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Nat Lipstadt Mar 2019
still here (long time no see)
~for the one who will know it was written for her~

muddy verb and adjective,
muddling and muddled

have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe,
one dancer, proscriptive,
and her partner, prescriptive?

the stage, of course,
exactly the width of your head,
from ear to shining ear

this couple o’muses dance en concert,
though their very natures are anti-logarithmic,
the value of their exponential activity is a
descriptive nomenclature

I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn,
mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games
as is my wont wanted,
everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am,
doing ablutions, seeking absolution,
pulling weeds from our respective gardens,
answering old friends I have yet to meet,
to whom I answer,
“still here, though long time no see,”
which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory,
as the brain grasps well my
Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif

muddling and muddled,
proscribed from getting on transport,
to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive,
as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess

even though one of my many passport names,
a requirement, to visit,
this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates,
permits me safe passage,
over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea,
to deliver this message,
to you
woman

I am here, waiting patiently, though long time no see like ever,
absentia, dementia, both self-censure,
here, then, my cadenza,
dedicated solely soulfully for you,
as the sabbath sun rises over the East River,
saying, laughing unto me,
“still here, though long time no see,”
for though I cannot look upon her, my sun, my sun,
yet she, as well, is everywhere-inside of me,
warmly illuminating my muddled mind
March 23, 2019
by the East River sunrise
7:14am
#still #here #long #time #no #see #absentia #dementia #red #and
Continue reading...
call me by my other name Feb 2019
There was no poem welcome neath my pillow (mother and child)
there was no poem neath my pillow

no poem on my tongue, none from eye envisionaries, no dew gift from my grassy emissaries, parting residue of an unknowable finger touch

nothing stirring, the mother muses mushing their shushing noises,
only breathy quietude, an airy surround sound tissue,
the cadence of intermingled hearts, the mother and the child

two awakenings, one instantaneous, the other restless unhurried slow, but within an impatience to intersect,
the overlap is love stars crossing,
impatience weaponized to make
momma aware her companions refreshed status,
a needy for love’s suckling,
embrace of fresh baked smiles from hot heartedly hearth furnaces

thus a-born a new poem, a welcomed well coming, in words,
the alliance of alliterated words from the interlacing of the mother’s chest heaving and the sniffling joy of a five year old boy reimagining the dreams that crossed from mother to son, and back again, requiring composition and joint authorship of them

the only and only true authentic authorship,
mother and child, their owned unique
duality of singularity
see  https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2714533/texas-my-very-own-nap-ster-master/
#no #poem #welcome #neath #my #pillow #mother #and #child
Continue reading...
Robert Service
The Cremation of Sam McGee
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
where the cotton blooms and blows
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold but the land of gold
seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way
that he'd sooner live in Hell.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
till sometimes we couldn't see,
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap", says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you
won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
then he says with a sort of moan,
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
till I'm chilled clean through to the bone
Yet 'taint being dead-it's my awful dread
of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
you'll cremate my last remains.

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn
but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
and I hurried, horror-driven
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say.
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
to cremate these last remains".

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
and the trail has its own stern code,
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb
in my heart how I cursed that load!
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows--
Oh God, how I loathed the thing!

And every day that quiet clay
seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
and the grub was getting low.
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
it was called the Alice May,
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here", said I, with a sudden cry, "is my
cre-ma-tor-eum"!

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor
and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared
such a blaze you seldom see,
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
and the wind began to blow,
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said,
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked".
Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
and he said, "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
you'll let in the cold and storm--
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
it's the first time I've been warm".

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Continue reading...
Katlyn Orthman Dec 2012
Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
      By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
      That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
      But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
      I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
      By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
      That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
      But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
      I cremated Sam McGee.
Continue reading...
Kate Browning Oct 2012
Go Fish
He was there with
me, now he's there
with her. Or him,
them, maybe all alone.

He makes things better
by slipping endorphins and
stimulants of all different
shades down his little-boy throat.

He used to tickle my
sides and put kisses on
my shell, that held my
cerebellum in all nice and snug.

We would go no where;
Never get anything done.
We would make small
talk about growing up.

I would think about him and
think that he wasn't enough.
He was nice and gave
me all that he had got.

All of the lonesomeness, all of
the sad, all of the mad crept about.
Past my hazel irises and
began to erupt, mushing out.

Out of my ears, my pores, some right
out of my mouth. That day in March
my hypothalamus flip-flopped and
resigned from its job.

The boy who was there fell
right out of touch. An automatic
reflex kicked in quicker than
a frog catching a bug.

My legs lay criss-crossed and
bony, unshaven as I picture
him picturing his old best
friend, who he left and lost.

He day dreams of being aged and
playing Go Fish. Crackling at me
to draw, I grab his prune-textured
hand. In real life he starts to cry.

He sets down his room temperature can
of Mountain Dew. Grabs a couple of different
colored pills and goes out to party
in attempt to help him not remember.
Continue reading...
Terry Jordan Feb 2017
The Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
      By the men who moil for gold;
  The Arctic trails have their secret tales
      That would make your blood run cold;
  The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
      But the queerest they ever did see
  Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
      I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that 'he'd sooner live in hell'.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and 'Cap,' says he, 'I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request.'

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
'It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'taint being dead - it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains.'

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: 'You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains.'

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the 'Alice May.'
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then 'Here,' said I, with a sudden cry, 'is my cre-ma-tor-eum.'

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared - such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: 'I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: 'Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm -
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm.'

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
I've always loved this poem.  I shared how I lost my brother Sam December 18, 2016 in a poem, Ode to Sammy, my baby brother.  This was the poem I thought of while standing near the hearse on that very cold day in Pittsburgh at his military service in the veteran's National Alleghenies Cemetery.  I so wanted to drive that hearse back to Florida, where Sam was planning to return to before that tragic accident took his life.
Continue reading...
Richard Riddle Jun 2015
The Cremation of Sam McGee-1907-Robt W. Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.


Robert William Service
Hope you enjoyed this. Published in 1907
Continue reading...
Sansara Justinovich Jan 2012
Moving
ashtrays, mugs and
moments: rattle within, outside their place.
our brittle, needy bones
support head,
appetite-shorn body: Bouldering.
Walking. |Wicking. Mushing bridges
churning-over water, tide.
High-regard neighbor’s children re-
move plastic decorations while that grandpa
hangs-- alive,
stayed-- in unused gutters, -o! Wind and
snow-flaked, grassy yardstomps lead us
with body-**** coats to-
doors, somedays-ies and happenstance
below mortuaries, toe-
tags, dangling shoe-string,
draping clothes'-
line our spindly, warrowed hallways
between blankets, sweaty
feelers lie, their
harrowed, heaving trunks hold night-trees/
palms aloft and hopeful.

a glint, a chance, a something.
wicker furniture, lace.
a bed, a "yes." Please,
a you.
MMXII

A dream I had.
Continue reading...
johnny georgy brown Aug 2016
my anxiety panic attack, don't be shy mate
Don't be shy mate
Go out and fight people making them scared to go out
Don't be shy mate
Hit him hit him and then say you Are superior
Don't be shy mate
You see I want to party but you are getting in my way
Don't be shy mate
Go up to him and hit him on the back making him scared
But I don't like these voices getting out of control
You see I remember I used to hit this man five times in the back
I have a mental illness
I should not have done that
I don't want to get killed
I was a stark raving mad hooligan back in those days
I don't want to receive my destiny like getting a few hits in the back
I am an artist and writer
And I read my poems ok YouTube
You see I was a hooligan back then and I have to watch my back
But the whole truth is
I made mistakes
And I suffered for them
People bullied me around that time and I was hearing voices
And I was trying to be a cool dude who was having problems with my dad I know he helped me but I wanted to tease my dad and then go down to the mall and muck around with the young dudes at the mall
And a few people got in my way
My voices were saying hit him hit him hit him
So I did and I felt great at the time but now my brain is mushing away
I don't want to get killed for what I did
So j will watch my back
You see I have always tied myself up and I did it on people
Like I tied myself up and my brother was getting teased
I don't want to be treated like my brother because I suffered more than him in my life
And when he left home I went crazy and started causing problems at the mall
I am on medication now
And I don't want to cause problems anymore
I *** called a ***** when o bought cigarettes for a minor
Well, I was sick and now I am hearing my man in my good mate pat
You see he said
Don't be shy mate you are alright don't be shy just party
With the young dudes
But my brain was going haywire
And the seroquel is pushing all these problems out of me
But it is uncomfortable but
I was good
My dads spirit is saying
Don't be shy Brian
Write problems out of you
And don't be shy Brian
Get it out of you cause I am sure Buddha wouldn't want
You to suffer like this
Even if he does believe in
Positive suffering
Don't be shy Brian
Just get better and you move on I move on and we all can move on together
Even if I did cause that man to feel scared to go to the mall
The important thing is o am on medication and I am suffering
In a positive way
People say there is no such thing as positive suffering but
Sometimes if you do something that you no that is wrong but you do it because you want to be cool and you later find out you ain't cool for that you can't fix it if it is not fixed yet because I was the cause of his problems
I am working through it seeing people at mental health and joining groups to help in my recovery and I want to stay out of people's way because I shouldn't be shy I should do my art and writing and enjoy it
And I must not dwell in the past
I have a perfect family but I still made lots of mistakes but I was at the time trying to be cool
Nothing more
Dads spirit is saying
These voices are hogs wollop
You see I thought dad was trying to take my young dude away stop me from being cool
And then dad said he doesn't want to be cool and I tried to be a cool young dude causing havoc running amok
And I hope Betty Campbell
Wants to be cool because kids are supposed to be cool
And dad is now Betty
Dads with Barnesy now
Jimmy Barnes is her grand father and I have done positive things being on medication
Which should aid in my defence
I went to leap frog adventures
Where I went to meetings and I did camping and bushwalking
And other bush related activities and I went to the rainbow where I cooked the mentally ill a meal three days a week and I worked at north south  contractors where I was treated like a worker and not a problem child and I went on trips to the coast and I did a lot of volunteer work to apologise to Canberra for my wrong doings
I picked up all the ******* at the
Kingsleys chicken carpark and I was thanked
I played Santa for 11 years
As well as doing other jobs at vinnies
And I was trying to a cool young dude back then
So I won't do it again
But I have to watch my back
But I am found things now
Art writing and YouTube
Yes and I do the BBQ for
Belconnen magpies
And I go to the candle festival
And the Tuggeranong festival
And Christmas carols by candle light evenings and footy matches and many more
Dads spirit says
Don't be shy Brian
Do what you want to do
and don't try and be like other people
Continue reading...
MKB Feb 2013
A Lesson on Judgment
Strawberries are kind of like people:

this morning I went to eat some

but their skins were soft and

bruised.

So I cut them open;

laid them on their mushing shell.

I gazed at their perfectly  

pink insides-

and they tasted just fine.
Continue reading...
Bo Tansky May 2019
Do One and One Make Two?
Funny how the feeling comes and goes
Could it be, you’ll stop haunting me soon
You know some days I think just like a loon
But, in the end, give me one good reason
To stay,  
The hanged man
Broke loose from his noose
The castles in peril
The queens mean
And the subject sterile
So,
Down dog down,
Don’t make me scream and holler
I swear I won’t put you in a collar
And walk you around like a puppy dog.
I only wanted to keep you close to me
Hopelessly, I see for wanting a dialogue

Do one and one make two?
Am I still a friend to you?
If not, please tell me what I did or didn’t do
Because I was always trying to be a friend to you
Was I overbearing in my caring?
Did I say too much or not enough?
I know you hated my gushing and mushing and my leaning on you
But you know, if truth be told
I know you don’t really care
It’s true
If I said you act like this because you don’t really care
You tell me it’s not true
But breakthrough, it is true
You don’t really care for much.
It’s not really a lack of sufficiency
But it could be
More like a chosen, frozen stringency contingency
**** it, don’t we see in everyone else
What we don’t see in ourselves.
Because you know the highs and lows
Is that why the feeling comes and goes
It could be true of me as well

Why do I have to follow protocol?
It’s your call, you know
Slayer of untruth
Wreaker  of havoc
Assassin unfastened
I’m knee deep in denial
The jury has declared a mistrial
Don’t know what’s ahead
Maybe my deathbed
No magical carpet ride, try instead
Ossified, petrified, vilified
Rider of the dark night
Looking for a guiding light
Frozen, chosen neophyte
On the backside of truth
Cockeyed seeker of
A fountain of youth
Found it in a bottle of vermouth
It was short-lived
Started to fizz
That is
What I’m trying to say
Do you understand now
If you do, please tell me
There’s nothing I can do
I’m me and you’re you
If you understand
If you do, please tell me
Do one and one make two
Or is it a roadmap
Am I a doormat?
Have I
Forsaken myself
For the love of a lover
Or is it just a cover
For not liking me.
Continue reading...
Matthew MacDonald Aug 2016
Sandpaper on the Soul
There is no living that is just right
everything is subject to little tragedies
and those that suffer endlessly are subject to millions of these tiny tragedies
everyday
and sure life does go on
but not because you want it to
only because it has to
and the combined effort of a million tragedies and the natural turning of time
is like sandpaper on the soul
slowly mushing your fabric to steamy soup
and those that suffer the least are called successful
the others loners, beggars, hobos, and barflys
god bless their beer drunk souls
they do it better
and they're always ready for death
Continue reading...
Vitis Lio Dec 2013
DreamlandTM
I'm mushing my food
Before eating it,
Drinking dry
Red wine,
And feeling
Distantly self destructive.

I had gotten irritated
And was beating myself up about it.

Looking at the world
Through the tangle
Of curls on my head
I feel like an animal
And there's no one
To contain me
But myself.

So I prefer to drown
In pillows and mattresses
Escaping the world
Via dreamlandTM.

Knowing
I'll beat myself up about it.
Preferring
To beat myself up later
Than beat others up now.

(It's not that I'm masochistic
Or else selfless
But I'll beat myself up
Either way.)
Continue reading...
matthew scott harris Mar 2018
Machinations of a Maniac
(no braggadocio! modest rodomontade scored triumphantly!)

Unbeknownst to me, a generic human ape,
an unpleasant surprise
     swished down like an ominous cape
awaited and near smothered me drape

ping that October morning, where no escape
presaged via frisky black cats
     chasing shadows on fire escape
crossed my path after walking under a ladder
     where ice **** ravens didst jape!
**********
Wheels of injustice applied via de
fender, sans Johnny Cochran forced ee
year splitting amidst general public fee
ver rush to absorb disbelief shell shock hee
ret tickle non guilty conviction from key

ping popular culture spell bountious lee
really exhausted viz three ring me
dee ya circus (June 1994 – October 1995) pre
vail ling obvious evidence irrelevant, thus re
deeming O.J. Simpson to strut guilt free

from emotionally charged trial. I awoke
as usual and performed customary bespoke
oblations vis a vis half-hour plus choke
hold asphyxiation meditation, okey doke
shuteye discipline followed daily to evoke

calm, cool, and collected trance zen dental
bliss before motoring on with gist of gentle
lee presented vignette, though me mental
state did not shift gears into a rental

modus operandi, but only partially new
trawl eyed , cuz the then fiancé (one mew
zing chic chick i.e. Abby Robin Zison), Jew
dish us lee spent the night
     at our transitional grew

some domicile) immediately nsync to report do
tuff lee (at the Goddard School)
     raced like a Chew
Bach ha's Dickensian protagonist back up Badoo
two flights of stairs. Like eponymous Aloo

men hum mushing spry feline woman out bitta bing
bitta bang (clanging like hells bells) ding  
donging, she immediately flew back fling
all four feet eleven of her harried style jing

ling in an agitated state she set foot to go bob  
bing out the door intent
   (as iterated) driving to her job,
and in combination pantomime
   and words crisis did lob

asper like a bot to me,
     she attempted to communicate rob
bing her unsuspecting fount of thespianism
   tub air gritty modicum
   of rationale from putrid slob

name of Leslie (the lunatic landlady)
     thine paramour conveyed clarity mouth ajar
after surmising urgent news
     required automatic action to un bar
driveway, where I parked car,

the previous night surreptitiously venal far
from rational rapscallion most definitely har
bored an axe to grind, and locked Ford Escort par
**** shinned within chain linked fence - war

fore suggestion got made
     (from future bride)
to confront landlady,
     and sternly insist and mildly chide
corrective action taken,

     yet this storyteller defied
said suggestion, and brainstormed
    with betrothed asthma guide
averting compromising neither of our pride

and prejudice respective, sans stevedore
managers would not let us slide
gnome hatter, how we could not
     escape deprecation
     no matter how much we tried.

Prior to heading off to bed
     the prior night, I deigned
to express likelihood to landlord/owner
     thyself and pseudo spouse needed to find

another place to live. The major reasons
for vacating premises? Her grind
ding cigarette no ifs, ands
     or buts smoking mind
less ness ranked (on par
     with chimney didst wind

     burning wood smoke
at full blast) as primary source
     of revulsion did provoke,
and aye came across with homespun folksy
sensitive mien, as a simple country bloke
I expressed honest sentiment at being
extremely averse (where hacking awoke

     the future wife)
     from second hand carcinogen(s)  
     extant within cancer sticks. Asphyxiation deafen
knit lee found me choking half to death even
putting towel under the door, or

     additionally keeping
     bedroom window wide open,
the malodorous nicotine wisps ambled - pen
     knit trait ting, wending, curly cued,
     and filtered thru fabric with mischievous yen.

No matter, the twisting tendrils of tobacco found
their way into ole factory nasal cavity ground
zero, sans health conscious holistic being hound
did, what constituted one deranged dame
     the SPCA ought to impound.

Another factor fueling foul accommodations yin
     wanna know offset fine tuned win
Dixie yang,
     which odoriferous torture constituted

     nauseating odor of cat *****
and litter boxes smelt worse than sin,
cuz, they never got cleaned of feline ***** matter
     near visible as a unsightly dangerous shark fin.

Upon summoning effort
     and energy to communicate
bona fide concerns, she responded
     and didst denigrate

with contempt fiery madness irate
psychotic malicious venomous vile
     as dead body snatcher mate
and then insidious wheels

     of malice with tongue flames
crackling, popping, and snapping
     from out her reptilian pate
     began to turn more sharply

     amidst ghoulish clatter and path
     of destruction on her tabula rosa slate
with more danger than
     along axis of evil tete a tete.

She madly paced back and forth
     across maligned envisioned aisle
a small patch of uncluttered space in main foyer
     witnessed seething rage wherein

     carpeted floor boards,
     an imperfect circle shod feet didst dial
no doubt internally
     plotting vengeful strategic guile.

Castigations, fulminations, and insinuations ague
gulled out her mouth
     noxious fumes left exit pronto flew
ludicrous lacerations
     from fiery dragon lady did spew

while yours truly soundly slept
     and without incident dreamt edenic view
she unwittingly trappings to annihilate  Xandu
some personal vendetta. After I washed, dressed as a zoo

keeper headed downstairs,
     the malicious scheme she did hatch
out back became a living reality,
     an empty house doors hooked with latch

(Samir, the other occupant) left hours earlier no match
to tangle with wicked witch absented premises natch
eerily echoed every footstep trod one patch,
after another
     patent leather slippers paused to scratch

an niche 'pon second landing
     (to confirm a strong hunch)
that nary a soul heard nor seen,
     probably out to lunch,

no raving ranting banshee
     demented drunk as punch
No zombie like entity appeared from the “DO
NOT DISTURB” sign affixed
     outside sleeping area, aye did scrunch

brow to compress insight,
     where mangy catatonic felines
     shared coterie holograms suddenly jumped out
     from virtual reality cat n' app cradle
     swishing tails shorn like cat o' nines

mewing obscenities (within/ out
     computer screen, ominous signs,
sans phantasmagoric phantom) lurking
     like a lunatic swing from vines.

Nonetheless, I continued to tread
     down dimly lit said
lower level with glimmer
     of optimism to bolster lead

din heavy mood crossing fingers
     spare set of skeleton keys
     (with cross bones and skull head)
nearly always left tantalizingly
     dangling in unused door latch, twas cred

double wish, thus spirit within me soared
and just as quickly sank to abyss of psyche moored
     sensation felt like poured molten lava oh Lord
Guess what? No such luck. Oh,
     she definitely would not a ford

carelessness, and took precautions okay
hiding temptation to make a getaway
Well…I stepped outside
     to assess situation. Blimey cray
zee myopic eyes forced to glean deadbolt
     found gate shut tight, thence a feeble bray

escaped parched lips, when lo...vix
teased and cross myopic eyes,
     no doubt played tricks
holy glory. Ah, a handsaw
     carelessly got left and altered mix
matched tool chest in plain view, a sudden fix

but prior to acting on the plan, quite do able
I made a few telephone calls
     first telephonically cable
hub rate, and firstly contacted employer

     told tale more unbelievable than a fable
thence to local police
     in order to file complaint against
     goon bonkers malicious monstrous label

quick as the brown fox
     jumps over the lazy dog
escape attempted perilous hell grog
ghee nightmare commenced after placing

     phone back on cradle, whence nog
     'gin set fingers to twitch busily
     sawing into one steel link,
    (an effort aye did slog)

thru to break at one linkedin steel segment
barricading trusty Ford Escort
     so this fellow could hightail with pent
up adrenaline out of nefarious
     steely web and test a mint...,

     whence surge of adrenaline
coursed from head to toe,
     my heart pounded not so gent
lee ready to burst from chest,
     and palms perspired profusely
with unexpected accursed of evil incarnate
     vis a vis hell bent agent

provocateur ready to pounce
     and deliver violent
retribution, which blows
     from blunt heavy object,
   would invariably render me unconscious
   courtesy of cerebral rent.

For better than worse, a kind face
of destiny smiled from countenance grace
sing unseen karma
     smiled smooth as sateen or lace
upon my essence as shaking hands

     furiosly moved saw handle
     back and forth dozens of times until…
THE CHAIN BROKE AND SET ME FREE
     now fickle finger of fate
     got me ought ta this place!
#no #need #to #reed #every #last #word
Continue reading...
Astor Jan 2016
compromised lines and ego gods
lani outstandi putting shreds of egocentric sludge
on the table shoving mushing into a glob of pulpy info
everything you you say matters more than the point of everything its self because you understand it so much better
---
Jim jam Morrison head
you know better than me the doors are your ****
loose lips and rotting teeth from all the conspiracies you spit
get your jaws in line buckeroo all you want is to be a white lighter too
---
hey listen close taunt her taunter
get me to say things thinking youre the king
never admit that youre the **** because people just know that about your oh so sly self thinking you trick me and leaving me out to dry you play it so friendly im not surprised
just some humble notes on others egos
Continue reading...
Dominique Feb 2020
idle
I hate pottering around inside my mind
With no reason or rhyme, like I'm retired-
Poking through cobwebbed corners,
Pulling at age-old tablecloths, considering
A garden party for me and my little lost smile
There in the half-wild,
With the sun like messy oil I'll have to wash
Out of my hair and clothing when I'm done.

I hate playing docile card games alone,
Laying out plans like pictures I'll never colour in-
My doughy brain pokes stimulus off the shelf  
And traps itself in kindergarten daydreams;
I fingerpaint endlessly,
Defining the world through crayon senses,
Crushing, mushing cookies and shaking
Clumsy maraca beats.

If only I could lie down in soft rustic flesh
Snatching handfuls of it to conceal my skin
Finally, finally filling myself in
Buried alive for good
And be expelled, again, into blazing harshness
Choking on the earth that forms my body
Crying, crying for hope and fresh presence
Coming to life for good.
This is an old poem I've just found and I don't know how I feel about it, but unlike most of them it's actually finished so here it is.
#young #old #birth #death #idle #slow #desperate #frustration
Continue reading...
ymmiJ Aug 2019
A Homage
mountain high glaciers
as blue as the sky above
feeds her swollen creeks

whispy green rivers
in our countries northern sky
bring romance to night

grizzled beasts feeding
as salmon swim to their fate
wolves ever present

mushing sled dogs run
racing anchorage to nome
heritage recalled

our final frontier
In McKinley's great shadow
wild free Alaska
Continue reading...
Pooja srivastava Aug 2020
LockDown
It was Lock you down,
to knock you down
With lots of pressure,
To evaluate your leisure
Time to step up,
To early get up
Do your chores,
With immense force
Being bossy to your husbands
And getting scared with your little ones
Making amazing dishes,
After that suffer doing dishes,
To keep happy your little fishes
Who plan full to sink you down,
And make floors for you to frown
With Covid in your mansion,
And Tovid around to give you tension
You guys find a good way out,
To keep yourself logout
You escape to your paradise,
To get recognise
Brilliant minds to get some peace,
Bring world to their space
Be it pizza from Italy
Or veg makhani from Dilli
Be it tasty pepper chicken
Or delicious khadai paneer
All wonders with their passion,
Lands in "COCO" mansion
but no doubt they are feast for eyes
And we pay the price
When see the beautiful garnishing
Our heart go mushing
We want to be there but its LOCKDOWN
Continue reading...
everly Oct 2019
00:95
she’s so ugly
oh my gosh look at her
my classmates whisper about the
girl who’s always late
i push my eyes into their
home-y sockets
all i see is black
and toned down speckled
neon blue blotches
looking like adipose tissue
mushing
keeping my sanity contained
cushioned
their voices fade out
the teacher’s does too
drowned out
black waves encapsulate
the scenery
and it’s beautiful
i flow with the tides of
the silent madness of the ocean
i peer out for more but no luck
no boats
no scrambling children by the shore
no kites
no dock.
there’s no escape
Continue reading...
will Oct 2019
In the Wrong
High school is wrong
mixing and mushing
facts and figures
into students heads
till is bleed out
through their ears

High school is wrong
telling you to sit down
shut up and to behave
whenever we are wrong
we are failures to them
for simply trying our best
Part one of two high school related poems.
#school #wrong #thoughts
Continue reading...
unnamed Jun 2019
Glue
Instead of blood flowing through me
I've got glue in my veins
Movements slowing
I can't think straight
Feelings sticking together
Thoughts mushing
Now the glue has dried
And I'm stuck in another rut
Continue reading...
Nicole Feb 2020
The Path to my Truth
I walk along the river
A lightly treaded path
Untouched by most
Where did my adventurous spirit go
I no longer feel the thrill.
Where are you?
I wonder as I gaze across the water
Why am I here?
My fingers graze the long grasses
Careful as the muddy path narrows
Bending closer towards the water
Each step becomes calculated
I can hear the ground
Mushing under my shoes
My heavy heart weighing me down
Dragging my legs like lead
Down down down
I want to stop
I want to turn back
This road is so lonely
And I feel so lost
Screams echo in my mind
Past mistakes and present expectations
Clang and screech
Like metal on metal
As my legs tremble beneath me
Giving out til the mud ***** in my knees
And my hands grasp at the sopping ground
I want to dig my fingernails into something
Anything solid
Crawling and pulling
I drag myself forward
Until my body collapses into the water
Like a lifeless sponge
The current pulling me in like sweet release
Except when I finally sit up
And stare into these depths beneath me
My reflection doesn't exist
Instead
The sky stares back at me
Blue and promising
And i know i need to keep walking
Because I'm not there yet
#recovery #growth #pain #suffering #trauma #abuse #healing #compassion #identity
Continue reading...
Hands Dec 2010
Depression
You slunk in
with your time,
those thin little hands
like black gloves circling
the inside of a clock.
Each passing minute
is a breath,
a short relief as you realize
forever is an illusion.
Everything in life,
everything,
can be measured,
extracted,
subtracted from the whole
and ticked up to
the tocking of a clock.
You stole a glance
like a thief in a diamond mine,
quick,
cautious,
ever aware of pressing pressures
above and below.
You feel the infinite multitudes
of hairless hands and arms
pushing down on you,
black.
slowly springing and bouncing,
back a bit then forward more
until they crush your ideal
under their mathematical impressions;
forever is an illusion.
And when you
can feel each moment
of your life slipping away
to scatter in the winds
of a storm
slow to start
but fast once awoken,
when you realize
the passing brevity
of dandelion seeds hanging in the
heady summer air,
the satisfying
slow
crunch
of brown and hellfire leaves
below your feet,
the porous nature
of our mind
often forgotten,
hands will reach from every time
every place
every space pushing down on you
as pills vainly dull it
crushing and
mushing you into
a pulp of a human being,
idealism plucked from you
in ripest flavor.

You thought you could live forever,
but forever is an illusion.
Critiques on the title and the poem, please. That last part I like as a disjointed thought from the rest, but I have some debates as to how to transition; I was wondering if writing out the actions involved in swallowing a pill would be okay? Also, should I change the "subject" to "I" or "we?" Would that illustrate my point, better?
Continue reading...

— The End —