"migrate" poems
You said the anger would come back
just as the love did.
I have a black look I do not
like. It is a mask I try on.
I migrate toward it and its frog
sits on my lips and defecates.
It is old. It is also a pauper.
I have tried to keep it on a diet.
I give it no unction.
There is a good look that I wear
like a blood clot. I have
sewn it over my left breast.
I have made a vocation of it.
Lust has taken plant in it
and I have placed you and your
child at its milk tip.
Oh the blackness is murderous
and the milk tip is brimming
and each machine is working
and I will kiss you when
I cut up one dozen new men
and you will die somewhat,
again and again.
24.6k
The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.
Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!
Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.
In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.
You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!
It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.
Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!
In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!
I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.
Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.
Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.
There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.
Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!
How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.
Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.
Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.
Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.
And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.
This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!
Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!
From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.
You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.
Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.
The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.
Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.
Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.
It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!
14.2k
JANUARY
Delightful display
Snowdrops bowing pure white heads
To the sun’s glory.
FEBRUARY
Fresh green buds appear
Indicating spring will soon
Energise us all.
MARCH
Lambs gambol in fields
Frisky with the joys of life
Bleating happily.
APRIL
Bluebells stand so proud
Beneath trees now sparsely dressed
Fresh green leaves unfold.
MAY
Much awaited sound
Echoes heard amid dense trees
Cuckoo has arrived.
JUNE
Parks and gardens burst
With sounds and vibrant colours
Perfect harmony.
JULY
Beaches become full
Of families having fun
In sand and big waves.
AUGUST
Ripe golden harvest
Burning sun in azure skies
Labours rewarded.
SEPTEMBER
Swallows congregate
On telephone wires ready
To migrate down south.
OCTOBER
Red and gold leaves fall,
Crunchy as cornflakes beneath
Feet on a crisp morn.
NOVEMBER
Frosty webs sparkle
In the early morning sun
Brightly bejewelled.
DECEMBER
First few flakes of snow
Dust gardens like icing on
A chocolate cake.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 12:44 PM UTC
And I will make sure that if anything were to happen,
It would do little to affect you.
It's not everyday
You find a goose that lays eggs
With speckled jewels and golden flakes
The world is full of incongruity
And there's no doubt about the certainty
That something bad may happen,
And we don't want that, do we?
So listen carefully.
The world is a giant carboniferous spicule
Hanging in a nest of hydroxic gas and particulae
Spinning within the gaps of a blackened dome
Of limitless space and out of control
There is no telling what way it will go
There is no prediction that has fortold
Any number of moments in this tumbling slumber
Between the darkest hell and the further horizon
I so deftly advise you with all certification
To please place your bets and fly by echolocation
Your eyes will mislead, your ears will displease
And there is no way we can refund divine warranties
This machinery
has a half life of quarks
And energies that vibrate into other orbits
Trajectories
Retaining the spin and informative piece
Of that golden goose let loose amongst the canopy
Of dark,
off into neverland, straight on
Till new morning,
Beyond the stars
So please good sir don't migrate away from me
I have so much to give and such pain I have seen
Those that fatten their goose with **** till it quacks,
Those ravenous souls who ate their gift for a snack,
And when life finally cuts them down to their last,
They will howl and yowl and pray that goose back.
This is a game,
Have a good little laugh
Don't waste your time or your money
On a daffy Aflack
Policy that keeps you policed to the earth,
No way to fly,
Stuck in the dirt.
That is no way to live in the dream,
That is no way to let death trickle in
So please, pretty please, make sure you have coverages
And a couple extra dollars in the pocket of those jeans
Wander freely, you great big atomic bomb, you.
Do catastrophic damages and I'll pay your dues.
Ride the road coast to coast,
Fly a bird 'round the world,
Take a truck till you're home,
Find a love you can trust.
Find a place where your egg
And your legs seek nowhere else
Lay down those roots,
It's Eden or bust.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC
Initiate our souls into the light
Flamingo yes your hue is burning bright
Your colors lighting up the night
We migrate out of darkness within you
Enlighten us to heal our weary hearts
To be with love and never to depart
Appreciating brand new starts
Your beauty resonates us deep within
We want nothing more than with you to be free
To fly away from stress along with thee
Our wings could only hope to grow
As beautiful as yours unfold
You are the breath of freshened air
Our spirits call to breathe repair
In my memory of you I see poise
Noticing your stance without a noise
Perfectly still you are seen
Tranquil in life's pond so serene
As we pass through to become in ourselves
Teach us how to become nothing else
Than the magnetic beautiful creatures
Spirit designed with every feature
We are a gift to the flowing
Always coming always going
There never seems to be enough
Time in the universe thereof
To take a moment to enjoy
And therefore we destroy
This is an ode to your sweet nature
A song of love and light not danger
A memory we are creating
A vibrant show of figure skating
In the circle of acceptance now
Our wings are rising up to bow
Take in the scenery with deepened breath
Never afraid of shaking hands with death
For we are peaceful and at rest
Knowing we always do our best
A true beginning has no end
Drinking from life as we befriend
The journey of our soul path
In a spiritual rose bath
Amen
© tHE tERRY tREE
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
The magnificent Midwest.
Where meth-heads migrate only to make a living off of welfare checks and a lack of motivation.
Scattered across the land in clusters,
Making up towns of shattered trailers.
Even in the greyness of winter we beat ourselves to death against snowed in windows
Searching for the sun, just like moths to street lights,
or lips to flickering flames
Death is everywhere.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 8:55 PM UTC
There's an awkward thrill I feel
like wicked-wet rabies –
Oh. Ah. Oh.
To gaze over photos of the woman I created.
With my warped perception,
saturating and cropping everything into delicious
oblivion.
I am the knife as well as the ingredients
that sauteed her together in a camera flash.
She sits hot like heaven.
And I want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
The woman I created, I hang up like perfected rotisserie
and fall in love with her accidentally every day.
Looking into those precisely underlined
tiger-sex eyes of startling navy. Knowing their true dullness.
Hissing at the free-swinging curls
and the hours behind them. Loving the lie.
The flowy top and sleek trousers gliding down lovely as Niagara
over chaffing chub; all hidden. And thighs; unshaven.
And that topical smile everyone likes to see, waiting to plummet
into suicide like a kite hanging in one tight second.
Her image is my greatest
False accomplishment.
I hang my portrait up on a wall of the internet
for people of the world to migrate to
the photo exhibit, my little show-off room.
They make offers and toss compliments
with their “I like this. I like this." nonsense.
They don't know that the girl in the portrait, she
isn't organic. They seem not to notice
that she is something of a chemical flower.
Her face is my face, only with whiteout poison-paste
smoothed over twice.
And they want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
Gazing upon her believed-to-be beauty, as I hang my paintbrush,
she bites her body still as a painting,
bruised and needled
into perfect frame. She cries
like Jesus Christ, as she is stared at, but not seen.
I am the artist as well as the object.
And the woman in the portrait is
nothing,
but dot after dot of manipulated color.
And we want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
With that, my Parapets should find Content
Knowing you and all Involved will migrate
But only sever out those Post-Chains sent
Will I be Enlightened from this Debate
I should go first, seeing this Program, I,
The Valleyed Entrepreneur once invest
For special - Hearts which ferrimost go by
And boost this Capital for all your Best
Only a matter when my eyes Break Lens
Which, for once, these Songs never did Exist
Since configured to Sportive Water's sense
Those Borrowed Drums whose Beat will now resist.
With my lips pursed, to the top of my mane
I Thank you once again, Beauty's Maiden Name.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:29 AM UTC
Oh simplicity how you reach out to my closed arms
in fear of how simple it may be to be happy
Without worldly posessions in grasps of their needy hands
I've never felt so at peace as the trade winds sweep my hair on delicate sunsets of May
where red wine makes me lush but aware...
of the magnificence of this moment, here, now.
The geese migrate, I seperate from the man made sounds of the city
although the connect the dots of street lights seem to guide me
The shifting landscape
the shifted skew of my life
five years ago I wouldn't have guessed this far
The time is so simple, slow-moving, sweet
I can almost feel the heart beat of excitement
or the beat within my youthful feet.
The railroad still gleams at dusk
as does the lake shine
as does the hidden blackbirds and blossoms of springtime.
I now spend here alone as I did when I was young
troubled, I would run.... to the same spot
and watch the same sun as it shone
day became night
the stars endless candle light
Now I'd ponder for hours
leave here smittin
relieved by the gift of life
I often forgot how precious simplicity is as I rush through the day...
But why can't we just lay back in silence
wallow in what is...
ponder like a little child of what may be out in the universe
I lay here now, alone
Spell bound by what I see
an array of colourful hues and natures generosity
I wish you were here with me
Smoke plumes heave as I exhale through these lungs
This place of mine, timeless
memories still live here
I've come to remember all I have known
and the simplicity of happiness still flourishes here
just got to stop and wallow...
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
Intimidated by political thugs
Prone to insert in one's mouth
The nose of a loaded gun
Or suspend a plastic bottle full of water
On males' reproductive *****
Devoid of freedom of expression
Also denied to his right and
Deplorable condition drawing attention
Shunning his God chosen land,
What is more a bright and warm country
Under the sun ,a journalist dreaming began
Fighting all odds between
The deep blue sea and the angry Satan
To migrate to a better place,
Where for democracy
Avowedly there is a better space,
Inhabited by civilized people,
Averse to discrimination based on race!
Burning his boat,
Crossing desserts,
Crammed with other refugees,
Packed with him in a boat
Some trying to reverse
Their economic lot,
Surfing uncharted waters
Seeking a paradise on earth
He headed to the country he sought
Though some their lives
At the hand of brutal traffickers lost
Beaten and thrown out of the boat,
Also at a port
Suspected of a terrorist bent
Many migrants to prisons were sent.
After a humiliating acid test
Why for a dreamland his country he left
As migrants' bane
They placed him at the foot
Of an ice-clad mountain.
“I will never see
My country again,
You are trying my patience in vain!"
He vowed
Despite the razor-sharp cold untold.
Then they took him up higher
An epitome to a cold fire!
Once more
He put his foot down
Putting on more clothes and
Changing attire.
They placed him
At the mountain's helm
As hell dark
Where the angel of death
Is seen stark.
Then in his head
Something began to bark
“*You rather choose
the better evil
If both your assailants and hosts
Are no two different devil! *"
Seeing first hand
Those with cold shoulder
Assylem seekers adore to attack
Though there are
Few not off humanity's track
At last he decided to return back
And under his country's sun bask
Mum for his rights to ask
Killing his journalistic knack!
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 9:18 AM UTC
There are things unseen that keep this world living.. Things that go without notice.. Things that we make sure go unnoticed.. So the everyday things you see as everyday things simply are not that at all.. Everyday messengers and receivers are at a constant movement of life giving moments.. The bird you saw fly by, The cat that leaves and never returns, The butterflies that migrate south, And the ghost that sometimes haunt the living.. But when the path is interrupted the unknown ramifications occur.. The disasters, the catastrophes, the plagues, can all be prevented.. On this day two children, two brothers, will set forth a path that is unknown to them.. On a plastic bottle cap they put one large red ant on board.. They float it down the creek and watch in awe at the sailor ant they have set in motion.. This ant has a very small package to deliver.. Across a world to him, at the end of the river to us.. This ant will deliver a small speck of light.. The first star in an infinite darkness..
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
Honesty
I need to pray more fore
My father
Because I am lately praying
Less to my father
Honesty
I wished that I had more
Time for my father
So I could pray more
Honesty
I am living a bessy life
Not having time
For anything else
That I should had done
Honesty
I am one of my fathers children
Also I am the oldest
Honesty
My father have other kids
Besides me
Honesty
I been punished before
By my father because I
Broke some of my father’s rules
Honesty
My father is very restricted with his rules
Honesty
I have very little friends in my life
That supports me in my daily life
Honestly
My father
Made the night for us
To sleep
And we sleep the nights in our beds
And also we never wake during the night
We also sleep like a log
Honesty
Tomorrow will arrive early
With sunshine
Because the Summer still here
Honesty
Brothers I will die before you
Because life wasn’t meant for me
To live forever
Honesty
And when the day I die
I will be ready to go to heaven
And meet my loved ones
That are in heaven
Honesty
But now I am still living
Here on earth the life my father
Gave to me
Honesty
I am no longer a healthy men
I have my mental illness
That I am living every day with it
And I must comfess that it is hard to live
With a mental illness
Honesty
Now I am enjoying the last days of Summer
Honesty
I am so sad that the Summer is ending
So fast
And I need to say Good bye to Summer
Honesty
I must put now my Summer clothes away
And start to wear my Winter clothes
Every single day
Honesty
The Fall will arrive soon
And the trees will change the color
Of the leaves to golden brown
Also the branches of the trees will be naked
And the dead leaves will be on the ground
Honesty
People will rake the dead leafs and place it
Inside the garden bags
Honesty
How I hate to see the birds migrate
South
And I must also tell you father
That I just hate to see
The birds going south
Honesty
I have some good friends that
Always respect my wishes
Also they have lots of respect for me
They respect my race and religion
Honesty
We already changed the clocks forward one hour
That I am living every day with it
And I must comfess that it is hard to live
With a mental illness
Honesty
Now I am enjoying the last days of Summer
Honesty
I am so sad that the Summer is ending
So fast
And I need to say Good bye to Summer
Honesty
I must put now my Summer clothes away
And start to wear my Winter clothes
Every single day
Honesty
The Fall will arrive soon
And the trees will change the color
Of the leaves to golden brown
Also the branches of the trees will be naked
And the dead leaves will be on the ground
Honesty
People will rake the dead leafs and place it
Inside the garden bags
Honesty
How I hate to see the birds migrate
South
And I must also tell you father
That I just hate to see
The birds going south
Honesty
I have some good friends that
Always respect my wishes
Also they have lots of respect for me
They respect my race and religion
Honesty
We already changed the clocks forward one hour
That I am living every day with it
And I must comfess that it is hard to live
With a mental illness
Honesty
Now I am enjoying the last days of Summer
Honesty
I am so sad that the Summer is ending
So fast
And I need to say Good bye to Summer
Honesty
I must put now my Summer clothes away
And start to wear my Winter clothes
Every single day
Honesty
The Fall will arrive soon
And the trees will change the color
Of the leaves to golden brown
Also the branches of the trees will be naked
And the dead leaves will be on the ground
Honesty
People will rake the dead leafs and place it
Inside the garden bags
Honesty
How I hate to see the birds migrate
South
And I must also tell you father
That I just hate to see
The birds going south
Honesty
I have some good friends that
Always respect my wishes
Also they have lots of respect for me
They respect my race and religion
Honesty
We already changed the clocks forward one hour
Jun 11, 2024
Jun 11, 2024 at 10:08 AM UTC
It is not my story to tell:
Languishing dreams in the midst of barbed wire fences,
Fearless laughter,
We add lemon, chile powder and salt to this border.
They carry these stories,
Heavy as a sack filled with indignities,
Weighty, like your grandmother’s advice,
Cumbersome, like this daily mental displacement.
I have not bought big things as of lately,
In my mind I plan my exits,
I constantly check my relocation fund,
“What if” is a constant in my lexicon.
I often break in tears at the sound of an immigrant story,
My emotions become gallons of water:
broken and splashed by the boots of immigration officers,
Little do they know, we are cacti:
Tough and our seeds also flourish post mortem.
I want to sing an immigrant song:
Less like butterflies who migrate,
But more like dislocated nations,
Collateral flesh, caught up in steel thorns.
Rest assured we will survive,
Like leaves of siempreviva,
Even after torn away from our stem,
We will grow our own roots:
Defiant, resilient, and with a stubborn willingness to belong.
We are you.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
birds migrate
they fly from one place to another
but always come back
to the original
during that time
you and i met
so lets migrate
like the birds
to the land of joy
birds migrate
they fly from the new place to the old
rest in their true homes
while you and i slept
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
I wonder
how our great creator
built a vessel
strong enough
to contain my soul?
My soul fights each day
against my skin with jolts
violent as a young bird
seeking exit from a cage.
My unfettered soul,
free from me, would
bounce among clouds,
roll through deserts,
climb volcanic ridges
and migrate with birds in flight.
Curious instincts would guide
my vital force inside and out
like honey bees
scouring zinnias in full bloom.
I wonder, should I release my spirit today?
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
How did we settle for so little?
When did we migrate back
to the sea floor?
At one point I saw
our last days as children,
at one point I saw starfish
shored against the ruins,
drowning in ten directions.
In the empty space
we used to breathe,
something other than remaining:
a life in tides less current.
Feb 23, 2023
Feb 23, 2023 at 6:23 PM UTC
oh starry night
where
coral red starfish
flap
their wings
for flight
migrate
across
the
Sea of Galilee
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
i must be some sort of permanently exhausted pigeon;
claws clinging to the telephone wire
drearily blinking my way through
the morning meeting of the aerial acrobatic society.
i am a seagull swarmed
amongst the chirpy conjecture
of these early birds;
and my soul caws an honesty,
a wail, a howl, the truth.
i am a tainted swan
grittily paddling myself through the marsh
we call this world,
a lone observer of the acrobats,
the stickiness of my feet keeping me
flightless.
and you are a swallow;
redbull wings migrate you to warmer climates.
you hear the seagulls
but listen to the pigeons.
you notice the swan
but her murky shallows are too icy
for your liking.
and you are a chicken;
blind beyond your own free-range vicinity.
you catch the pigeons as jet planes,
and the seagull's whisper is alien.
you don't know miss swan.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
If I had a time machine, there is only one place I would go. To the meadow, where we would launch dirt clods, back at the boys. Then climb and hide in our woodland suite, where no boys could annoy us. I would like to see our fortress again, and pretend, that we were still friends.
If I had a time machine, I would try to go back to when you cried. Because your bearer was more of a bear than a mother. She didn't understand, but I took up the stance, and we marched our way through the madness. I would like to smoke a cigarette on the rooftop again, and pretend, that we are still close friends.
Goodbye my sister, my childhood friend. We have ended the games we pretended. We both have homes now, lovers now, bills now. Our barbie village blown up into living breathing reality.
And we,
Incapable of seeing each other old, In the new mold. Everything that I'm told makes me so proud of you.
And I'll wait, while we migrate, through different schedules and rituals. I'll be at the front gate. Once I have my Tony we dreamed of and you have your fashion line we seamed up, in every major cotour city.
It will be then, that we'll emerge back together again. Helping each other through hospital corridors in replace of wadding through muddy shores.
There will be two glasses of wine, one with your name, one with mine, where we can rewind, and reminice about time.
If I had a time machine, I would quickly jump to the future and sneak a peak at us. Just as we imagined it long ago. Both sitting in our rocking chairs, just above the front stairs. As the porch wraps around both us and the house. A glass of whisky in one hand and a shot gun in the other, prosting to the old ways and the new days
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 12:33 PM UTC
It’s winter
and the radiators make for hot summer bedrooms,
fake heat for a false season,
high humid air in the canopy,
a western, British, Tunisian bazaar.
But outside the window frame into
the rooftop mouth
of chimney teeth and foggy breath,
a pair of speckled starlings,
with deep coffee eyes and rings
of white for plumage decoration,
nest in the wound of this building.
Surely if they migrate,
to warmer climates, past
the Spanish-African gate, they’d
be able to bask in the dawn desert
sun that’ll drift slowly overhead,
raise their young their instead.
I’d like to migrate too,
leave this town for
somewhere new.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
Every winter
our fish would migrate south.
Probably to Florida or Cancun
or any of those places where
grandparents live
and it's always warm.
Fish like it in warm places.
They would tap
the side of their fish bowl and mom
would grab a glass of water,
In they would jump.
Then, Mom would pour the fish
into a container,
put it in the mailbox,
and send it south.
House fish need this,
because they can't get out of their bowls.
It's like taking a dog for a walk.
River and lake and ocean fish just swim there.
When all of the fish get south,
they have a fish party,
where they eat gangsters and smugglers,
I think.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 3:48 PM UTC
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
*Do you see a shattered girl,
because I've been trying to tell you people all year,*
I'm dying here,
*like maybe I was flying around to start with,
but on the inside I'm nothing more then a Moth,*
and you expect me to do the things butterfly's can do,
*when I can't do more then attempt to mimic there actions,
Following far behind while all the butterfly's migrate,*
but I can be miles away from my lover & still smell him from all this way,
*because I'm stuck behind butterfly's,
trying to find my way to a better home,*
and I will never get to a home where I can be excepted,
*every place I get to I am to be greeted with fly swatters,
when butterfly's get loving fingertips to land on as if they were tired,*
like they had to run from there death like me,
*and everyday I fight for my life,
and the butterfly's live theirs carelessly,*
so maybe I can dress in the outer shells of butterfly's that once were,
*become the thing all people wanted me to be,
stop smelling my lover from miles the part us,*
and let the world control me,
*But even when I've given everything I've had,
In, to this ****** idea of a plan of normalcy,*
just now you decide to say there may in fact be something wrong with me.
*and that when I cut my wing on rose bushes,
so maybe I can feel something better then what you've done to me,*
and you try to help me months almost a year after when I am close to death,
*by killing me three weeks,
before my life span is up,*
tell me why butterfly's got it so good and moths gotta have it so rough?
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
Workers migrate for the coast
At the first hint of holiday,
Winging their way past lorries and vans,
And coaches coated with spray ochre tans,
Flying along motorways in single file,
The music of freedom for mile upon mile.
Father steers straight with his eye on the road,
Insisting on mix tapes he made as a teen
While necking sweet girls in his imaginative dreams.
Kids shriek games on the warm backseat,
While air hostess mums offer peanuts
And cushions, and packets of sweets.
They arrive with a fuss, and a sigh of relief
While father shakes his weary feet
And the mum takes the girls for an ice cream treat.
They unload their bags of shorts and vest tops,
And the hotel looks grand, at least from the side,
But a moment of doubt creeps in, I confide.
It can’t be this nice, thought the father too late,
I bought it for tuppence, or at least so I thought,
As he read the terms of the room service bill;
The cost of cool water was like climbing a hill,
Just when you thought it couldn’t get much higher…
But I digress; it gets considerably more dire.
The room was a state and mum had a fit
Cleaning up tissues and strange looking stains,
And the girls were fighting and being such pains.
Father took a beer from the fridge,
Ignoring the cost for the sake of some peace,
And stepped on the deck to get some release.
Five seconds later he was running indoors
As the clouds broke their cover in heavy downpours.
Expecting a break, they were fooled once again.
The weekend was spent in the room like last year,
While rain and thunder spoiled all their cheer.
There’s only so many board games to play,
And the food gave the girls a sore and sour tummy
And turned the grand weekend into a desperate plea.
Please let it end, I want to return
To the office of slaves who make my life fun.
Workers return from the coast
On the third day of rest,
Splashing their way past lorries and vans,
And coaches coated with burning red tans,
Dragging along motorways in single file,
The sound of the rain for mile upon mile.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
epitomize
and optimize
imitate
and recalibrate
streamline
and recombine
the evolutionary "line"
fireflies
and theorize
circulate
and gyrate
guideline
and divine
the galaxy and the stars
moonrise
and clockwise
death rate
and procreate
sunshine
and lifeline
laws of nature are defined
maximize
and re-size
penetrate
and migrate
bloodline
and decline
the story of our world
allies
and despise
prostate
and dictate
enshrine
and benign
generations throughout time
endings
and beginnings
losing
and winnings
and everything
in between
is what we find
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 4:44 PM UTC