"mccoy" poems
She was a Hatfield
And I a McCoy
It was just love beween
A girl and a boy
Our daddies grandaddies
And those from before
Might think us irreverant
To open that door
She lived two towns over
It was love at first sight....
We would slip out and meet
Every Sat. night
The neighbors all thought
It just wasn't right
But we were in love
And it wasn't our fight
Only two counties apart
She lived in West V
My home was Kentucky
The suitor was me
To us it was foolish
The feud was so old
Even though it was famous
From the tales that were told
She lived two towns over
It was love at first sight....
We would slip out and meet
Every Sat. night
The neighbors all thought
It just wasn't right
But we were in love
And it wasn't our fight
We'd meet after dark
At a barn down the line
We were not feuding people
For that night she was mine
We would run off together
After school was complete
We'd change both our names
We would be real discreet
She lived two towns over
It was love at first sight....
We would slip out and meet
Every Sat. night
The neighbors all thought
It just wasn't right
But we were in love
And it wasn't our fight
Our folks would reject us
And spoil our joy
Cause here was a Hatfield
With a real McCoy
For now, we'll be secret
Share our love cross the fence
And we'll wait till our kin folk
Wake up with some sense
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 5:15 PM UTC
The children are all crying in their pens
and the surf carries their cries away.
They are old men who have seen too much,
their mouths are full of ***** clothes,
the tongues poverty, tears like ****
The surf pushes their cries back.
Listen.
They are bewitched.
They are writing down their life
on the wings of an elf
who then dissolves.
They are writing down their life
on a century fallen to ruin.
They are writing down their life
on the bomb of an alien God.
I am too.
We must get help.
The children are dying in their pens.
Their bodies are crumbling.
Their tongues are twisting backwards.
There is a certain ritual to it.
There is a dance they do in their pens.
Their mouths are immense.
They are swallowing monster hearts.
So is my mouth.
Listen.
We must all stop dying in the little ways,
in the craters of hate,
in the potholes of indifference--
a ****** in the temple.
The place I live in
is a maze
and I keep seeking
the exit or the home.
Yet if I could listen
to the bulldog courage of those children
and turn inward into the plague of my soul
with more eyes than the stars
I could melt the darkness--
as suddenly as that time
when an awful headache goes away
or someone puts out the fire--
and stop the darkness and its amputations
and find the real McCoy
in the private holiness
of my hands.
2.9k
Ah, Pinocchio--povero burattino°--
Always in a scrape; always in a jam.
The irresponsible, wooden-headed numbskull
Couldn't help but fall for every scam.
A walking, talking stringless marionette,
Pinocchio really would have had it made
In a modest home with babbo°° Gepetto.
But, instead, the foolish youngster strayed.
Ignoring the advice of the talking cricket,
Pinocchio EVEN smashed it with a hammer.
That right there should have been a reason
To throw the little rascal in the slammer.
The Fox and the Cat had no trouble
Dissuading the puppet from going to school,
Thus involving him in a series of adventures
Which often made him look like a fool.
The Fairy tried to be a good influence,
But Pinocchio's lies caused his nose to grow.
Constantly ignoring responsibilities,
The misguided boy, suffered constant woe.
(Swindled of his money, hanged on a tree,
And saved just in the nick of time
From being eaten, Pinocchio had
Too many adventures to fit into this rhyme.)
Fleeing with his lazy school chum Lucignolo
To the Paese dei balocchi,°°° there Pinocc
Turned into a donkey. Of all his follies,
This one had to be a masterstroke.
Once again a puppet, Pinocchio was swallowed
By a giant Pesce-cane,°°°° and then guess what!
The foolish boy was finally reunited
With babbo Gepetto in the fish's huge gut.
NOT until Pinocchio thought about others
And proved he was an honest and caring boy
Did his fortune start to change for the better,
And the stringless puppet became the real McCoy.
Does Pinocchio by any chance remind you
Of any politicians out there at all
Who fail to listen to expert advice
And thumb their noses at common protocol?
And speaking of noses, we can also see
Politicians' noses grow as they tell lies.
Lying to themselves and to others as well
And ignoring our best interests and flouting compromise.
Such politicians--unlike Pinocchio--
Have strings to pull when performing for the masses.
The more they avoid solving REAL issues,
The more they end up looking like *****
They also love--these clever burattini--
To sell a bill of goods and promise many things.
But someone out there--or some corporation--
Is slyly and cleverly pulling their strings.
Do you ever wonder if these same politicians
Ever think about or care how you feel?
Will they eventually--as did Pinocchio--
Prove they have what it takes to be real?
°(burattino/i) - poor little puppet
°°(babbo) - dad(dy)
°°°(Paese dei balocchi) - Playland
°°°°(Pesce-cane) - shark
- by Bob B
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
lil haiku
i whiipped up:)
5-you will need your mittens Mr. Tu Bishva't...
7- "hot! hot! on the dot! Smelly *******
5-Mr. Pp is off his rocker tonight.....
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC
surrounding us: a billion stars
in a time when a trip to mars is like walking around the block
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive.
we’re beaming to a planet’s surface. now listen:
i know about inverse tachyon beams
i know about coded klingon screams
i know about going to warp factor eight
i know about redshirts' survival rate.
(no. chance.)
i’m beaming down with the main crew
to the surface of minerva II
we've got a malfunctioning interstellar transceiver which is distressing-- dysgraphing? dismantling…
…i don't know.
scotty said it was defective.
so we’re on this planet,
standing on one side of a thick forest packed with monster janeks,
starfleet says we need to fix this thing yesterday, and we’re in a panic—
and **** it, mccoy is a doctor, not a lumberjack,
and kirk says we should just burn through the middle with phasers,
and spock says we must preserve respect for all life forms no matter the situation.
now please remember kirk’s the captain.
that means he runs this show
but kirk always listens to spock,
so
we spend two days walking through the forest.
surrounding us: a billion trees
in a place where a strange disease is rare as feathers in a flock
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive.
halfway through this dark-lit trip
things go wrong (obviously)
and an alien with shellac for skin captures the captain.
said alien grabs a vine, ascends into the canopy of the trees,
and for one glorious moment
i believe kirk’s the dead guy in this episode, not me!
but spock, in his calm and logical vulcan voice,
orders us to exercise any necessary force to recover the captain.
translation: **** EVERYTHING. JUST GET KIRK BACK.
we reach the janek village.
being a good redshirt, i rush in, phaser blasting, ready to complete the heroic rescue of our captain—
and get killed instantly.
as i was dying, i heard the sound of thousands of janeks dying beside me
saw spock help kirk off the ground
and the last words I heard were theirs:
“captain, are you in need of immediate medical attention?”
“nah, spock, i’m fine—”
“mr. scott. the captain is hurt. beam us aboard immediately.”
one’s arm over the other’s shoulders,
they vanished.
surrounding them: a billion stars
in a time when a trip to mars is like walking around the block
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive—
but the prime directive
was never the real objective.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
Many are hamster-wheel humans
So punch-drunk from assuming
They know the way things work.
The wealthy urged them to elect jerks
To run this country into the ground
And turn it into the worst place around.
It’s a sad tale, a ***** of a story
Where those with guts, don’t get glory.
It’s a horror story, like in scary flicks
Where when men in suits get their kicks
Imprisoning brown people and kids
And laughing about the bad they did.
Afterward, they say others are to blame
But make no attempt to hide their game.
They put thousands in jail and charge them
And sing out loud their lying anthems.
They say fake news is the real McCoy
But, the real news they say is a ploy
Honest people want to stop the plunder
That, up ’til now, they kept hidden under.
But now it’s in the open meant to appease
Ignorant white people that are hard to please.
They want whites in power, think that’s nifty,
No wonder they elect only those who are shifty.
Too many quit learning in school, after ABC,
And they have no use for the land of the free.
They liked how it was in eighteen hundreds
With slaves, inhumanity to those they plundered.
They got up in arms when a black man won
And the class war was once again begun.
The very rich told lies to change the rules
People began to act openly like rapacious fools.
This is the country of which we were once proud.
It’s right now being destroyed by the elite crowd.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
The show is over, nothing sold
All in vain, what a pain
It's the saddest story all told.
What have I learned?
Future looks bleak but I'm unique
Why should I be concerned?
I paint and follow my passion
The real McCoy full of joy
Master life after a fashion.
Sep 24, 2021
Sep 24, 2021 at 3:15 AM UTC
Morning sun rises, here he comes
All night I have waited
Waiting for him to wake from his slumber
He is old, frail in need of company
She left him for a place in the clouds
Never a smile only a frown
I long to say good day
Its lonely on the web
Waiting to snare a bug
On the silken strands I call home
He shuffles his feet along the rug
I watch it all high upon the ceiling
Wishing for a glance upon my web
He never see's me
I see him with all eight eyes
Mr Mccoy, That's what I call him
He makes a cup of tea
I stretch a few legs hoping he will notice
The kettle boils, steam burns my feet
I scuttle to the top as beads form
Like raindrops on silver strings
His tender eyes peer out glass panes
Watching his crop, Old Mr Mccoy
Deep lines mark his face, thoughts of her mark his mind
Eight legs, no way to hug
If only he would see a friend in me
A picture of her, a tear shed
I spin my web, lowering
Closer and closer to his head
"Mr Mccoy ill be your friend!"
No words can I make to fall on death ears
He takes his tea and leaves me be
Tomorrow he might look up
Ill be ready, waiting on my web.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 4:23 AM UTC
mccoy tyner
played piano
in the john coltrane "classic"
quartet in the
1960s
he is still
alive
today
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
If I had something inspiring on my mind don't you think that I would've written it by now
I love being a writer but sometimes it gets me down
The pressure escalates like the water in the everglades to top myself, like pulling miracles out of my head is a miraculous act
I can't turn water into wine And I can't turn stacks of hay into clever punchlines
I guess what I'm trying to say, like Dr. Mccoy is that I'm a writer not a magician
I can only take what myself and others have gone through, and turn it into something relatable, that maybe just maybe someone will take something positive out of what was written
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
All I've ever had in my possession were bones.
The framework of a biological nuisance, something empty
on the inside, though full of what any of us may call life.
At the least, the semblance of which we can be convinced:
parading a corpse across the bridge, most talented thespian in space;
and medicine, the hobby you picked up so you could learn to ignore death.
You are too old, now, to foolishly believe you can outrun death,
the inevitable silence that haunts your dreams and soaks through your bones.
You breathe in too quickly, too aware of the emotional cavity, of the space
between your thoughts and your actions. Your words have always been empty,
a reminder of the very symbol of your own faith, though you aren't convinced
that you, yourself, can ever measure up to that vivacity that floods his life.
Repeat that in your mind, over and over; that the anomalies in this life
can be proven as effects of the reckless and the brave, that their death
is ultimately yours to cause or to save. So, of your own importance, you are convinced,
and you know you are the best, always have been -- always, Bones.
So don't waste your energy on the thought that all of his promises are empty
and trust, instead, that this lunatic, this love, will survive all of space.
There's nowhere for you to escape this bitterness; indeed, no space
for you to claim as your own, your sanctuary. No chance of a separate life
when you've had all you can stomach of this insanity, this empty
endless game you've boxed yourself up in, until you surrender yourself to death,
to the simple cessation of your repetitive motions -- but, no, Bones;
he will never stop. His life will continue, his body and soul immortal -- of this, you are convinced.
No, he'll keep on going, as perilously as before; of his invincibility, you are convinced,
but you, yourself are, as ever, determined to follow his failures through space,
to diligently spout your expletives and condemnations and advice; you are now, as then, his bones,
and you never forgot that. Just as he never forgot who takes credit for his life,
his bones, his common sense --- you alone have, time and time again, forced death
to hang its weary head and return and yet, his own promises are empty.
You've learned to scoff at his vows of safety; his idiocy, you could handle. Still, empty, too, were his promises of faith. His loyalty, he proved, but you stay thoroughly convinced
that alone would he remain, had you considered your logic. Somehow still, like death,
the logic was an inevitability, and you learned to detest one trait in all of space.
You can see his faith fading as it goes, as logic proves itself a thief of your life,
and you lament the truest fact of all -- no longer could you be his bones.
And so I've managed to pull my empty shell together, as he never could, for in space
nowhere can I hide from the death of my ethos; yes, in space alone I dedicate my life.
And I am, as he was convinced, an honest man. I end as I begin -- with all I've ever had: Bones.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
There was a man named Ty
He was a Jack of all trades
But like any other average Joe
He had his own Achilles’ heel
In his mind Elvis had left the building
To say he was as happy as Larry
Is a big no way, José
It was elementary my dear Watson
What you have seen is not the real McCoy
Alas, poor Ty! You thought you knew him well, Horatio…
But now Daniel has come to judgement
And the only place Ty would be happy
Is down in Davy Jones’ locker…
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
What can I say?
That hasn’t been said
About the Queen of Soul
Now that she's dead
Her music lives on
Inside my head
Along with the memories
That her songs have fed
R- E- S- P- E- C- T
The Queen of Soul
Will always be
Aretha Franklin
Don’t cha see
She’s the only one
With the authority
To be the Queen in her sorority
There’ll be tears
Of sadness
And smiles of joy
That those who morn her
Will employ
She was one of kind
The real McCoy
With a living legacy no one can destroy
Let’s each thank God
For the gift
Of Aretha Franklin
The legend the myth
And the good memories
That she left us with
May her journey to heaven
Be restful and swift
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
when no moon is the reason and it's that.
you may be the first one on the moon of your own real mccoy.
and oi vey ! you're about to have cancer but you're too busy dying from boredom !
you have straight teeth that crooked smiles get the *******
and the wisp of your future lays dormant
in the huge bend of your sinister
where the crimp is binding the pinch
and the hole is dropping
the gallstone
into the pudding
with your
beast.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
"en qué consiste el juego de la muerte" preguntó
sammy mccoy parado en sus dos niños
el que fue el que sería
"en qué consiste el juego de la muerte" preguntó sin embargo
antes había bebido toda la leche de la mañana
jugos del cielo o de la vaca madre según
untándola con los sueños que
se le cían de la noche anterior
sammy mccoy era odiado frecuentemente por una mujer
que no le daba hijos sino palos
en la cabeza en el costado
en la mitad del desayuno esa fiebre
de cada palo que le dieron
brotó una flor de leche o fiebre que le comía el corazón
peor todo se come el corazón
y sammy nunca se rendía sammy mccoy no se rendía defendiéndose con nada:
con la memoria del calor
con la cucharita que perdió una vez revolviendo la infancia
con todo lo que iba rezando o padeciendo
con su pelela mesmamente
así
del pecho le fue saliendo
una dragona con pañuelo y la luz
como muchacha envuelta en aire
como dos niños sobre los que niño
sammy mccoy se paraba y
"en qué consiste el juego de la muerte" preguntaba
ya cara a cara con la gran dolora
cuando murió sammy mccoy
los dos niños se le despegaron
el que fue se le pudrió y el que iba a ser también
y de todos modos fueron juntos
lo que la lluvia o sol o gran planeta o la sistema de vivir separan
la muerte lo junta otra vez
pero sammy mccoy habló todavía
"en qué consiste el juego de la muerte" preguntó
y ya más nada preguntó
de sus falanges ángeles con mudos
salían con la boca tapada
a cucharita a memoria a calor
"güeya güeya" gritaban sus dos niños
ninguna mujer salvo la sombra los juntó
qué vergüenzas animales
y las caritas les brillaban calientes
así ha de ser caritas de oro
señoras presidentas o almas cuyas acabaran
a los pieses de sammy el que camina
sammy mccoy pisó el sol y partió
839
well i would
disdain 'gainst
the McCoy name
to prove just how
much quarrel has
to do with what
you mean to me.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 7:40 PM UTC
Faith is waiting for something to happen here.
That looks impossible to happen to that Person.
I believe that when I was very little that I felt.
That during the star trek episode of a healer.
That God spoke to Me saying that I was a healer.
It was the episode where the woman healed Dr McCoy.
Just by touching Him, I believe that it is in Us all.
I mean , We as Poets were given that Power of Healing.
Through the very words that We write on this site.
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 2:41 AM UTC
You clear your throat and keep me in silence.
Nervous shades a beautiful color on you.
Softly and slowly you say,
"When you looked in the mirror,
And touched the forming wrinkles on your forehead,
And sighed in defeat.
And whispered, 'I'm getting old.'
All I could think about was it being with me."
And that's the moment I knew you were the one.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
Living life slow
With
Not a lot mojo
It's people so miss understood
Pregnant and barefoot
Sorry, this is not textbook
We don't have a lot of neighborhoods
Something better
A lot of woods
Filled with flowering dogwoods
Grew up learning about manhood
and Womanhood
Taught
To stand with our neighbors
We should
and
We just would
Family feuds
None, as along as you pay your dues
Excluding
The Hatfield's and the McCoy's
We all know about their attitudes
We love our Whiskey
Our Makers and heaven hill
and our moonshine
how mighty fine
Spend our days
In the fields
Sometime wadding in the mud
Where we had just dug
Tug!
Maybe loose our shoes
All we do is shrug
We speak with a southern draw
We call our mom, maw
We call our dad, paw
By the time we start to craw
And we consider everyone ya all
Kentucky
Where the stars shine bright
Where everything is just right
And everything is alright
!!
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 7:24 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
After we made love
And I fell asleep
With pleasant memories of
Emotions that ran deep
The ecstasy I felt
Was impossible to keep
Wrapped up in my dreams
So if you saw me weep
Those were tears of joy
Ya had me reminiscing
About everything we did
Especially all the kissing
From your head to toe
You responded and I listened
Cuz I wanted you to know
You had me on a mission
After we made love
We bathed in the afterglow
Just like hand and glove
We fit each other so
And our waves of passion
Had an ebb and flow
From the very beginning
Right from the word go
After we made love
I was over come with joy
Anxiously awaiting
A chance to redeploy
Ain’t no doubt about it
You’re the real McCoy
After we made love
In the quiet of the night
I was trying to come up with
An appropriate sound bite
But all I had on my mind
Is you’re such a lovely sight
And all I wanted to do
Was to cry and hold you tight
Those were tears of joy
Ya had me reminiscing
About everything we did
Especially all the kissing
From your head to toe
You responded and I listened
Cuz I wanted you to know
You had me on a mission
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 5:37 AM UTC
Out of the mouth of a terrible dogfish she came,
A modern-day Cinderella, but avid shoe geek,
Stabbed to death by stiletto on the Castle Turret,
Done in by her own spiked heels.
There was even a sign posted
Warning of the danger,
"Wear the wedge instead,"
Jiminy Cricket had said.
"I'm no fool,"
Her final utterance
Before tripping out in Thule.
All this just to dance with a wretched boy,
The scapegrace,
Who laughed derisively
In his maker's face,
Then stole his wig.
And as he fled with Candlewick
To the Land of Toys,
He dreamt of Lederhosen & feather hat,
To be seen in Tyrolean as the real McCoy.
Alas, here came the Northerly Wind,
Angry at the boy's lack of moral fiber,
To cast him out & lay bare his sin.
And as the rope passed
Unnoticeably 'round his wooden neck,
On this noose he did swing,
One long shudder, he was done and hung,
Stiff & insensible yo-yo on a string.
The moral of the story, boys & girls:
Fairy-tale Romance is like having
A venomous snake for a pet,
It's cool & fun & magical,
Until you get bit.
Nov 4, 2019
Nov 4, 2019 at 12:16 AM UTC
My Aunt had gone pure crazy
that's what, my dead Uncle used to say
he was deaf, and kinda lazy
before, he was old and grey
My mother never made pardon
often spoke bout her altzy displays
prancing in the yard and garden
as mentally, she strayed
I'll not question state of mind
or pass judgement on her joy
no freer spirit, could I find
for, she's the real McCoy
Cavorting to music and tunes
no one else could feel or hear
raptured face, in sun and moon
a harmony of thought, and ear
Down the hall and out the door
her imagination, danced and played
touching her heart, it's deepest core
rocking, to the beat and sway
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 3:46 PM UTC
Are we just actors in a play by God
Put here for him to play whilst bored on his other job
A game of sorts, with devilish cohorts, just dice for them to throw
Its all just pretend, no script or friend as once seen in the Truman Show
How many are there, moving us around from a place of unknown premise
Black holes dissolve and planets collide, Gods bored with destructive menace
We believe in so many powers but who is the real McCoy
Us just sat here for millions of years, scared of death and what comes next
But we are just their little toys
The Act
JJB
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 7:08 AM UTC
"Leave if necessary. Just leave. If you stay and hang on, you never know what will happen."
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
Episode A, as lives are recalled to the tv gen...
Exposure to constant new
boxes of thought
in the quantum foaming theory
bubbling in my soul,
gurgling in my gut, and guffawing
in my impression of Little Luke McCoy,
in the barracks, got
a big laugh, from Harvey Silverman, whom
I gave company, unawares mind you, he was a stranger
I was being kind,
he made the rules for a bathroom craps game.
No more roles after midnite,
I said Aight, and we rolled the bones, and they
rolled my way, at E-2 pay,
sync'tupwatches witness, it is an new day,
Harvey Silverman, from Las Vegas, via Philly,
he says, I owe u 12 hundred dallahs,
let me break the rule,
he asks my permission, then makes eight
straight passes,
and I believe my eyes, I was that guy,
Silverman died.
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 8:35 PM UTC