"mott" poems
I
Fall has started.
Students pile into their desks
as teacher begins the lesson,
with 32 apple gifts in her bottom drawer.
II
Wake up in the morning.
Walk down the stairs.
Grab an apple
among the bananas and
pears.
III
Sitting under a tree, dreaming,
disturbed by a falling fruit.
The apple that knocked your head.
The apple that discovered gravity.
IV
Lovers entwined in each others’ arms.
“I love you,” says one.
“I love you more,” says the other.
“You are the apple of my eye,” says the first.
The second smiles.
V
Kids running rampant,
touch football and tag.
Trading card games while eating lunch.
Lunch? PB&J;, a banana,
and Mott’s Apple Juice.
VI
One of the largest computer companies: Apple.
The Beatles music company: Apple.
Apples are the foundation of everything.
Makes sense,
right?
VII
The Disney hotel room was tan all over.
Even my 6-year-old brain remembers that.
The green sheen of the apple skin was
more appealing than the tan, for sure.
VIII
Apples, apple juice, applesauce, apple pie,
apple cider, candied apples, Redd’s apple ale.
So many choices.
So many variations.
None quite as good as the first one listed.
IX
The red on her lips matched the fruit’s skin
as she bit down into the juicy apple.
Within minutes she was down to its core
and mine.
X
Apply applesauce to the aforementioned area.
This isn’t a game, HeadOn.
It is just alliteration.
XI
The stanzas in this poem
couldn’t be more different
than apples and oranges.
Gotcha.
XII
Mi corazón se dispara a mi garganta
cuando yo te veo. Siento mi nuez de Adán se endurece.
Tus labios, rojos como manzanas,
se ven tan dulces.
Te extraño, Red. Y, finalmente,
te amo.
XIII
This poem brought to you by:
Mott’s Apple Juice, Redd’s Apple Ale,
The Beatles’ Apple, Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak’s Apple
Sir Isaac Newton’s Apple, Adam’s Apple,
God’s apple, my apple, your apple, he/she/it apple,
It apple bit the apple.
The core of this poem, much like the core of an apple.
Seeds throughout.
This poem brought to you by:
My 15” Macbook Pro Apple laptop.
And the author, moi. From my heart. From my brain.
This poem brought to you by apples.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
What nerve you've got,MInerva Mott!
You're miserable!You're mean!
I'd like to tie you in a knot
and paint your stomach green.
I wish two tigers and a bear
Would chase you up a tree.
Minerva Mott! How could you dare
to name your dog for me?
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
It was quite evident as a teenager , drawing Boston's guitar shaped space ship on the back of an English book , playing the opening riff to Smoke on the Water with a broomstick
Hiding in the closet , listening to Kiss's first album , singing in front of the mirror to REO Speedwagon
Bad Company on the eight track in my '63 Ford Falcon , taking a Guess Who album to show and tell in Kindergarten
Reciting every lyric on Three Dog Night albums , Foreigner turned up so loud that the windows would ratttle !
Learning Free songs note by note on the guitar , playing Born to be Wild like I was on a World Tour
My heroes are Page , Scholz , Perry and Geddy Lee ! Soundgarden , Alice in Chains , Mott the Hoople and Queen
Jimi Hendrix bringing his Strat to life , Eddie's blistering fretwork !
Crosby , Stills and Nash , three part Angelic vocal harmonies , Ronnie James Dio wailing like a banshee !
A Gibson through a Marshall , A Fender through a Vox , a Tele through a Peavey , a Rickenbacker through an Orange !
Jim Morrison turning poetry into song , Elton John baring his soul through the piano
Eddie Vedder in a trance on stage , Anne Wilson crying out in pain , Layne Staley raising the hairs on the back of your neck , the reassuring voices of McCartney and Lennon , every musical note committed to paper by George Harrison
Chris Cornell screaming into the night , the aura of Robert Plant onstage
the sweet guitar work of Eric Clapton , heart wrenching soul of Janis Joplin
The wailing guitar of Robin Trower , the blues power of Rory Gallagher
Siren song of Annie Lennox to the infectious , brilliant lyrics of Tom Petty
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
there are some secrets that are what they say.
there are some that tuck back behind your earlobe and I am not obligated to say which ones they are,
as you are not obligated to ask.
but I will say I cannot tell myself at times, and then I have to ponder why I even know that this is even true; or how.
Look, buddy, I whisper in your ear, I don't want to hold your hand anymore. I don't want to touch you like I have, or share my apartment, okay?
you act like this is some surprise, like you never expected me to hate you eventually.
like I am totally ******** you right now.
you even have the nerve to laugh.
I know what kind of secret yours was, and I know what kind of secret mine was.
until you get serious I will not move, and when you're done I say, *I'm done ******* with you and I'm done knowing you **** with me.*
So this is my fault? you ask.
*Now you are just being a **** I'll give you three of five stars, okay?* I say, and I let you figure me out on the corner of 7th and Mott.
Three and a half? you try, and you follow my across the street. *C'mon, the *** was ******* delectable.*
This is what I'm talking about, I tell you as my hair whips out from under my hat and I know my nose is red.
it is too cold to be fighting.
*Nothing was ******* delectable, go shove your **** somewhere else, I'm sure you'll find it just as enjoyable. Because I'm finished.*
I touch your nose gently and kiss your cheek.
I stand by my original rating. Three out of five, I say and I walk down 7th until I reach the corner.
******* you call and I just wish people knew you were talking to me.
your secrets were exactly what they said they were, and that was boring as hell.
have I taught you nothing? keep them tucked in the right places.
you never know what you'll stumble upon.
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 30, 2010 at 1:22 PM UTC
The gravity of your eyes
when you look at me
will never cease
to keep my heart
in your orbit
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
Epigraph:
LET CONVERSATIONS CEASE;
LET LAUGHTER FLEE.
THIS IS THE PLACE
WHERE DEATH REJOICES
IN HELPING THE LIVING.
— Inscription at the entrance
to the New York City Morgue
She was just a little girl,
and she tried to make the scene,
but they threw her down and she died —
broken on the pavement,
naked and alone,
with her beads around her neck.
She had these amber beads,
and she wanted to “make the scene,”
but it was the wrong scene
and the wrong time
and nobody loved her,
and nobody cared,
and she died there, on Mott Street,
with her beads around her neck.
From a little shabby house
near a cornfield in Ohio
with a barn
and a horse that died
and a couple of old trucks out back —
She wanted to be “where it's at.”
She was only playing a game;
they buried her three weeks ago —
she would have been fourteen today.
It was a hot night in July
when they hitchhiked to New York.
In Washington Square Park
everybody was making it
even the mosquitoes were making it
and they bit her as she slept.
But she wanted “kicks,”
so she went off with two men.
And they found her, broken on the stone,
with her beads around her neck.
Her parents, they worked hard,
and they ate their bitter bread;
her father, he drank and he fought —
he'd been in trouble with a girl
and was in jail last year.
It broke him, too.
“I felt like I just got
picked up and dropped,
broke like a glass.”
They buried her three weeks ago;
and Death cannot rejoice
that she made his scene, —
for she was just a little girl,
and they broke her and she died
with her beads around her neck.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
SHE WAS JUST A LITTLE GIRL
TACEANT COLLOQUIA
EFFUGIAT RISUS
HIC LOCUS EST
UBI MORS GAUDET
SUCCURERE VITAE
She was just a little girl,
and she tried to make the scene,
but they threw her down and she died —
broken on the pavement,
naked and alone,
with her beads around her neck.
She had these amber beads,
and she wanted to “make the scene,”
but it was the wrong scene
and the wrong time
and nobody loved her,
and nobody cared,
and she died there, on Mott Street,
with her beads around her neck.
From a little shabby house
near a cornfield in Ohio
with a barn
and a horse that died
and a couple of old trucks out back —
She wanted to be “where it's at.”
She was only playing a game;
they buried her three weeks ago —
she would have been fourteen today.
It was a hot night in July
when they hitchhiked to New York.
In Washington Square Park
everybody was making it
even the mosquitoes were making it
and they bit her as she slept.
But she wanted “kicks,”
so she went off with two men.
And they found her, broken on the stone,
with her beads around her neck.
Her parents, they worked hard,
and they ate their bitter bread;
her father, he drank and he fought —
he'd been in trouble with a girl
and was in jail last year.
It broke him, too.
“I felt like I just got
picked up and dropped,
broke like a glass.”
They buried her three weeks ago;
and Death cannot rejoice
that she made his scene, —
for she was just a little girl,
and they broke her and she died
with her beads around her neck.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC