"mattie" poems - Hello Poetry

Grandma's hands clapped in church on Sunday morning. Grandma's hands played the tambourine so well. Grandma's hands used to issue out a warning, She'd say, “Billy don't you run so fast, Might fall on a piece of glass, Might be snaked there in that grass,” Grandma's hands Grandma's hands sooth the local ***** mother Grandma's hands used to ache sometimes and swell Grandma's hands used to lift her face and tell her, She'd say, “Baby Grandma understands, That you really loved that man, Put yourself in Jesus' hands.” Grandma's Hands Grandma's hands used to hand me piece of candy. Grandma's hands picked me up each time I fell. Grandma's hands, boy the really came in handy She'd say, “ Mattie don't you whip that boy. What you want to spank him for? He didn't drop no apple core,” But I don't have Grandma anymore, If I get to heaven I'll look for Grandma's hands.

0

Jun 18, 2014

Jun 18, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC

EveInWonderland

Grandma's Hands - Bill Withers

Grandma's hands clapped in church on Sunday morning. Grandma's hands played the tambourine so well. Grandma's hands used to issue out a warning, She'd say, “Billy don't you run so fast, Might fall on a piece of glass, Might be snaked there in that grass,” Grandma's hands Grandma's hands sooth the local ***** mother Grandma's hands used to ache sometimes and swell Grandma's hands used to lift her face and tell her, She'd say, “Baby Grandma understands, That you really loved that man, Put yourself in Jesus' hands.” Grandma's Hands Grandma's hands used to hand me piece of candy. Grandma's hands picked me up each time I fell. Grandma's hands, boy the really came in handy She'd say, “ Mattie don't you whip that boy. What you want to spank him for? He didn't drop no apple core,” But I don't have Grandma anymore, If I get to heaven I'll look for Grandma's hands.

23

Four years old. Four years old is the perfect age To know enough about yourself And not enough about the world. To know everything you absolutely need to know Before the world strips it away And replaces it with a fake sort of knowing. Four years old, Old enough to recognize something that will drive you For the rest of your life. Four years old was I, And four years old was he, Mattie, My Mattie, When we met in the sticker-burr ridden play yard Of a daycare, And at four years old, We became peaceful companions, Slower, Quieter, And just a bit more odd, Than the rest. At four years old, Mattie had a silliness about him, And a funny way of talking through his missing teeth. At four years old, We avoided the violent, flying swings and sprinting, shrieking children, And we scoured the outskirts of the yard For four leaf clovers. Mattie was a four leaf clover. Incredible, Unique, And found by chance. Because Mattie’s silliness and funny voice and missing teeth Were not simply because we were four years old, But because Mattie came from a mom Who couldn’t stop. Mattie’s mom couldn’t stop doing drugs, Not for a single day. Not when her belly swelled with Mattie inside, Not when he came into the world, Breathing the air she did, Drinking the milk she made, Mattie’s mom couldn’t stop. He was buried beneath clusters of clovers, And his four, perfect leaves were nearly withered away, When his parents found him. His parents, Two incredible women, Who had so much love in their hearts, They couldn’t help but let it overflow Into the cup of a small child with bright eyes and dwindling breath. Mattie, My four leaf clover, Is happy today. Today, Mattie, No longer four years old, But a man, Is about to be a doctor. My four leaf clover, Who looked to his mothers like the most beautiful child that was ever born, With the sharpest wit And the most brilliant smile, At the end of the day, Is simply another clover. His beauty and his value, Are what we give him. His rarity, his singularity, Is something we create, Something we fashion for him Out of love and acceptance. To this day, I lean down and examine patches of clover, The image of Mattie, Gently counting leaves with chubby, toddler fingers, Burnt into my memory. And to this day, I hold in my heart the hope, That I will meet a child, My own Mattie, My own rarity, My own treasure, My own little four leaf clover.

0

Mar 1, 2018

Mar 1, 2018 at 10:44 AM UTC

emily-miller-1

Four Leaf Clover

Four years old. Four years old is the perfect age To know enough about yourself And not enough about the world. To know everything you absolutely need to know Before the world strips it away And replaces it with a fake sort of knowing. Four years old, Old enough to recognize something that will drive you For the rest of your life. Four years old was I, And four years old was he, Mattie, My Mattie, When we met in the sticker-burr ridden play yard Of a daycare, And at four years old, We became peaceful companions, Slower, Quieter, And just a bit more odd, Than the rest. At four years old, Mattie had a silliness about him, And a funny way of talking through his missing teeth. At four years old, We avoided the violent, flying swings and sprinting, shrieking children, And we scoured the outskirts of the yard For four leaf clovers. Mattie was a four leaf clover. Incredible, Unique, And found by chance. Because Mattie’s silliness and funny voice and missing teeth Were not simply because we were four years old, But because Mattie came from a mom Who couldn’t stop. Mattie’s mom couldn’t stop doing drugs, Not for a single day. Not when her belly swelled with Mattie inside, Not when he came into the world, Breathing the air she did, Drinking the milk she made, Mattie’s mom couldn’t stop. He was buried beneath clusters of clovers, And his four, perfect leaves were nearly withered away, When his parents found him. His parents, Two incredible women, Who had so much love in their hearts, They couldn’t help but let it overflow Into the cup of a small child with bright eyes and dwindling breath. Mattie, My four leaf clover, Is happy today. Today, Mattie, No longer four years old, But a man, Is about to be a doctor. My four leaf clover, Who looked to his mothers like the most beautiful child that was ever born, With the sharpest wit And the most brilliant smile, At the end of the day, Is simply another clover. His beauty and his value, Are what we give him. His rarity, his singularity, Is something we create, Something we fashion for him Out of love and acceptance. To this day, I lean down and examine patches of clover, The image of Mattie, Gently counting leaves with chubby, toddler fingers, Burnt into my memory. And to this day, I hold in my heart the hope, That I will meet a child, My own Mattie, My own rarity, My own treasure, My own little four leaf clover.

85

Transform me, dear child Show me your visions Help me find Hope in my name. For I've been listening To Peacelessness in my veins. Your time here isn't done Battles rage without a single one won The Lies reach past fingertips And Truth is painfully shy. Please restore my faith. Say those kind words you always manage to say. People crane their necks For leaders left and right But you and I know Leadership moves forward With flashlight eyes in the night.

0

Nov 13, 2015

Nov 13, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC

mariya-timkovsky

Dear Mattie: Paying my Respects

Transform me, dear child Show me your visions Help me find Hope in my name. For I've been listening To Peacelessness in my veins. Your time here isn't done Battles rage without a single one won The Lies reach past fingertips And Truth is painfully shy. Please restore my faith. Say those kind words you always manage to say. People crane their necks For leaders left and right But you and I know Leadership moves forward With flashlight eyes in the night.

16

She was called the queen of the night life Ruling the district of bright light Where wealth and beauty was well rife She had the worst kind of man in her sight Her fortune was all he desired He had another woman on the side And for this the gun shots were fired In a duel that's heard of worldwide He felt oh so mighty proud As he watched them fight for his hand They pulled guns in front of a big crowd But it didn't go as it was planned Instead of one madam left as a winner A bullet grazed his own throat The punishment for being a sinner Who failed to one woman devote

0

Dec 7, 2015

Dec 7, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC

elin-mellbergstedt

Mattie Silks

She was called the queen of the night life Ruling the district of bright light Where wealth and beauty was well rife She had the worst kind of man in her sight Her fortune was all he desired He had another woman on the side And for this the gun shots were fired In a duel that's heard of worldwide He felt oh so mighty proud As he watched them fight for his hand They pulled guns in front of a big crowd But it didn't go as it was planned Instead of one madam left as a winner A bullet grazed his own throat The punishment for being a sinner Who failed to one woman devote

16

The trees overlapped overhead creating a warm cloister. Harvey's car cooed past the vibrant green and sputter-stopped at the plastic, fishhead mailbox. He drove up the grey gravel drive, hopped out of his car and with eager stride headed toward the door of the widow Prine. "Hello, Harvey," Mrs. Prine greeted from behind the screen in her always-sugary-hushed tone. "Hey, Mrs--I mean hello, Margaret." "Haha, you remembered this time. C'mon in, sweetie." Harvey's steps matched gentle creaks in wooden floor. Pictures of Mrs. Prine's three children lined the walls. "That's Mattie, Cindy's baby. My first grandbaby," Mrs. Prine beamed. "She's a cutie." "Well thank you," Mrs. Prine picked up some magazines lying on the couch, "feel free to sit here. Can I get you something to drink? Some wine, maybe? It's a red." "Sure, sure. Sounds good." Mrs. Prine stepped into the kitchen, as the evening news played at a barely audible volume. "Oh Lord. I forgot to put the wine in the fridge, Harvey." "That's okay, Mrs. Prine. I can--" "Margaret." "Margaret, I can drink it warm." "How about some ice cubes?" "That works too." Mrs. Prine's husband died driving an 18-wheeler, six-miles outside of Dallas two or three years ago. One of the few times a sedan won a war against a big engine. Her cheek bones jutted sharply from her face, deep crimson lipstick and light eyeshadow emphasized her few deep wrinkles, as if she wore them with pride. They sat sipping lukewarm red wine, saying nearly nothing-- touching only during commercial breaks. When the news ended, Mrs. Prine grabbed Harvey's hand, led him to the bedroom, filled with pictures of her and her husband. The love they made-- textbook in its precision, light in its passion-- finished chapter, Harvey reached for his cigarettes. "Sweetie, please don't smoke in here." "Oh, I'm sorry, Margaret." Harvey stared at her old life's relics, wrapped his arm around her, pulled her naked flesh against his, a summer breeze crawled through open window, and Harvey said, "So, tell me more about your husband." Mrs. Prine smiled, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and with a retrospective sigh, she began.

0

May 19, 2011

May 19, 2011 at 5:31 PM UTC

jj-hutton

The Widow Prine (Pt. I)

The trees overlapped overhead creating a warm cloister. Harvey's car cooed past the vibrant green and sputter-stopped at the plastic, fishhead mailbox. He drove up the grey gravel drive, hopped out of his car and with eager stride headed toward the door of the widow Prine. "Hello, Harvey," Mrs. Prine greeted from behind the screen in her always-sugary-hushed tone. "Hey, Mrs--I mean hello, Margaret." "Haha, you remembered this time. C'mon in, sweetie." Harvey's steps matched gentle creaks in wooden floor. Pictures of Mrs. Prine's three children lined the walls. "That's Mattie, Cindy's baby. My first grandbaby," Mrs. Prine beamed. "She's a cutie." "Well thank you," Mrs. Prine picked up some magazines lying on the couch, "feel free to sit here. Can I get you something to drink? Some wine, maybe? It's a red." "Sure, sure. Sounds good." Mrs. Prine stepped into the kitchen, as the evening news played at a barely audible volume. "Oh Lord. I forgot to put the wine in the fridge, Harvey." "That's okay, Mrs. Prine. I can--" "Margaret." "Margaret, I can drink it warm." "How about some ice cubes?" "That works too." Mrs. Prine's husband died driving an 18-wheeler, six-miles outside of Dallas two or three years ago. One of the few times a sedan won a war against a big engine. Her cheek bones jutted sharply from her face, deep crimson lipstick and light eyeshadow emphasized her few deep wrinkles, as if she wore them with pride. They sat sipping lukewarm red wine, saying nearly nothing-- touching only during commercial breaks. When the news ended, Mrs. Prine grabbed Harvey's hand, led him to the bedroom, filled with pictures of her and her husband. The love they made-- textbook in its precision, light in its passion-- finished chapter, Harvey reached for his cigarettes. "Sweetie, please don't smoke in here." "Oh, I'm sorry, Margaret." Harvey stared at her old life's relics, wrapped his arm around her, pulled her naked flesh against his, a summer breeze crawled through open window, and Harvey said, "So, tell me more about your husband." Mrs. Prine smiled, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and with a retrospective sigh, she began.

83

Wiggly, wiggly Wollie, Mattie makes monkey muffins, Bad breaks blows buskins, Pitching Patrick past Pollie.

0

Apr 13, 2013

Apr 13, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC

dadaolowoeyo

Beepin'

Wiggly, wiggly Wollie, Mattie makes monkey muffins, Bad breaks blows buskins, Pitching Patrick past Pollie.

4

President of the Republic of Germany's Presidential Security Council President 150 (1973) (5) President. This operation and her long legs in the stomach of horses. This is very clear, especially in Latin America, Europe, Russia and Spain, and in Canada, the prostitutes and dogs are essential for Mexico. 1, What are you doing? According to Adam Clark, women in the São Samar and all the Yogis are women, women and children in Africa, Asia and South America, Germany and England, Gilbert and George. In the United States, Russia is good. Americans want to live in Canada, and Great Britain. About two thirds of Catholics in San Francisco, China, Russia, South Korea, and the USA. Then I'll enter the dogs. Type of songs not written 1. Latin American products in Latin America. Spain, Wales, bull by Alice. From the foundation of the world, he was born in the largest area of the world to study and study John's leaders. I said. Out of control. There is no competition. France, on the second day. In addition to the prostitutes and the elderly Muslims, in the windows they are given comfort in adultery. Many companies in Jamaica can express their feelings to Guinea. These are green geese. His mother Mattie. So Georgia. (5) It is important to add the 1292 standard modes in the message, and a TV show is found. Asian countries in the Americas and Africa, African and Latin American prostitutes, from Germany, Yugoslavia, Denmark, prostitutes and more prostitutes. Vegetables. In a comedy, Oustiin's family are prostitutes and prostitutes; Within 150 hours in the city, United Nations Security Council (5), 1973 (1973), Executive Director (5). The information is contained in the robot robot center. Open the next part of the tree. I also said in Pittsburgh: "You are not listening to me, as a ********** 1, a maid and a horse." This list is incomplete. In the United States, Europe, Russia, Spain, Canada and European slums, old and advanced technologies. The items returned to the Swiss Express Pond were from the port. Of course, like a dog and others. Prison or Russian court? There are many benefits to Giza the Robot and Sarah Barrow in the Middle Valley 2 to 2, 2. In the Middle East, there are many benefits for the team and many others. The fish in the grass. There are waters in Latin America, West Africa, Asia, the Congo, England, Germany, and Assisi, which are collected on the moon along with different cultures of different breeds.

0

Nov 27, 2018

Nov 27, 2018 at 9:13 PM UTC

johnny-noiπ

"a ********** 1, a maid and a horse"

President of the Republic of Germany's Presidential Security Council President 150 (1973) (5) President. This operation and her long legs in the stomach of horses. This is very clear, especially in Latin America, Europe, Russia and Spain, and in Canada, the prostitutes and dogs are essential for Mexico. 1, What are you doing? According to Adam Clark, women in the São Samar and all the Yogis are women, women and children in Africa, Asia and South America, Germany and England, Gilbert and George. In the United States, Russia is good. Americans want to live in Canada, and Great Britain. About two thirds of Catholics in San Francisco, China, Russia, South Korea, and the USA. Then I'll enter the dogs. Type of songs not written 1. Latin American products in Latin America. Spain, Wales, bull by Alice. From the foundation of the world, he was born in the largest area of the world to study and study John's leaders. I said. Out of control. There is no competition. France, on the second day. In addition to the prostitutes and the elderly Muslims, in the windows they are given comfort in adultery. Many companies in Jamaica can express their feelings to Guinea. These are green geese. His mother Mattie. So Georgia. (5) It is important to add the 1292 standard modes in the message, and a TV show is found. Asian countries in the Americas and Africa, African and Latin American prostitutes, from Germany, Yugoslavia, Denmark, prostitutes and more prostitutes. Vegetables. In a comedy, Oustiin's family are prostitutes and prostitutes; Within 150 hours in the city, United Nations Security Council (5), 1973 (1973), Executive Director (5). The information is contained in the robot robot center. Open the next part of the tree. I also said in Pittsburgh: "You are not listening to me, as a ********** 1, a maid and a horse." This list is incomplete. In the United States, Europe, Russia, Spain, Canada and European slums, old and advanced technologies. The items returned to the Swiss Express Pond were from the port. Of course, like a dog and others. Prison or Russian court? There are many benefits to Giza the Robot and Sarah Barrow in the Middle Valley 2 to 2, 2. In the Middle East, there are many benefits for the team and many others. The fish in the grass. There are waters in Latin America, West Africa, Asia, the Congo, England, Germany, and Assisi, which are collected on the moon along with different cultures of different breeds.

57

I feel so alone In the big, big world The true me will be shown I need to let go and face the real world I have to let go I have to sort things out Everything is moving so slow I have to get out I have to swim to the surface This feeling is like drowning But I have to resurface Everyone around me is breathing I can see them Drawing in breath I'm not one of them, not a gem I can't breathe like they can, this is like death I'm suffocating In my sorrow I'm suffering Dreading living tomorrow I'm not suicidal Though sometimes I wish I was But this is survival I will live life with no clause I am all alone No one understands the way I feel You say you do, but no, I am alone You don't understand, my walls are like steel I am lonely yet I am afraid I am the one and only Don't try coming to my aid Youwon't anyways You don'tcare Your sympathy won't help Anyways When you became my friend you should've been aware Of the burden that comes with me I cry and I scream Just like a banshee My tears are a constant stream I'm suffering I feel like I'm dying I'm drowning I feel helpless Why do you continue? Why are you Reading my misery? Go ahead contribute I will soon be history Why are you reading? You don't care anyways. Why are you pleading? It won't help anyways So let go Live your life Go on thrive and grow You don't need me in your life Besides I'm just a lonely girl Sitting on one of the sides Of your screen, I'm no pearl Just a ugly freak Who is alone Just a depressed geek Who is alone So Go on Live your life Fulfill your dreams which you have drawn This is the way I feel this is my way of life Deal with it Just Like I had to For 12 years I have put up with this **** I'm sorry If this offended you I still love you all You have a place in my heart The old me is not here at all My name is Mattie I have been torn apart This is all Goodbye my friends I love you all Stay strong my friends

0

May 25, 2014

May 25, 2014 at 4:33 AM UTC

ma-wishing

Lonely Child

I feel so alone In the big, big world The true me will be shown I need to let go and face the real world I have to let go I have to sort things out Everything is moving so slow I have to get out I have to swim to the surface This feeling is like drowning But I have to resurface Everyone around me is breathing I can see them Drawing in breath I'm not one of them, not a gem I can't breathe like they can, this is like death I'm suffocating In my sorrow I'm suffering Dreading living tomorrow I'm not suicidal Though sometimes I wish I was But this is survival I will live life with no clause I am all alone No one understands the way I feel You say you do, but no, I am alone You don't understand, my walls are like steel I am lonely yet I am afraid I am the one and only Don't try coming to my aid Youwon't anyways You don'tcare Your sympathy won't help Anyways When you became my friend you should've been aware Of the burden that comes with me I cry and I scream Just like a banshee My tears are a constant stream I'm suffering I feel like I'm dying I'm drowning I feel helpless Why do you continue? Why are you Reading my misery? Go ahead contribute I will soon be history Why are you reading? You don't care anyways. Why are you pleading? It won't help anyways So let go Live your life Go on thrive and grow You don't need me in your life Besides I'm just a lonely girl Sitting on one of the sides Of your screen, I'm no pearl Just a ugly freak Who is alone Just a depressed geek Who is alone So Go on Live your life Fulfill your dreams which you have drawn This is the way I feel this is my way of life Deal with it Just Like I had to For 12 years I have put up with this **** I'm sorry If this offended you I still love you all You have a place in my heart The old me is not here at all My name is Mattie I have been torn apart This is all Goodbye my friends I love you all Stay strong my friends

80

she sits on the curb around 2am drinking from a large dark glass bottle swaying to her own soft singing thinking her dark thoughts and fighting the fights she never could fight in person. what has brought her to this place doesn't matter. bad choices and even worse influences every one's fault but her own, if you let her tell the story. sitting on the curb, throwing that dark glass bottle as far as she can so she can hear the crash laughing as sirens pass and peeking eyes peer out of dark windows to see what all the noise is about. she tries to get up falling the first time another donkey bray of a laugh then back on her feet. to stroll and sway and sing and cry screaming up at the cold street lights, and anyone on this tiny street to happens to be awake, how wrong her life has gone how unfair it all is and how if she had the chance, well, she might just make the same mistakes all over again. her mistakes are all she has anymore those tragic choices that reek of her twisted thought processes. they are the only things she can breath on and buff up and show off to the passersby. as if her purpose in life was to be a warning to others. as if she did us all some great service by taken a path only to mark it as hazardous. she walks and she stumbles she sways still softly singing as the higher class wakes and gets ready for work. squinting at the rising sun she disappears down allways to tend to unknown day time activities. but i know she will be back as soon as the street lights turn on she will be back with more stories and lessons for those of us who can't seem to sleep.

0

Jan 19, 2011

Jan 19, 2011 at 11:20 AM UTC

sj-g

mad mattie and her life lessons

she sits on the curb around 2am drinking from a large dark glass bottle swaying to her own soft singing thinking her dark thoughts and fighting the fights she never could fight in person. what has brought her to this place doesn't matter. bad choices and even worse influences every one's fault but her own, if you let her tell the story. sitting on the curb, throwing that dark glass bottle as far as she can so she can hear the crash laughing as sirens pass and peeking eyes peer out of dark windows to see what all the noise is about. she tries to get up falling the first time another donkey bray of a laugh then back on her feet. to stroll and sway and sing and cry screaming up at the cold street lights, and anyone on this tiny street to happens to be awake, how wrong her life has gone how unfair it all is and how if she had the chance, well, she might just make the same mistakes all over again. her mistakes are all she has anymore those tragic choices that reek of her twisted thought processes. they are the only things she can breath on and buff up and show off to the passersby. as if her purpose in life was to be a warning to others. as if she did us all some great service by taken a path only to mark it as hazardous. she walks and she stumbles she sways still softly singing as the higher class wakes and gets ready for work. squinting at the rising sun she disappears down allways to tend to unknown day time activities. but i know she will be back as soon as the street lights turn on she will be back with more stories and lessons for those of us who can't seem to sleep.

55