"margret" poems
we took the long way
to Hadley and MacFadden, goin' about twenty-five in twenty-six ways...
twelve sheets to the wind at a cosmic chili banquet. we wove through the tambourines and headlights -
cruising through the pinch in the grid, on the Eastside. where Margret hustles feathers from very still pigeons, and Mosley, that little runt Mosley conquered Connie Haskel's Willow Tree in the backyard.
we were coming up on something special in our Hometown
but we were low on gas, and had just bought Beer.
this scenario was on repeat. night after night in the sultry debauch of a languid stroll in a couch rocket.
glaring at the skirts on Perkins and 5th, that eat seaweed and cough drops.
they're so hot you just wanna drive a better car.
we used to park -
at Todd's Mom's and walk to the Slaughtered Hog and order a rack O' ribs and drink moonshine, smokin' that **** and sitting next to ****** jockeys in jogging suits and headbands that say " i sweat profusely, when I want too. "
And Carmen What'sHerName? used to get our table 'cause i figured out the location of her section.
she would smile and bring pecan pie
and flash those eyes that said " i'm off in an hour " . we sang to Muzak - and
left our To-Go Boxes at the table; stumbling through the lot
fumbling for the keys to the TARDIS.
and thinking about Carmen.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
The clock struck mid-night London on the cheeks of her rosy smile. Glancing at Big Ben her high heels shined posh over the moon. Bold, intelligent and independent she stood at the corner of Westminster and Margret upon a shadow that faded her invisible to the alley of the big black door. She wanted a walk on the wild….. so with crimson lips the brazen beauty blew a kiss that knocked deaths door three times firm.
Beauty: Hello sweetheart. Could you be a doll and crack the bolt. She playfully inquired.
Death’s Door: ****** off!” I’m tired and about to hit the rack!
Beauty: "Eee you cheeky monkey" Do not play coy! For you may be a Fit Bloke for most but I’m
Karen Wankerstien the sexiest women in England! Crack the bolt I say!!!
Death’s Door: Who?
Beauty: Don’t be a ****** I’m Karen Wankerstien, business women of the year and the toast of this year’s Queen Charlotte Ball! Crack the bolt I say!!
Death’s Door: Who?
Beauty: You Nitwit. You know me well. It’s me Karen!
Death’s Door: OOO Hi Karen!!! You know I don’t recognize any of those fancy titles! For once you pass through these doors they all vanish. It’s best you live your life for the unseen beauty that never fades! “Charm is deceitful and beauty is passing, But a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised.” (proverbs 31).
Then crack goes the deadbolt! Fluttering her spine with the momentary thrill that danced upon the sun-rise of her temporal fairy-tale identity.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
“I like his hair” said Karen
“I like his eyes” said Sue
“I like his smile” said Mary
"I like his laugh “said Lou
“I like his wit” said Margret.
“I like his *** said May.
“I took his heart" smiled Jackie
“I stole it and hid it away!
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
Margret sat at the window in her wheel chair.
As she always did on Thursdays.
Maybe it is today.
When I see that tall dark handsome man again.
Her view was obscured by the net curtain slightly.
But his siluette she knew.
So engraved was it on her mind.
Wish i had made that tea now.
She said to herself.
But I can not leave now.
So she reach for the Gin which was at hand.
Really should not.
She said to herself.
As she poured it in the glass.
Just one finger or two.
After finishing two glasses.
The siluette stood at the end of the path.
In a panic she pulled at the wheel chair.
Now the front door was the target.
Pushing and pulling at her wheel chair, on her way into the hall.
She became stuck on the carpet gripper, that separated the lounge from the hall.
In her frustration, she pulled and push those wheels till.
Over the gripper they went.
She could hear the siluette footsteps now receding.
Getting to the front door there she saw laying on the floor an envelope.
Her hands now hot and sweaty, ripped the envelope apart.
Reading these words, the words she wanted to hear.
Please find enclose your new pension book.
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 4:44 PM UTC
Heard the moon from under a blanket.
Wrapped in silk she rapps on my window,
begging in the most patient manner - to be let in.
Hello my lovely Margret.
How I'd like to sink my teeth into her tonight.
Should we have a smoke?
She trembles in her luminous shimmer.
Takes my hands - Margret you devil.
Never an audible urge,
but an ethereal curtain becomes us
and I hear the cry - dance with me, she says.
Not tonight Margret, we must behave ourselves.
God she's a different kind of tempting.
I really should kick this nasty habit, I know.
She snakes those legs around my middle.
She's no pioneer - not a ****** innovator,
Just a crutch, but a beautiful one at that.
Will you stop it, I said not tonight.
Dims a bit, start fearing I've been to rough - but she's back.
Just a passing cloud.
Eager as ever, tonight, to bathe me in radiance.
Dance with me, she cries - and I falter.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 2:06 AM UTC
Gosh as a child when I rode my bike,
Smiling and happy with delight,
I always thought that I was right,
She told me no that it's late at night,
So she wouldn't find out I snuck out of sight,
She would never know and we'd never fight,
I should have listened late that night,
Finally I started riding it into the moon light,
Now I'm paralyzed and can never think right,
That light was a man and his front light too bright,
I got hit and my mom took me to North End Waterfront,
The light got brighter and I filed with fright,
A few years ago, now I'm thirty-nine and let out a grunt,
All I'm saying is you may think you're right,
Until you end up like Margret Kite..
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
Chuckie wore a see-through negligee;
she was barely even there...Eli ******
the journalist and staggered in drunk..
The mountains of Montenegro were
pristine like snow-cones; Chuckie
didn't mind Eli ******* the reporter,
as she sat smoking, too wet to light up.
Her cigar was a thick roll of crack
******* but sweating so hard &
huffing the damp glass hose until dry
heaving & falling to the floor. "Chuck,
sit upright a-for ya choke," said Eli,
lifting his feathery wife by the hairy
ethereal armpit. "Uy, you're too wasted
for drugs. You needa drink somethin,"
he slurred helpfully. Nodding, she fell
into his arms, or against his chest &
also back to the floor but throwing her
over his shoulder, he went to find the
kitchen. The reporter was still naked,
trying to sneak out on tip-toe but he
caught her. His face glowed red beneath
his spiky shock of natural ***** blond;
***** because he'd been rolling in puke
& sweat & *** his & hers. "Oh, you
ought to be my brush!" he cried, setting
his wife across a glass table & leaping on
the girl knocking her off her bare feet,
& dragging her through the carpeted house
to a spare back room filled with industrial
drums of various shades of enamel house
paints. Aware of what was coming, she
stiffened preparing for the artist to use
her scrawny body, all 4'8" of it, as had
previous generations, when Yves Klein
& Ann-Margret, her childhood idol,
created memorable masterpieces utilizing
the nubile **** female body as a living
paint
brush
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
Margret, you are blue's favorite.
If I could paint your portrait,
I would render you more plain
To bring your art less worldly fame.
It would give critics fewer clues
Should they look for some girl I knew.
They'd compare it to every face
And not find your pretty trace.
But I would live over the way
And still draw you everyday.
Should my view be obstructed
I would not be distracted.
I'd still draw and think of you.
Until you became the girl I drew.
And I would forget the hue
Of a Margret I once knew...
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
She likes trains.
I learned this because she was trying to fill up her five minutes.
She seemed unsure
but her stories told otherwise.
She spoke of marble bridges and Finland colours,
Enchanting enough that I didn't learn her name until afterwards.
Margret.
An English teacher
unafraid of rambling,
but terrified of going over time.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
From a man, at once he can drink
Two, three, four, five he tries to think
Stumbled into the kitchen
Thought he went fishin'
“Help Margret! I fell in the sink!”
—AuroraRW
Jan 12, 2020
Jan 12, 2020 at 5:46 PM UTC