Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
He lay awake in his narrow bed
And opened his bedside drawer,
Then fumbled around until he’d found
The thing he was looking for,
A faded folder, covered in dust
It must have been there for years,
‘I want you to take this folder, son,
And give it to Mildred Pierce!’

His grandson blinked away a tear
And uttered a silent sigh,
Then dropped his gaze, he found it hard
To look in the old man’s eye,
He knew he wouldn’t be there for long
Though his steely brow was fierce,
He said, ‘Sure Gramps, I’ll pass it along
When I find your Mildred Pierce.’

‘You’ll find her back where I left her, when
The way of the world was wide,
Up on the banks of the Darling, she’ll
Be there on the Wentworth side,
She used to teach when the town was young
In a little timber school,
I should have stayed, but the girl had clung
And I guess I was just a fool.’

‘She looked so prim in her teacher dress
And her hair was up in a bun,
We used to walk by the river banks
When her teaching day was done,
Down in the shade of the eucalypts
I kissed her there one day,
With her hair let down on her shoulders
She said, ‘Please don’t go away.’’

‘I only stayed for the shearing, then
I followed the shearing tracks,
I had to keep on the move as long
As the wool grew on their backs,
We said goodbye at the junction where
The mighty rivers join,
I should have stayed for the love she gave
But my only love was coin.’

The old man, he was exhausted then,
Lay back, and then he sighed,
His grandson waited a moment, but
He saw that his gramps had died,
He took a look in the folder when
He settled in back at home,
And found a number of pages there
And each one was a poem.

One called ‘Sorry!’ and one called ‘Why?’
And one that he’d drowned in tears,
One that was just a stark lament
‘For the Love of Mildred Pierce’.
The boy had blushed at the poem meant
To eulogise her thighs,
While others sought for her tender lips
And the lovelight in her eyes.

He waited until the summer break
When the funeral was done,
Loaded the car and headed out
To where the rivers run,
He thought that she would be dead by this
It was just an exercise,
But when he had asked for Mildred Pierce
They had caught him by surprise.

‘She’s out on the banks of the Darling
You can’t miss her little shack,
She keeps herself to herself, prefers
To wander the outback.’
He stopped the car at her garden gate
And he called out by her door,
‘I’m looking for Mildred Pierce!’ Then heard
Her footsteps on the floor.

He half expected an ancient dame
With half a foot in the hearse,
But what he saw was a lovely girl
And still in her tender years,
‘They named me after my mother
Who was named for her mother too,
But Gran’s been gone for ever so long
So what did you want to do?’

They sat on her small verandah, and
He showed her the folder then,
‘My gramps wrote these for your grandmother,
Some time in the way back when.’
She slowly read through the pile of verse
And her eyes had filled with tears,
‘I’d heard all about this shearer from
My grandma, Mildred Pierce.’

‘He couldn’t have known they had a child,
My mother arrived in the spring,
And she was told who her father was
But they never heard a thing.
My Grannie died as a spinster, still
A teacher at the school.
How sad that he couldn’t reach her then
To say that his heart was full.’

They went to walk by the river where
Some fifty years before,
A teacher walked with a shearer for
A magic moment more,
They stopped, stood under the eucalypts
With them both reduced to tears,
And that was the moment he kissed her,
For the love of Mildred Pierce.

David Lewis Paget
Curt A Rivard Sr Oct 2012
Finding you on your floor
As soon as I came to your door
Off you go for a look over
Something not right you didn't come home
PSI's on the gauge now tell the tale
Pressure building on your fragile mind
That had to be purged because you were very frail
Day after Christ’s birthday was the last we shared
Our last moments before man made you fall asleep
Ear to ear slice and then your skin is pulled down
Cutting wheel now powered up and on
Making a score line with uncountable RPM's
Stainless steel mallet is now tapping your shell open
Exposing all the danger lurking deep inside
Golf ball tumor leach ******* from your bodies core
Razor sharp suckers with roots buried in deep
You had no choice in the matter
It was your destiny it was your fate
All because it was found to late
Today is my Birthday and I miss getting those cards where you called me Curtis
R.I.P Gram you are still missed did you feel me in your presence
This morning as I walked on your sacred ground?
(CARSr 10-03-12)
Curt A Rivard Sr Jun 2012
Writing poetry will be a lifetime challenge for me to try and conquer. With Credits in Poetry among other accomplishments I truly respect the gift I have been blessed with. A talent that involves attempts to portray a picture through a sequence of letters in there very special order.
At the tender age of 16 I learned of my first family death, Grandpa Ralph and exactly 1 week later my grandmother Mildred who my mother took in and I was chosen to make sure she got her coffee, breakfast along with her medicine and other meals all day. I had to give up a summer of going swimming and other things that a kid my age wanted to do just to keep here company but I learned something so valuable at the same time and that was, I learned how to crochet, learned about birds, and learned to respect the elderly. To this day I still carry those values even to the point of even walking into a old folks home to just talk to strangers and even if I have to pretend to be their own family member so be it because I would like for someone to do just the same for me even if I didn’t know what was going on.
It was due to a brain tumor that took my grandmother away after Christmas that year and I remember it still ever so well when I woke up to go to work at the family’s bakery and my mom told me what had happened and everything that was to follow. My grandmother was the first of many I had saw lying ever so peaceful. I even gave her a kiss and I could feel that it was a warm one that I gave her.
Death throughout the many years now have taking on a new role. A role that should I believe be more up close and personal. Calling hours I think should be done in the family’s home where the deceased can maybe feel more comfortable being among everything they ever knew and among the ones that they loved and vice versa.
I have always wanted to be remembered centuries to follow my death. It seems the only way to accomplish that is to die either famous or infamous. Like the pope in Rome I to want to be laid out in estate for all to come and pay their respect. Obituaries now on the other hand along with media coverage to me seems, only the important and wealthy get all the coverage. Movies on another note portray a different message that has no comparison to the true facts. Directors, they make you think that it is either something so morbid like Friday the 13th or make you think you have to go out in a blaze of glory like Bonnie and Clyde. Television now has so many programs that entertain people’s most inner fears that you only want it to be more gruesome and gory. Now cartoons, that’s another ball game, children see subliminal messages that, if you die you will come back to life after you’re killed when in true contrast how can that be true.
Arts and literature including paintings, writings and music have a major impact on the subject when it comes to death, The ancient Egyptians’ I think were probably the masters on the subject of embalming. There techniques still to this day can’t be compared to. I am still fascinated to this day on just that. I even wrote Poems speaking of just such procedures and how I’d want it to be done if I had my way with the preserving of myself. With all the music and there sick lyrics your found either wanting to **** or run and hide from the killer.

(CARSr. 4-21-12)
Nancy E Tracy Sep 2014
Sits She waiting in a nest
of finest silk strung here to there
and in the garden
over by the waterlilies
sits the mate whose name she bare

Wed they in June
5 years ago
in Copper Corners by the bay
and children 3 had She and He
with names like Do and Re and Mi

Loved He her
and She loved He
idyllic life had they
came then Charlotte (sans her web)
and stole She's He away

From what I know
they're all there still
at least they were today
I had already posted this once when I first came to HP but I would like to post it again for the  Fairytale Challenge
Mike Hauser Mar 2013
As I step through the door
Of my office - Doughnuts Galore
Mildred from behind the counter nods her head at me

I come here every day for a few
Jelly doughnuts and nasty brew
Looking for the perfect job that keeps eluding me

I again pick up the daily rag
Scouring the classified ads
Hoping to find something interesting I see

My bladder lets lose
At the greatest of news
In Black and White Bold Type face do I read

Wanted lead guitarist in
An up and coming Air Rock Band
Mildred comes and picks me up off the floor

I went and applied for the job
And with a wink and a nod
They said your exactly what we're looking for

We practice day and night
Hitting all the notes right
Till our Air Rock Band was ready for tour

The crowds we all wowed
As we brought down every house
In venues we played up and down the Eastern shore

From top forty pop
To industrial techno rock
There wasn't a song we couldn't toast

We even threw a few polkas in
Sounding sweeter than sin
Cause Brian the drummer likes polka the most

We finally hit the big time
When we went nation wide
The Greatest Air Rock Band the worlds ever known

But as fast as we went to the top
That's just as fast as we dropped
Dead air was all you heard from us on the radio
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
The Locker
by Michael R. Burch

All the dull hollow clamor has died
and what was contained,
removed,

reproved
adulation or sentiment,
left with the pungent darkness

as remembered as the sudden light.

Originally published by The Raintown Review

These are poems about sports like baseball, basketball, boxing, football and soccer. Keywords/Tags: Sports, locker, locker room, clamor, adulation, acclaim, applause, sentiment, darkness, light, retirement, athlete, team, trophy, award, acclamation



Ali’s Song
by Michael R. Burch

They say that gold don’t tarnish. It ain’t so.
They say it has a wild, unearthly glow.
A man can be more beautiful, more wild.
I flung their medal to the river, child.
I flung their medal to the river, child.

They hung their coin around my neck; they made
my name a bridle, “called a ***** a *****.”
They say their gold is pure. I say defiled.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.

Ain’t got no quarrel with no Viet Cong
that never called me ******, did me wrong.
A man can’t be lukewarm, ’cause God hates mild.
I flung their notice to the river, child.
I flung their notice to the river, child.

They said, “Now here’s your bullet and your gun,
and there’s your cell: we’re waiting, you choose one.”
At first I groaned aloud, but then I smiled.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.

My face reflected up, more bronze than gold,
a coin God stamped in His own image—Bold.
My blood boiled like that river—strange and wild.
I died to hate in that dark river, child.
Come, be reborn in this bright river, child.

Published by Black Medina, Bashgah (Iran, in a Farsi translation), Other Voices International, Thanal Online (India), Freshet, Formal Verse, Borderless Journal, Interracial Love, and in a YouTube video by Lillian Y. Wong

Note: Cassius Clay, who converted to Islam and changed his “slave name” to Muhammad Ali, said that he threw his Olympic boxing gold medal into the Ohio River. When drafted during the Vietnamese War, Ali refused to serve, reputedly saying, “I ain't got no quarrel with those Viet Cong; no Vietnamese ever called me a ******.” I was told through the grapevine that this poem appeared in Farsi in a publication called Bashgah.



Me?
Whee!
(I stole this poem
From Muhammad Ali.)
—Michael R. Burch



hey pete!
by michael r. burch

for Pete Rose

hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy’s dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then
you'll be a Superstar.

Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player as a boy; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather ironic commentary on the term “superstar.”



Baseball's immeasurable spittin’ mixed with occasional hittin’.—Michael R. Burch



Larry Seivers had golden hands
by Michael R. Burch

Larry Seivers had golden hands,
platinum hands,
diamond hands,
hands of jasper, sapphire, chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sardius, chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, jacinth and amethyst.

Other receivers were more elusive,
bigger,
faster,
more physical,
flashier ...

but Larry Seivers had hands.



Julius
by Michael R. Burch

Instinct
in an unplanned moment
as you rise
will teach your limbs the art of flight:
the waltz of light
through vaulted skies.

A falcon flies:
its keening cries
as sunlight fails
fall hollow to the earth below,
and you must know
how fierce the light of sunset feels.

You hear
those ringing cries, their echoes clear
though far away, and so you pause
—defying even gravity,
suspended over some vast sea—
then fall ... into applause.



Larry Legend
by Michael R. Burch

He's slow, can't jump,
looks pale and plump.
He talks too much;
he brags, and such.
He's not real nice,
has blood like ice
and will like steel
(and steal he will).
But when the game is on the line,
your team, or mine?



Big Mc Attack
by Michael R. Burch

Johnny Mc
Enroe
is back—
the fierce
attack
of words
and serves,
returns
and taunts.

He flaunts;
he flails,
reviles
and rails.
Sometimes
he wails.
His ego
swells.
He grunts
and groans
and moans
and gee . . .
I think
he wants
to referee!

Johnny Mc
(thank God)
is back—
wisecrack
ing, fiery,
taking flack
(not hesitant
to give it back).

We love
to watch
him glare
and wince,
and since we sense
his dreams
(intense),
we sit
on pins
until
he wins.



For Jack Nicklaus, at the 1987 Open
by Michael R. Burch

When you were young
every putt was makeable
and every dream remarkable;
the stars were unmistakable
you set your sights upon.

Then, in your youth,
time not yet a factor
and age not yet your rector,
you plotted every vector
and victory shone ahead, like truth.

But uncouth youth was fleeting ...
soon losses grew more numerous;
time's skies became more cumulus;
the nerves with age—more tremulous,
as the sun from the sky was setting, retreating.

How have you then, as sunset nears
and the world looks on with unsure eyes,
cast off the crutch of age to rise
and stand as though the butterflies
have no effect, no, nor the cheers?



I wrote this poem after Tom Watson chipped in at the 1982 US Open to defeat Jack Nicklaus. Nicklaus was getting older, but he was still competitive.

There Are Dreams
by Michael R. Burch

for Jack Nicklaus

There are dreams
that you have dreamed
that are etched into your eyes.

There are dreams
that you have dreamed
that resignation can’t disguise.

There are dreams
that you have dreamed . . .
O, I’ve dreamed them, esteemed them.

Like fire,
desire
flares most brightly as it dies.



Jimbo
by Michael R. Burch

for Jimmy Connors

Pounce like a panther,
all sinew and nerve;
attack, arched in anger,
your quarry—the serve.
Imagine a moment
of glory to come
as you lunge for the path
of its flight through the sun.

Are you a Templar
like warriors of old,
forsaking your loved ones,
crusading for gold?
Or could it be
need for fame drives you on?
Do you soak up the cheers
as you dash through the sun?

As you battle those younger,
those stronger, more fleet,
still none can be fiercer,
less yielding, complete.
Oh, what drives you onward,
what makes you compete?

I think not the riches, acclaim, even love . . .
but your heart is incentive enough.



The Great GOAT Debate
by Michael R. Burch

The great GOAT debate
can no longer wait:
we MUST know who’s best, and know NOW!

Is it Jordan, Kareem,
or Hakeem the Dream?
Is it Gretzky, the Rocket, or Howe?

Is it O.J. or Brady,
or are they too shady?
Tom Burleson or Monte Towe?

But now that I’m thinking
and done with my drinking,
before I make friends with a large purple cow ...

It’s the Babe, let’s get serious!
Babe Didrikson Zaharias!
Let the Ultimate GOAT take a bow.

Mildred Ella “Babe” Didrikson Zaharias was a basketball All-American, a baseball and softball star, a professional golfer who accumulated ten major championships, and a track and field legend who won two gold medals and a silver in three different disciplines at the 1932 Olympics while setting four world records in the process. She was also an expert diver, roller-skater, bowler and billiards player. Didrikson won the 1932 AAU track and field team championships while competing as an individual, by winning five of the eight events she entered and finishing second in another. She remains the only track and field athlete, male or female, to have won individual Olympic medals in a running event (hurdles), a throwing event (javelin), and a jumping event (high jump). Despite taking up golf in her mid-twenties and having to wait until age 31 to regain her amateur status, Didrikson won 17 straight women's amateur tournaments, an unequaled feat. Altogether, she won 82 golf tournaments. She made the cut at two men’s PGA golf tournaments, the only woman to do so, and she did it sixty years before any other woman even tried. In 1934 exhibition games, after being taught the curve ball by Dizzy Dean, she pitched one scoreless inning against the Dodgers and two scoreless innings against the Indians. Didrikson still holds the world record for the longest baseball throw by a woman. The world has never seen anyone like her.

“She is beyond all belief until you see her perform ...Then you finally understand that you are looking at the most flawless section of muscle harmony, of complete mental and physical coordination, the world of sport has ever seen.” – Grantland Rice, considered by many to be the greatest sportswriter of all time



Ring-a-Ling Bling
by Michael R. Burch

The ring
thing
is mostly bling.

Determining an individual athlete's greatness by counting championship rings (i.e., team success) makes no sense to me and seems disrespectful to all-time greats like Ernie Banks, Charles Barkley, Elgin Baylor, **** Butkus, Ty Cobb, Michelle Kwan, Karl Malone, Dan Marino, Marta (who may be the greatest female soccer player of all time), Barry Sanders, John Stockton, Fran Tarkenton and Ted Williams. Perhaps the best example is the player most cited for rings these days: Michael Jordan. In reality, Jordan didn't win a ring his first six years and was 0-6 against
the Larry Bird Celtics and lost two more playoff series to the Isiah Thomas Pistons. Were Bird and Thomas the better players, or did they simply have better teams? The answer seems obvious.
Jordan only began to win rings after he was joined by outstanding players like Scottie Pippen, Horace Grant, et al, and even then it took time for that team to jell. Jordan was a transcendentally great player before he won a ring. If he had failed to win rings because he never had good-enough teammates, would that make him a lesser player? Judging individuals by team success or failure makes no sense, unless Jordan was a lesser player for six years while his teams struggled and then he miraculously became the GOAT when more capable players showed up. Ditto for LeBron James. The first thing he does after changing teams is use his influence to get better players to join him. LeBron is not foolish enough to believe rings are won by individuals.



The Ring Thing (is entirely Bling)
by Michael R. Burch

The ring
thing
is entirely bling.

Michael Jordan was zero-for-six
against the Larry Bird Celtics;
moreover he was twice sent home
by Isiah’s Pistons;
his ring case only began to gleam
when he had Horace, Scottie and B.J. on his team.

Thus the ring
thing
is bling.



The Ballad of King Henry the Great
(aka Derrick Henry)
by Michael R. Burch

Long live the King!
Send him victorious,
happy and glorious,
long to reign over us:
Long live the King!

Long live the King!
Send him like Sherman tanks
Mowing down cornerbacks,
Stiff-arming tiny ants:
Long live the King!



No T.O.
by Michael R. Burch

Lines written after the aptly-named Eric Eager said, “A. J. Brown is Terrell Owens.”

I’m young, I’m big-hearted,
but I’m just getting started.

I’m running my own race
at my own **** pace.

T.O. belongs in fabled Canton town,
but I’m A. J. Brown.

The second stanza was actually written by A. J. Brown, a budding poet, and published in the form of a tweet.



Charlie Hustle
by Michael R. Burch

for Pete Rose

Crouch at the plate,
intensity itself.

Follow the flight
of the streak of white
with avid eyes
and a heartfelt urge
to let it fly.

Sweep the short arc,
feel the crack of a clean hit,
pound the earth
toward first.

Edge into the base path,
eyes relentlessly relentless.

Watch his every movement;
feel his every thought;
forget all save his feet;
see him stretch
toward the plate ...
and fly!

Fly along the basepath
churning up the dirt,
desire in your eyes.

Slide around the outstretched glove,
hear the throaty cry,
"He's safe!"
And lie in a puddle of sunlight
soaking up the cheers.

A Texas Leaguer dropping
to the left-field side of center
sends you on your way back home.

Take the turn past third
with fervor in your eyes
and a fever in your step,
the game just strides away ...
take them all and then
slide your patented head-first slide
across the guarded plate.

Pause in the dust of your desires,
loving the feel of the scalding sun
and the roar of the crowd.

Shake your head and tip your cap
toward the clouds.

Slap the dirt
from your grass-stained shirt
and head toward the clubhouse ...
just doing your job,
but loving it
because it is your life.

This was an early attempt at free verse, written in my teens.



The Sliding Rule
by Michael R. Burch

If you’re not quite kosher,
like Leo Durocher;
or if you have a Pinocchio nose,
like Peter Edward Rose;
or if your life turns tragic,
like Ervin Johnson’s magic;
or if your earthly heaven
is stopped, like Howe’s, at seven;
or if you’re a disciplinarian
like Knight, but also a contrarian;
or if like Joe you’re shoeless
because you’re also clueless;
or perhaps like Iron Mike Tyson
you work a little vice in;
or like Daly working the jackpot
you’re less unlucky than merely a crackpot;
or like Ruth you’re better at drinking
than at dieting and thinking;
or perhaps like Andre Agassi’s
your triumphs are really your tragedies . . .
though The Judge might call you a sinner,
society’ll proclaim you a WINNER!



Tremble
by Michael R. Burch

Her predatory eye,
the single feral iris,
scans.

Her raptor beak,
all jagged sharp-edged ******,
juts.

Her hard talon,
clenched in pinched expectation,
waits.

Her clipped wings,
preened against reality,
tremble.

Published by The Lyric, Verses Magazine, Romantics Quarterly, Journeys, The Raintown Review, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, The Fabric of a Vision, NPAC—Net Poetry and Art Competition, Poet’s Haven, Listening To The Birth Of Crystals (Anthology), Poetry Renewal, Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times, MahMag (Iranian/Farsi), The Eclectic Muse

Keywords/Tags: Tremble, predator, raptor, hawk, eagle, falcon, talon, beak, wing, preen, preened, preening



Y2k: The Score
by Michael R. Burch

You should have known
when you were giving us wedgies,
pulling down our pants
in front of the cheerleaders,
playing frisbee with our slide rules . . .

that the years are exceedingly cruel.

You should have seen,
dashing across the gridiron
(as the cheerleaders screamed
in a *****-show of ecstasy),
playing the hero, the bull-necked **** . . .

the hands on the face of the unimpressed clock.

Though you were popular,
the backseat Romeo, the star
who drove the flashiest car,
though you lived out our dream
and took the prettiest girls to the dances, the prom . . .

you never had a chance.  Something was wrong.

We missed the big dances and proms
as we hissed and we schemed,
as we wrote and re-wrote our revenge
while you partied like Stonehenge.
Now your business is in debt to the hilt.
It’s too late to cry: Foul! Unsportsmanlike! Tilt!

One statement of ours and yours are all lost!
Your receivables, aging and gathering dust,
will yellow like ***** one soon-coming day.
While you were scoring, you missed this play—

Jocks: Zero. Nerds: Y2k.



Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch

Indescribable—our love—and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way

and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.

Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say

we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest; published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, Mandrake Poetry Review, Carnelian, Poem Kingdom, Net Poetry and Art Competition, Famous Poets and Poems, FreeXpression, PW Review, Poetic Voices, Poetry Renewal and Poetry Life & Times
ry Jun 2017
Think of a feeling you have not felt nor witnessed anyone who has felt it.
Describe it.
Can you explain to me what the unknown is? do not notice the tide rising up your leg until you are standing, neck deep, in gulf shores salt water. don't know when close is too close until you get burned.
Can never correlate the distance and the difference it makes.
Looking at a map you cannot read. A question mark ended opportunity. We stick in our hands, slowly, knowing there will be nothing to grasp. A blanket of black. This is how we proceed with caution. Better to reach for nothing than to reach for something and miss. Better to make no progress than to accidentally regress. The problem with pretending that living consists solely of existence is that it doesn't.
The earth still turns even when we aren't focused on it.
enjoy.
kaitlyn-marie May 2014
one day, you'll drive by their house
and you won't check
to see if their car is in the driveway.
it might be cloudy now,
but the sun always comes back.
Guss Jan 2014
Porcupine flesh gilded the entirety of her skeleton.
No one ever dared near the beast.
Just to fear the beast.
Her stomping, poking and prodding.
With the peasants retreating,
she grows pleased with her malice.
I too left the battle.
For I know, that without a meal the beast will die.  
I pledge vows of waning mettle,
collect memorabilia
and stash it all in a box
underneath the California Live Oak
down on Mildred St.
A rightful place for things to rot,
along with every spiteful thought.
Mark the spot with an "X"
and next April all will be a distant memory.
Just remember.
*With out a meal the beast will die.
Molly Hughes Dec 2013
I find it quite amazing,
that you don't realise how my lips tingle and my heart swells
when you make me,
yes,
make me,
kiss you.
Just a friendly little peck, eh?
You could be kissing your Aunt Mildred,
your lips remain so dead
and your stomach so still.
I'll give you one of my butterflies,
if you want one.
The brushes against my back,
my cheek,
the brush strokes that paint sparks along my skin,
leave your hands lifeless.
They resuscitate me.

When you say you 'love me',
I don't think you understand
how many times I've imagined you whispering those words,
in a thousand different places,
in a thousand different situations,
in a thousand different ways.
They float through the air,
stopping time and creating pixie dust,
before falling into my ears,
forcing tremors throughout my once stable foundations.
In reality,
you could be asking somebody to pass the salt,
your voice is so flat.
So why can I not stop fizzing?

If you grow old and look around
and find yourself alone,
don't worry.
Don't cry about how nobody ever wanted you,
about how nobody ever needed you
or loved you till it hurt,
hurt so bad they almost hated you.
Because they did.
I do.

I do.
*****.
Regine Howl Apr 2013
I can't write
And I can't love
I am not a friend
I am
In fact
Driving with one knee
Turning at 70
Smashing the keys with one hand
And ripping into an orange with the other
It's dark out, gotta get my vitamin d somehow
Mildred
Millican
Wellborn
Retreat
You are all the ******* same
Just take what's closest
There's nothing good about this
There is no ******* center stripe
Aditya Roy Jul 2019
Step by step, tyranny
Tease me rough without laches
At least don't leave me in your protean arms, dissembled in activism
In my forged memoir of your laughing, your kauch killing me not
My katzenjammer can handle your astute Aesop's words and wanton
A lullaby to remember, an anxious feeling?
Pick me up at the open-sesame street
Lacunae, propitious, wasted by the remonstration and impertinence
This is my land of thought full of moral desert, in confidence
I am Tyler Durden's wasted brother in arms by namesake
Gentle Animals
Directing ain't about drawing a neat little picture and showing it to the cameraman.
Third Eye Candy May 2013
oh i don't know so much as i don't know.
you can never tell... even if you say so.
but
you can always repeal.
silently though.
i have no idea.
we both get
no vote.

we're just moving the furniture
i call you Mildred -  
the walls plastered with snow and garters
we shuffle through
remains...

through
The Aperture
of Unseemly
Disquiet.
Terry Collett May 2012
It’s not the sort of house
You’d want to go to again,
Mildred said, the smell hits
You first, the kind of smell
That climbed in your nose
And didn’t leave for days.

She sipped her wine and
Sat down on the couch,
Carefully holding the glass
With her other ringed hand.

There was an unhappy
Feel About the place as
You entered in, a feel
Of neglect. She looked
At the black and white
Mat under the coffee
Table, at the books lying
There: Fashion books, art,
How to Dress for the Occasion.

We found the first child
Drowned in a bath, the hair
Was floating there on the
Water’s skin.  Someone sort
Of sobbed or maybe they
Didn’t, seemed as though
They had. The second child
Was lying beneath a blanket
Where they’d suffocated.

That’s where the main smell
Came from. She breathed in
And smelt pine air freshener
That Caser used in his house,
She wanted to smoke, pull
Out a cigarette and light up,
But didn’t. The third child,
Baby really, was stiff in a cot.

Unfed, unwashed, a token of
Neglect. Someone pulled back
Curtains, light broke through
Darkness, lit up the sad scene;
Another nearby let out a cry,
The under the breath kind.

She pushed her knees together
As if about to give birth to a
Different tale, her hands played
With the glass, a finger tapped
The side. The mother was found
In a darkened room, wrists slit,
OD’d days back, slouched in a
Chair, dressed in death and black.  

Had sleepless nights after, she
Said, ought to be used to, but
You never are, kind of gets
Under the radar. Caser looked
At her sitting there, her hair
Pulled in a bun, her eyes looking
Up at the Picasso print he’d bought.

She had told him at last. She had
Unburdened herself of the one
Last thing that she couldn’t tell
Him at the psychiatric sessions
They’d had at his in town clinic.

Never did like Picasso, she said,
Turning away, putting down the
Glass, as of nothing more to say.

Caser watched her as she got up,
Brushed down her dress, sighed
And walked down the hall, left
His apartment, victim of the Fall.
Mike Hauser Apr 2014
As time quickly approaches
On the planed escape
Gunther smuggles the files in
While Mildred bakes the cake

But that doesn't much matter
For our two on the run
In all the confusion
The oven was never turned on

So they slipped out the front door
When Gladys the receptionist was gone
Out for her morning coffee
And cigarette on the lawn

They made it as far as the sidewalk
As far as the authorities could tell
When they both turned around
Before their bladders gave out

They need a new plan of escape
One that can be followed with ease
Before it's to late
Since they're both weak in the knees

Our hero's will have to wait another day
For their chance at freedoms song
For now they'll hang up their walkers
And devise another plan on getting gone

It was a heated night of Bingo
When Gunther got the idea
They'd go out with the wash
In a basket both hid

So they packed up their dentures
Along with their Poly Grip
As both of them readied
For their laundry trip

Now in the back of the truck
Rolling down 95
Same age as our escapee's
If you care to count time

They later hijacked the truck
When the driver they sacked
Now they travel life's highway
With nothing but the wind to their back
Wrote this for a friend that wanted some poems that she could read to her mom and fellow inmates at her nursing home...Hope they like it!
daniela Apr 2015
we think my great uncle eddie
was on the assembly line that built the atomic bomb.
my aunt mildred said he could never tell her
exactly where he was or what he was doing,
far away in the desert
back when he had to take trains to visit
back when manhattan was just place in new york,  
he could only tell her that he loved her.
we still don’t know for certain,
there are some stories that are taken to the grave.
but i wonder, i wonder if my aunt ever looked at his hands
and thought of the destruction
that could be so carefully hidden in his palms,
explosions under his fingernails,
the shells of burnt out cities in his fortune teller's lines
when he touched her delicately,
brushed her hair behind her ear.
but she probably didn’t;
most people only question what they want to question.
everyone thinks of what their hands have built.
not everyone stops to think of what their hands may have destroyed
in the process.
BDH Oct 2014
Tom
They are dying, she is dying,
I pray that she does, but I don't want to watch.

The door was barred, perhaps from letting life in,
or maybe letting death out.

Down the hall all the doors are open, and decomposition hits you,
in all its stages like a film reel.

Her room was by the dying one, my ears perched along the doorframe
and listened.

She was like a prophet, and upon her altar she screeched,
"DIE...DIE...DIIIIIIE!" I think she is right.

The passage continues and all around the images are swept,
left under soiled carpets and linens, hundreds of them.
They carry the dead away, but the scent lingers like cheap perfume,
a priceless perfume.

There's that silence again, the one I like you know? Yes, it covers your head like the goodbye sheets.
Objects get wider and clearer, life is ****** into a needles eye,
the view is breathtaking.

It's simple; breathing is simple, even on that machine its oh so simple.
That's how you live and tell your stories to the people on the television show because they have the time to listen.

There is no one else here. Except me, watching you and waiting.
I can't stay here with you. I have to share my visit with those running out on their clocks.

I know you see me when they give you your medicine,
somewhere between awake and asleep.
I'm glad you don't turn away, so many of you turn away.

Mildred two doors down said goodbye, she was a hard case.
I came and she cried, she cried some more and then she gurgled.
She heard me collect her memories and she said she understood.
A smile before her eyes rolled back forever.

Today is special for you Tom, you and I have gotten to know each other.
I am going to miss the way you welcomed me in, just like a star.
You are one of the bright ones, and you faded slow.
Those silly screens are messing up our act, Tom.

The ladies are running past me, they don't even see.
They are trying to keep you going with life you don't need.

I saved you til' the end, and right along the breeze,
I hear you thanking me.
Mike Hauser Sep 2018
As I step through the door
Of my office - Doughnuts Galore
Mildred from behind the counter nods her head at me

I come here every day for a few
Jelly doughnuts and nasty brew
Looking for the perfect job that keeps eluding me

I again pick up the daily rag
Scouring the classified ads
Hoping to find something interesting I see

My bladder lets lose
At the greatest of news
In Black and White Bold Type face do I read

Wanted lead guitarist in
An up and coming Air Rock Band
Mildred comes and picks me up off the floor

I went and applied for the job
And with a wink and a nod
They said your exactly what we're looking for

We practice day and night
Hitting all the notes right
Till our Air Rock Band was ready for tour

The crowds we all wowed
As we brought down every house
In venues we played up and down the Eastern shore

From top forty pop
To industrial techno rock
There wasn't a song we couldn't toast

We even threw a few polkas in
Sounding sweeter than sin
Cause Brian the drummer likes polka the most

We finally hit the big time
When we went nation wide
The Greatest Air Rock Band the worlds ever known

But as fast as we went to the top
That's just as fast as we dropped
Dead air was all you heard from us on the radio
This little (gem?) popped up in my memories... Thought it'd be fun to post it again
Jonathan Moya Mar 2019
She was almost as white as ivory
and more valuable than ebony.  
A pale diamond of abolitionists dreams
draped in a plaid trimmed dress with lace,
curls surrounding her face like
any other plantation girl.

She exists at the edge of color
at the point when light
could be captured as day edges
into shades of night,
somber hues of black and gray.

The notebook on the cloth covered table
suggested richness and more
away from the whipped harvest gatherings,
something stolen away
to be the pride of a Boston heir.
The daguerreotype could never
shake free its sense of death caught still.

Mary Mildred Williams was her white name.
The black one died when she was sold
on the Virginia square for 900 dollars.
Senator Summer bought her freedom
and then enslaved her image
for the abolitionist sway.  The first poster child  
for black liberty, for the fugitive slave
needing an open air railroad.

She got her last white name, little Ida May,
(same as the imagined white girl
kidnapped and dyed black
to be put in peril for another white right cause)
to highlight the fact that Mildred’s complexion
was the result of generations of white ****.

She was paraded unshackled
from podium to podium,
leaflets of her face passed out,
as common as reward posters
for those who dared run and stray.

She was the next to last speaker
to Solomon Northrop,
also an ex-slave with a
best selling freedom story.

The passing of her image
was a political act,
for a swarming media  
enchanted by someone
who looked just
like them but wasn’t.

America loves black stories
that need white saviors
to be reassured of their
separate but equal vision.

— The End —