"mustang" poems
my childhood was removed from me
inside of a blue mustang
and what remained after that
I tried to barter off the highest bidder
but I grew,
not up,
but forward
further away
slowly releasing
hands of defiance
fists chock full of hopeless words
like anger, the flavor that aches the bone,
the cold kind,
more barren than the green of Christmas lights
glimmering off the icy veneer of a white picket fence
overeager, in the apathy of theatrics,
to strip off the remainder
because the empty feeling that followed
might one day
make a decent poem
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
I bought a cruiser bike
instead of a mountain bike
I’m a sextagenarian
not a 30-something
so every morning I pedal
to the corner across from the Ritz-Carlton and the Montage
next to the high-rent Pandemonde Café
and count the Ferraris roaring by.
I never had a Ferrari
but I did buy a ’96 Mustang once
and souped it up with a supercharger
which was around the time
my doctor took me off testosterone
because my prostate specific antigen
was way too high
You have an inoperable prostate malignancy, he said
after the biopsy
You can’t take hormone replacement anymore
It will **** you
And as I lean on my bike
depressed about missing the rush
of another boost of synthetic male hormone
I enjoy watching the Europen speedsters streak by
so proud of themselves
in cars that cost more
than my house.
I used to wish I was them
used to feel like them
when I was younger and charging hard
but now I just utter prayers
for each Lamborghini that goes by
and I say
I hope your car is faster than cancer.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
He writes boy on his leg
Etching the letters the world won't understand
Wishing the felt tip pen could
Break the gravestones on his chest
And fill the valley between his legs
He writes boy on his leg
It's a word kept secret in fear
He's a mustang learning his legs
And the world is a pack of vicious wolves
They don't know what to call him
Only he does
He writes boy on his leg
Takes a picture and sends it to the one he knows understands
The flash against his pale skin stark and bright
Like sleepy eyes against fresh snow
He writes boy on his skin
Because he can't write it anywhere else
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
Quincy Valero
Everybody’s best friend
Jet black hair
Shiny brown eyes
A boyish smirk
Standing six foot something
Coming out of catholic school agnostic
Attending state college
Every word that came out of his mouth was a riot
A funny story of a bad situation he was in that he can laugh at now
An awkward moment with a girl he tried to get in bed
God awful train rides with a clueless conductor
Quincy Valero
A wanna-be Casanova
The irish-italian self-proclaimed “Don Juan of Dumont”
Roaring down the suburb streets in his bright yellow mustang
From Bergen county to Trenton
Edgewater to Ewing
Bumping R&B; from the 90's
A main girl
A side chick
And a few back pocket broads
Leading them on
To where?
I’m not even sure he knows
Quincy Valero
My best friend since I’ve been here in Purgatory
My lifelong cellmate
My hetero life mate
My brother of second thought
Our token white boy
He’s had his ups
Wild ragers until day break
A four way with me and two girls in my four door sedan
He’s had is downs
Falsely charged with domestic abuse
Community service, endless court room hearings, suspensions and a whole bunch of nonsense
Quincy Valero
The quintessential example of the modern day male
Stays up all night
Sleeps all day
Opportunistic
Egotistical
Miserly
*****
And hungry
Always aching to put in his two cents
And leaving everyone in a howl of laughter
An Adderall popping
Seasoned drinker
A professional *** smoker, coached by yours truly
Fast talking baritone voice
With a half serious tone
Yes, Quincy Valero
The tight plain white t-shirt wearing
Chino sporting
Nostalgic, slightly racist, sexist, anti-semitic
Bust usually honest, friendly and apologetic
Good hearted dude we all love to hate
And hate to love
Bed-headed
Pajama bottom ***
Talking about his Svedka regrets
And we laugh and laugh and the stupidest things
Then remember events that seem so long ago
And then make plans for tomorrow
Yeah, one of my best friends
My oldest friend
That’s Mr. Quincy Valero
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
Eyes dance across ,
The wondering images alive.
Visible to those,
With a perceptive eye.
Focusing on whats in sight,
Figuring out the reaction.
We are visible to those,
With the eyes to see.
We stand in plain sight,
But are ignored by the tyrants.
The ghouls, The thieves.
Perception is everything,
When it comes to seeing whats in front of you.
With eyes to see,
You are visible.
Visible,
As a canvas of vivid colours.
Visible,
As a storm dancing in.
Visible,
As a house burning with fire.
Visible,
As a mustang and his kin.
We are Visible,
We are the perception.
That you see.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
Not too distant beach tree sways in distance
Mandala Rorschach blot patterns dance like celebrating Salish drum circle
There's a hallow college sound of crime show to my left
Bickering with the occasional crush of,
**** my job is stressful."
A sleeping armadillo composed of quarks reflective within a drop of water
Fallen from the bottom-bulged North 49 canteen
A foot and 3/4ths away the snow-white generic of a ***** coffee mug formerly host to a Tetley green stands silent
Reminiscent of the eternal stillness of a mountain range
Fibonacci's name rings inexplicably from tilting branches
And I can't help but wonder if I would be grasping his hand in grasping a branch.
19 years alive and I can't help asking if I've grown-up too fast
Or simply grown into myself.
I feel old
young
and somewhere indescribable most of the time
and it's funny I cannot even fathom the length of 22 years.
A deflated balloon yellow like trend pants or sunrise sits like dejected missile
No longer screaming towards Gaza
No longer screaming.
A Holiday Inn Express pen sits with a ready-call number
Part of its mustang flame
If its quality of penmanship has any parallel to hotel service
Perhaps I'll stick with hostels.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
Red balloon: Amanda Mustang
Amanda Mustang : yes red balloon
Rb: are you left handed ?
Am: I don’t think so red balloon
Rb: why not ?
Am: why not why red balloon ?
Rb: well, how come your not sure ?
Am: well I only use my right hand mostly
Rb: but you do use your left one too
Am: yes, but not as much
Rb: then I declare that you
Amanda Mustang is both left and right handed
Am: ambidextrous red balloon
Rb: ambiwhich ? Amanda Mustang
Am: ambidextrous means using both your left and right hands
Rb: then you are ambidextrous Amanda Mustang
Am: not really red balloon, both hands must be as good as each other
Rb then I will ask each hand Amanda Mustang
Am: don’t be silly red balloon.
for hands and feet and ears cannot speak, they simply are not alive
Rb: but you are alive Amanda Mustang, you began talking the day I imagined you.The other balloons say that you are not real, but I know you exist. Maybe from your point of view I’m made up and the other Amanda Mustangs would say “stop talking to that balloon Amanda Mustang, for balloons and teddy’s and cats cannot speak and balloons and teddy’s and cats are not real”
AM: I’m sorry red balloon
Rb: why so Amanda Mustang ?
Am: well for doubting your existence and I apologize to you too both left and right hands
L and R H: That’s okay Amanda Mustang, we forgive you
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 4:23 PM UTC
~~~=<♡>=~~~
In the morning of a
Breezey mauve-pink air
in the peace in a time of silent prayer
in the breath of a
newborn child's sleep
there are memories
we will always keep
when a mother first holds her child
in the strength of a mustang
running wild
in the hush of an ocean's
silent depths
there are memories
We will never forget
eagles fly
and soar on lofty wings
infants cry when their
time of life begins
seedlings grow
from the fall of gentle rains
these are things we know
but can we fully explain?
in the rise of a harvest moon
in the scent of a rose
in fullest bloom
in the grace of a
dancer's swirling form
then our senses make us
glad we're born
in the flames of the setting sun
in softness of night that's
just begun
in the lights of the pinpricked sky
there are times we pause
to think and ponder why?
breezes blow
and yet are never seen
there's a mind
that can only think a dream
can you touch the light
of falling stars
these are things we know
but can we prove they are?
in the roar of a breaking wave
we are kept from the
cradle to the grave
we may know
in our last and final hour
a loving and
ALMIGHTY POWER
soulsurvivor
4/21/2009
~~~=<♡>=~~~
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
You nod towards
the mustang.
A yellow ball in your hands.
I smile and slip a bat from my softball bag.
I climb into the drivers seat,
sticking my tongue out at you.
You laugh and climb in.
I drive to the track and field combination
with the seatbelt alarm chiming the whole way.
I shift into park and climb out.
I swirl the bat around
waiting for you to set up your pitching stance.
You throw the ball and I line drive it by your face.
You dive left and up.
The ball smacks into your glove.
I round second and you start running after me.
I step off third and your arms trap me
as you spin around
bringing me down
on top of you.
We burst with laughter.
I miss these days.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
Between empty junction gullies of the Dogskin mountains,
the BLM has once again released their Judas horses
luring the free ranging mustangs into capture corrals.
Their crime --- thriving in a battle of survival.
I assure you the Comanche do not dance around the fire,
nor does the ghost of Cortez roll in the wildflowers of El Dorado.
Ironically this native species is now considered feral,
introduced in the very habitat which shaped its evolution,
arcanely empowered to exceed enviromental carrying capacity.
The lands of nature are so dear: rejoice their freedom!
The mountains do not judge, they merely shelter.
Let the mustang graze unfettered through winds of dawn.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:56 AM UTC
— for the American Mustang
Strung up on one leg, bled dry while alive,
unloaded off trailers crammed full
of the crippled and blind —mares
giving birth on three legs, foals trampled
by stallions, and a wave of fear
hovering over tossing manes
like the sea after Moby **** surfaced
for the first time. Last year,
135,000 horses died —
rounded up in hundreds and sent
off to slaughter like feeder goldfish,
three stops from Canada
or Cabo, displaced from plains
once revered for their livelihood.
In 1969, Vonnegut
wrote, “And so it goes…”
In 2061, our children will ask about the wild
horses who used to live in their backyards
as they catch the last fireflies and bottle
them up in jars, flickering and dying
like tired bulbs giving up on electricity —
2015 sees Henderson, Nevada grasses paying tribute
to power-plant-lines and a suburb built
on Tralfamadore fiction: house-mounds
and picket fences caging domesticated dogs,
curb-lined streets and caution signs, billboard
warnings of humanity’s fixation with progression,
combined like coffee with an overabundance
of half-and-half and too much sugar — only 99 cents
at Dunkin down a little ways, and home
to the dreamers who forget the word freedom.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
Volume up,lights out
Tolerance up just to drown him out
Everyone's dancing in circles
She's stuck in the perverse perimeter,so no one sees her around .
Hopped off on circles & hallow cylinders just to survive when shes around
She used to come alive in the moon light
When the high beams shined she used to see the light .
Now she's struggling w strategies to leave .
Trying to find an amusing excuse to satisfy their surprise
Something like :
"I'm a vampire I need to get home before the sun rises "
Pass her a lighter , So she could add
fuel to the fire ;makes for better burn holes in her pantyhose
Chain link boots ,skin tight leather coat
Mustang Sally , make tonight your own..
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
It's flower crowns
And shimmering gowns
Its dancing with a broken heart
Looking together
But feeling so apart
It's a mustang's engine coughing into the night
And stepping through the gymnasium's doors
Into the light
I thought Homecoming was about coming home
To everyone else
Not realizing Homecoming meant
Coming Home To myself
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC
Life is a puzzle
That won't be solved
By the argument of your mind.
It can neither be cracked
In ivory towers
Nor in the parlors of grapevine.
The mystery of life
Crowns the benighted
With a twist of a wand
Leaving the enlightened
To commune with the dark.
At best, it is a glass enclosure
Attuning your moves
Along the belt of blessing
Beneath the shelter of stars
And at its worst,
A dungeon floor
Delineating your lot
In unbending reality
Under the dome of despair.
Exposed to eternal pumping
Of raw information,
Student of life knows
But a speck of curricula
At any given time
The process of life's lessons
Extends well beyond the grave
Not even multiple lifetimes
May suffice to scratch the surface
Let alone discover the core
Yet the student of life
Knows no limit
Goes to village today
And metropolis tomorrow
Mounts a mustang to Shangri-la
Hops on a boat to outland.
Tantamount to the amount of stars
Are pictures of life
Full of synonyms and antonyms
Boding inflections and reflections
Of thought, taste and bearing
In the academy of day-and-night.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:40 AM UTC
Pa ran inside,
All out of breath
Ma said "slow down"
"you look you've seen your own death"
He shut all the windows
Closed the shutters, the doors
He went to the cellar
And locked the trap doors
"Out on the hill there",
"You can see by the tree"
"It's a horse from the Devil"
"And it's waiting for me"
Ma said "you're crazy"
"There's nothing outside"
"Least all a horse"
"That the devil would ride"
I went to the window
To check for the steed
Pa said "Don't open that up"
"That's all the room that he'll need"
"He's come from below"
"To take my soul down to hell"
"And his horse is the warning"
"I know...I can tell"
The mustang stood waiting
On the hill, all aflame
Was it devil or horse
Were they one and the same?
Pa was still shaking
He had sure had a fright
There was no way that we
Would get to sleep on this night
Pa then told Mother
Of the deal he had made
With the Devil himself
In the cool of the shade
A prosperous ranch
The envy of all around
With all of his problems
Put six feet underground
Dad said he'd reckoned
That the deal was all done
When the crops out the back
All burned up in the sun
He knew that the Devil
Was calling in for his share
When he saw the horse burning
While no one else gave a care
"I have to get through now"
"To the morning past dawn"
"Then the horse will return"
"And the deal will be gone"
We listened intently
We were sure Pa wasn't sane
But, we knew from his tale
He had nothing to gain
We'd take shifts in the night
Keeping the devil at bay
Only twelve hours to go
Until the next day
It would be an adventure
We would trust in our faith
Of dad's tale of the mustang
The flaming horse wraith
The night was a battle
The devil tried to get in
He worked on our hearts
By making deals sweet with sin
Do we turn in our father
Or do we fight till the morn?
Could it just be a ruse
Burning one field of corn?
To see how it ended
You must come out here and see
The scorch marks in the grass
On the hill by the tree
You can believe what I've written
Or hear what Pa has to say
But, it was the Devil's Mustang
Came that night for to play
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
I wonder if they're happy.
They sure do seem so.
They're always talking about stealing their daddy's Jaguars and having beer blasts and getting in to fights and being bros and getting tan and buying new swimsuits and getting a call from different modeling agencies and crashing cars and smoking cigarillos and drinking fancy wine and going to their beach house and deciding between Harvard and Yale or Porsche and Mustang and did we win the football game and making new friends and oh my God Stacy actually said that and dude, I totally ****** her and my math teacher is such a ***** and my parents are putting me into boarding school and check out my new Jordans and did you watch the sunset last night?
I don't know if they're having fun, but it sure seems like it.
*I wonder if they're having fun. It sure seems like it.
They're always talking about hitch hiking to the next city over and going to shows and drinking PBR and sneaking out at night and yeah dude, that party was sick and my tumblr is so famous right now and check out my new denim jacket and smoking **** and getting in to fights and lifting cigarettes from stores and Austin and Katie slept together and Kyle broke edge and I'm still working at McDonalds and yeah I'm still driving my '93 Ford Ranger and smoking hookah and watching Mean Girls and yeah I love the ocean and check out my new Kicks and did you watch the sunset last night?
I don't know if they're having fun, but it sure seems like it.*
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 10:22 PM UTC
Drive through the forest, oblivious to the perfection that's closed around us. Sit near the river as the winds crash alongside the water brushing the shallow tide to waves crashing against the bay again and again, coming back stronger each time. We'll wait for the sunset in your beaten down mustang, and in that moment I'll fall in love with you.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
----
Sometimes they take over
The rhythms in your head
Nuances of rhyme schemes
The lines your muse has fed
You want to use a smaller word
Pontificate instead
It gallops through your consciousness
A wild horse - unlead!
The hooves go on like thunder
Upon the steed you ride
Tearing up the page
Pen in hand - astride
You are without a bridle
Legs grip the mustang's side
He has his own way
He is a beast with pride!
No - he has no stable
No - his blood flows wild!
Fed grass of the planes
He's restless as a child
A stallion - yes! A bucking bronc!
Unbroken - never mild!
Get into his rhetoric
He's always getting riled!
Write like you're a MUSTANG!
RIDE ON!!! You have no reins!
Get into his rhythm
The rhyme scheme is unstrained
Your footing is unsure
In uncertain terrains
Playing echo chamber music
Those cacophonous refrains
Bust that bronc!!! He's waiting -
Your own head unrestrained!!!
SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/19/2015
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
He is just a wild mustang,
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.
With one eye on the horizon,
the other on a place he calls home.
And it's a rough road that he travels,
but he know he'll reap all the seeds he's sown.
He is just a wild mustang
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.
He may fall and he may stumble,
but he never seems to let it keep him down.
Just gets back up, shakes off the dust,
and knows next time to run on truer ground.
He keeps his nose to the wind,
as if she was a tellin' which way to go.
He is just a wild mustang
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.
And he's never been the kind
who was content to stay.
To follow with the heard,
or be afraid to stray.
And there's never been a filly
who could ever tie him down,
for he knows just where he's goin',
but he don't know where he's bound.
He's searchin' for the answers
he has yet to comprehend.
He know's he'll need a love,
but for now he'd settle for a friend.
He's always been a loner,
though never really like to be alone.
he is just a wild mustang,
not roamin' where the other mustang roam.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
Nearly 5 AM in the Morning...
and I hate the night, but love it's true colors of darkness within a light so surreal you can truly feel.
The moon gather's within the stars as company to shine you.
Sometimes the clouds will cover the moon, like a blanket as he lays his head to rest, that's why he's called the man on the moon, not for the person who claims to have walked it, but for the face engraved into the bright shadows and creviced surfaces surrounding the molded, circular not so perfect Moon.
Thank you Moon for keeping us company...
But why do I hate the night, because your time goes faster than day. When your lover is with you and it's time to say goodnight, those are the times I despite.
The beauty of the night, is very real and wish...sometimes...could be longer. The only moment where I get to feel free.
Now is time for me to try and sleep, only if I can..
some nights, my thoughts race like a mustang in the distance of a field of golden wheat grass.
So I come here, to vent out...to only read my poems back at myself.
I will try to sleep.
Goodnight.
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 4:46 AM UTC
We're all walking cliche's,
So what's the big deal?
I can wear a beanie and a gay pride tee shirt and moccasins,
And listen to Neutral Milk Hotel,
And talk about feminism and politics.
Do not kiss me with your mustang convertible and your ****** piercings.
I am a taken woman.
But I will take your free drugs.
Thank you very much.
Stop mourning me,
My arrogance should never have been a turn on.
Pretzel crisps, tattoos, and student loans.
It's hard walking down the boulevard of broken dreams,
And bumping into all the other lonely souls.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
the animated man moves with languid effect
against the scattered clouds of the sky far overhead
he walks at a slow stumble
on the oil stained pavement of suburban driveway
'this is where the light blue mustang was parked'
he is carrying a stone carved into the shape of a head
its mind leaning precarious over the edge of sanity
you can taste its butterscotch candy laughter
and its salt water taffy tears
its face frozen in apocalypse of conflicting thought
he moves along the dirt road
hemmed in by trees and wild growths
the humidity so thick you swim rather than tread
but the feral grin sewn into his face
with her needle and threads
is what moves her
she adores its primal bloodletting
a self contained self abuse machine
she leads the way down the dusty road
to the clearing where night children gather
to make celebrations to dark matter
and the things it spawns
her thighs tingle at the thought of dead flesh
and feasts of the eyes filthy mind
the images in her mind are never really clear to her
just **** flesh rubbing cold things
i am disturbed by her dark dream
seek to flee on wings of night
but fail as he arrives head in hand
and pronounces logical rules for the slaughter
this night has no end
just the rest of fitful dreams
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
Someone forgot the pearl necklace today
I remember seeing a red and white skirt
the sound of the wind was strong
a floral set of earrings
As the camera rolled
a pause stood in the air
there wasn't a single cloud in the sky
the black blouse was transparent
the red on the mustang
reflected your sunshine face.
Dec 12, 2024
Dec 12, 2024 at 1:53 PM UTC