyus minions exalting piety a plenti Prone ounce sing proud purgatory promoting protean phantasmagoria hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms highly distorted grotesque silent screaming sinister banshees slithering across escarpment.

0

Jan 20, 2018

Jan 20, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

An Image Of The Netherworld Envisioned By A Misanthrope

Deep within the bowels of the Earth immensely distant from the sheltering sky amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape with here and there a projected craggy, derelict chasm precipitously crooked pointing toward an infinitely wide yawning abyss dwelt kindred spirits comprising a soul asylum where grateful dead (albeit marked via weathered tomb stones) hermetically sealed once vibrant corporeal mortals betook their eternal slumber One among their number included a misanthrope who sported long straggly hair bushy eyebrows shielding cold eyes of steel straggly bearded clammy chin in tandem with a hairy body which when alive (long time ago) upheld upon unshod feet a severely hunchbacked ****** Within dense pitch-black terrain (Mother Nature enlisting a menagerie of life forms accustomed to hellish environment) awash with unrecognizable alien sights and sounds mollycoddling bewitching warlocks, mailer daemons, imps of the pervert chieftains, fiery long and fostered Golems who called underworld their private demesne also alluded to Marcy's playground holding hostage Alice in Chains Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, The Beastie Boys, The Human League, and Village People a Crowded House Emitting wisps of ethereal matter appearing a small medium at large chat snap ping, flickr ring indeed joyus minions exalting piety a plenti Prone ounce sing proud purgatory promoting protean phantasmagoria hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms highly distorted grotesque silent screaming sinister banshees slithering across escarpment.

48

women that tip weigh ling needle to spin vicious circle akin to puppy chasing her/his tail or require digital scale, at the extreme alt right registering heavy loads whether young or old ought to appreciated as waifer thin self starved as a rail, instead they suffer unfair injustice like a trapped quivering quail thus this fatalistic, generic, and holistic landlubber wanted to point head lee hammer home one secure heterosexual ******* stronger than omnipotent Marcy's Playground weather beaten pail Trent Reznor's sixty 9 inch rust free steel nail into the coffin of bias against bevy of beautiful babes within the mind of this male, who inherited genetic predisposition for being average, hearty and hale yet feel compassion for those engaged in an ongoing with battle of the bulge, hmm... perhaps hiding ample ***** akin to milky sopping wet grail or accepted unequivocally themselves without envy of lithesome women, who seem to possess flair with nary a flail yet possess much love to avail, and tis wise to love oneself unconditionally despite premium aesthetics considered svelte which mass media accentuates de facto spelt definition of femininity aka runway models donned in faux animal pelt whose deliberate self exhibition prompts madding crowd of man to waggle tongue with slack jaws as if ready to melt or at instantaneous signal telepathically felt drop drawers upon removing blackbelt.

0

Mar 19, 2018

Mar 19, 2018 at 12:52 AM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

Pleasingly Plump Praiseworthy Princesses

women that tip weigh ling needle to spin vicious circle akin to puppy chasing her/his tail or require digital scale, at the extreme alt right registering heavy loads whether young or old ought to appreciated as waifer thin self starved as a rail, instead they suffer unfair injustice like a trapped quivering quail thus this fatalistic, generic, and holistic landlubber wanted to point head lee hammer home one secure heterosexual ******* stronger than omnipotent Marcy's Playground weather beaten pail Trent Reznor's sixty 9 inch rust free steel nail into the coffin of bias against bevy of beautiful babes within the mind of this male, who inherited genetic predisposition for being average, hearty and hale yet feel compassion for those engaged in an ongoing with battle of the bulge, hmm... perhaps hiding ample ***** akin to milky sopping wet grail or accepted unequivocally themselves without envy of lithesome women, who seem to possess flair with nary a flail yet possess much love to avail, and tis wise to love oneself unconditionally despite premium aesthetics considered svelte which mass media accentuates de facto spelt definition of femininity aka runway models donned in faux animal pelt whose deliberate self exhibition prompts madding crowd of man to waggle tongue with slack jaws as if ready to melt or at instantaneous signal telepathically felt drop drawers upon removing blackbelt.

40

Thank you little Marcy, my perfect M&M, for showing these bones the sun yet again. My velvet angel, you’ve let me touch the sky. My little girl, you’ve made diamonds trickle down my eye. What a wonder, what a magical world, where you draw a breath, my darling little girl.

0

Oct 16, 2022

Oct 16, 2022 at 12:41 AM UTC

Shin

Marcy Marie

Thank you little Marcy, my perfect M&M, for showing these bones the sun yet again. My velvet angel, you’ve let me touch the sky. My little girl, you’ve made diamonds trickle down my eye. What a wonder, what a magical world, where you draw a breath, my darling little girl.

6

Remember you I was Simon, an architect trying to find precious artifacts. I found the crown, The cause of all my frost, The thing I thought would save me, But it changed me. Just as I was giving up hope, I found you, The most precious artifact of them all. My Marceline. A little vampire girl, Lost in her own ways, In a world too unforgiving to let you in. You were the only thing that made the days bearable. I held onto you when everything else fell apart. You were the reason I kept going. But now I’m the Ice King, lost and scarred. I try not to lose myself because I need to save you. But who’s going to save me? I found you in the wreckage of a war, Just a scared little girl, lost and alone. I was just a guy, Scared and searching for my home. Remember you. We faked our laughter to ward off the fear. Just the two of us, plus dear old Hambo who was always there, Always together, a patchwork family of Not one, Not two, But three. Inseparable and together, side by side, With broken smiles and hearts we tried to hide. Like two pieces of a puzzle, we fought together To stay alive. But before I knew it, I had to leave. You were gone from my life. I see you as my daughter, My sweet girl who saved me More than I ever saved her. The father you should’ve had, I couldn’t find. We lived this ruin of a world together, Until I could no longer ward off the evil that came with the cold. Now the ice has frozen everything, And I forget the man I was, the love I once brought. Remember you. Even through all the things I’ve forgotten, For every moment that fades away, Know that until I come back again, My life will always be cold and sad. I just wish it wasn’t like this. I miss you, my Marcy girl. Please forgive me For whatever I do When I don’t remember you.

0

May 7, 2025

May 7, 2025 at 11:23 PM UTC

_moonbeam

Remember you (Simon & Marcy)

Remember you I was Simon, an architect trying to find precious artifacts. I found the crown, The cause of all my frost, The thing I thought would save me, But it changed me. Just as I was giving up hope, I found you, The most precious artifact of them all. My Marceline. A little vampire girl, Lost in her own ways, In a world too unforgiving to let you in. You were the only thing that made the days bearable. I held onto you when everything else fell apart. You were the reason I kept going. But now I’m the Ice King, lost and scarred. I try not to lose myself because I need to save you. But who’s going to save me? I found you in the wreckage of a war, Just a scared little girl, lost and alone. I was just a guy, Scared and searching for my home. Remember you. We faked our laughter to ward off the fear. Just the two of us, plus dear old Hambo who was always there, Always together, a patchwork family of Not one, Not two, But three. Inseparable and together, side by side, With broken smiles and hearts we tried to hide. Like two pieces of a puzzle, we fought together To stay alive. But before I knew it, I had to leave. You were gone from my life. I see you as my daughter, My sweet girl who saved me More than I ever saved her. The father you should’ve had, I couldn’t find. We lived this ruin of a world together, Until I could no longer ward off the evil that came with the cold. Now the ice has frozen everything, And I forget the man I was, the love I once brought. Remember you. Even through all the things I’ve forgotten, For every moment that fades away, Know that until I come back again, My life will always be cold and sad. I just wish it wasn’t like this. I miss you, my Marcy girl. Please forgive me For whatever I do When I don’t remember you.

53