"narrows" poems
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
I feel the scratch
of the itchy cotton gown
on the narrows of my back
as it climbs up and down
Displayed I lye on the medical tables hard cold steel
It seers into the crevices of my bones
I ponder the lone window and wonder if it's real
I listen for the bleep and bloop of medical tones
Nurses walk by in a mechanical grace
poke and **** & tap and touch my face
and then proceed to leave without a trace
with no hint of knowledge of my medical case
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
I'm a big girl, I'm a big girl
I begin to chant in a simple rhythm
as small as a ball I begin to curl
I'm abandoned inside this glassy prism
The dead silence creeps inside my brain
I want to scream to fill the deadly gap
but the cold thick air of silence brings pain
I comfort myself and say it will be ok
My breathing begins to quicken
my eyes dart around the room
only comfort is the fear which I am stricken
my sight goes bleary as darkness looms
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
Tears sting the corner of my eyes
I want someone to hold my hand
Oh God how I want to cry
but the only thing there is the bleeding arm band
The test begins with the thickness of barium
It slides down my throat and clings to my esophagus
It tastes like chalk and pandemonium
they want me to suffocate I guess
I chug and chug as the pictures are snapped
x-ray upon x-ray of my stomach and my back
Drink more Drink more They tell me to do
Nervously I shake and say, anymore and I will puke on you
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
Even more poking and prodding ensues
but of my stomach, ribs and *******
I lay rigid as a board from the pain of each touch
I grow weary of this tiresome rues
The tests are done
and the coast is clear
I am left alone
to dress myself in fear
Dismissed and discharged to walk away
they file my chart with a robotic smile
now for the wait of endless days
I'm lost in my mind's land of emotional exile
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
Pins & Needles Pins & Needles
I wait for the results
Is it stomach cancer, an ulcer or both??
In the dark I am kept like followers in cults.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt
I drove past the banner that said “Welcome Race Fans”
Took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me
I guess chalky grey primer is not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place
I chugged-popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old
Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said “sounds good”
The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up
Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine
Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement
Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise --- becomes music
Speed --- satisfaction
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
My oh my , dear oh my
Why sole me , deliberate shy
Arrouse me in meself inner sanctum
To cause penises go wild erectum
Why me frail and naive
Touched and grabbed feels so tactile
Breached and pinched gets me unleashed
Fortold and shadowed narrows me leached
Oh how i humble and crumble for pain
Pleasuring may not be enough, but not in vain
Showering me until it rains
Pumping my blood through my veins
Widely and unique i scorge and emerge
Make me *** till i purge
Bright and shiny i humbely traverse
For a non-stoping reverse
Apr 6, 2010
Apr 6, 2010 at 3:54 AM UTC
Oh it's all hanging threads,
Hanging ligaments with drops of red:
Vines without poles - flesh without bones.
Events roll out in scarlatine flashes:
Eyes in crowd flap down their eyelashes
And in silence the suspense grows strong;
The bricks are set, the façade is over,
But from within, the house still lacks a structure:
One penetrates rooms without walls.
A memory from the depth is brought up,
A storyline used to link so many dispersed dots:
Leaves are flying free as the childhood tree rots...
Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging sources, hanging roots:
Scars over the sun revolving in loops.
And the conduit narrows down,
Leaks a single bolt of light to glow:
An empty room as throne and crown
And a thorn, pain escaping death,
A frown of estrangement in the face
Of all that's known - what's most unknown.
Spectators stare deceptively
While promises of relief are spared;
They too are suspended in the air...
Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging loose, hanging dead;
Waiting for the artisan to ease the noose.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 11:21 PM UTC
don't call out her name
she will not
there is a hole in the bottle
a blanket on the floor
the hallway isn't empty
shoes scatter when they fall
don't turn at the corner
or start towards the door
the light from the window
never reaches very far
shadows cast the grey
the grey narrows to a point
meaningless gradual losses
have taken her astray
don't turn away
you can't reach her anymore
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 3:06 AM UTC
THEY will have the final word.
Believe what the PARTY says is true.
Even Facecrime gives you away,
For BIG BROTHER is watching you.
Honesty? Bah, such nonsense!
Loyalty is what must sell.
State-spread rumors incite the mob
In your bleak, dystopian hell.
Reject evidence of eyes and ears.
That's what THEY say. Watch how hate
Turns the unquestioning supporter
Against the enemies of the state.
The Goodthinkful, unaware
How language affects their thoughts and behavior,
Show how ignorance is strength
And lavish praise upon their savior.
Manipulating public opinion,
THEY know well-spread lies will last,
For that's how THEY'LL control the future,
And that's how THEY control the past.
Doublethink is what THEY call it:
The clever art of reality control.
Ignorance is strength, THEY tell you.
Controlled insanity is THEIR goal.
The more powerful THEY become,
The less THEY prove to be your friend.
It's NOT about what's good for the people.
Power is NOT a means but an end.
War is declared on language and memory.
Inconvenient facts are rejected.
Science is reviled, and THEY
Discredit people once respected.
Doublespeak narrows the range of thought.
By caving in you might survive.
Two and two make four, but sometimes
THEY'LL say that two and two make five.
Opinions are not tolerated.
Protective stupidity: that's THEIR plan.
You think THEY can't control your thoughts,
But, oh, THEY can. THEY really can.
Do you look at your screen, or does
Your screen look at you? Or Both?
Do you know how much THEY know
Or if THEY know you've kept your oath?
Who's the next to be vaporized?
Who's the next to become an unperson?
As long as THEY control your "thinking,"
Everything can only worsen.
If only to awaken from the nightmare
Where truth becomes a likelihood
And we retain humanity!
Wouldn't that be "doubleplusgood"?
-by Bob B (8-30-18)
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 12:21 PM UTC
All those songs about waking up in a lover's arms--
I don't know what they're talking about.
Oh, I've known the happy wedding night mattress on the floor
amid the stacks of packing boxes
and the delicious view when the world narrows
to a single cherished face.
The bee, though, doesn't live inside the bloom,
and goes still inside a jar.
Touched on every side by an adoring indigo night,
there is still just one Moon.
Allow me morning alone in my garden
with just my mug and dog.
It doesn't mean I never loved you, or loved you less.
There is only one dawn--this one
and it only waits so long.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 5:16 PM UTC
Cold beer,
a long necked bottle held to my forehead
and in my throat,
to my lips,
so relief comes both ways,
glad for it,
the double of the cool,
helps the day of troubled nothingness,
and the long necked bottle makes it
worth the extra second of anticipated tasty wait
can't drink in the river park,
don't cotton to brown paper bags,
do it anyway cause the East River
tides me over on its way
thru the Verrazano Narrows,
bound for the Atlantic with me low rider spirit in tow,
a devil may care attitude en contrôle
this troubadour opened the store at 700am
but not a one came looking for a song,
but the mail came reliable,
with dues due,
promises that need keeping,
and other items,
what the grownups call responsibilities
June Monday early eve and the Moran tugboats
ply their trade like reliable ****** to the sailors,
and their larger than bathtub size toys,
turning containers, freighters, into docile boys
who do as they are told on their way to ports far
there are stick figures outlined on the hexagon
paving stones that are so nyc for me,
here pedestrian! follow your designated path
here pedestrian, you must walk to be safe arrived
but I take to the railing,
where Isaac-bound and mesmerized,
I imagine surfing the churning wakes on the surface
of the riveting tides and wonderous wanderlust for
where we are bound...
no voice heard from the heavens,
saying Abraham put down that knife,
because I have not passed the test of true belief,
perhaps the river's invitation is my test,
if I should sing another song here,
perhaps it will tale the end of this tell...
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
You followed down through the gathered pages
to the labyrinth that leads back through the changes
A long and twisted line of unmapped rivers,
*** holed low-roads and tattered mileposts
glancing homeless back-alleys as dark as lonely crossroads
Past the broken wings that fell from skyward treetops
scattered feathers amongst rose petals wilted
at the hand of tear stained faded photos
of frozen black and white faces;
hidden ghosts in the closet that fell from grace
The pathway narrows where the traces dissipate
passing under burning bridges, beneath locked stairwells
A fickle feather floating upon rivers ragging
like the hubris disconnectedness of time rolling out to sea ―
Shadows growing darkest as you reach the blackest silence
and you kept the answers to all the questions at arms length
hidden in the darkness ― where you saw love disfigure me
It was then and there I knew I'd dreamed of someone like you
looking for someone more than I could ever be
Just an unsated curiosity, trying to see beyond
your own misunderstanding, to feel and touch
an unknown depth beyond reach
As sunset pales the distantness, the night is yours alone
when tomorrow's morning rain
hangs on the falling leaves ― I’ll be gone
Just a wayfaring loner in a lonely world
Where rivers are only water
and love was once a flowing river
I thirst to swallow ―
to wash away these tracks of my tears ...
rivers ... 2017
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
...
new moon
"just let me sleep,"
moon eaten
my absence upsets all.
Look at me, really look at me,
stare up at the belly of a loved sky,
watch fingers dipping into bowls of blood holding hope,
feeling around for a sliver,
of sweet milk,
of relief,
of anything;
new moon whispers
on the dead bodies left behind,
god sighs---
he knows;
"I am not the same"
waxing crescent
map out my wreckage,
my skeleton of poetry;
in the spines of books loved by mankind,
bury me there in a pages of flowers---
in the altitude of words;
read me with a hunger you have never known before,
over and over;
whenever it seems fit~
like the light of the moon is a cigarette.
smoking,
he's always smoking now.
god takes another drag;
he describes to me:
*"You could be my bible,
you book of blood"*
I can't stand smoke...
"I have no business in being your holy snakeskin."
first quarter
I've been searching for
solid ground, solid shadows,
a solid compromise;
I wanted a little more
than ordinary love from him so I
asked him where the static began,
for me it's below my bottom left rib
and found that it was also where the spiders started too.
Time, that quiet thing
obeys god, only
because it waits for no one
it loves
unzipping the law of alchemy,
cause ink flowered in my blood again;
I should thank time
it was this saving kind of grace;
always has been
god stroked my hair this time
and said quietly:
*"You see,
the saddest thing is realizing
that there's nothing more they can do for you"*
waxing gibbous
Oh, where's my love?
Is it in the fever I call happiness,
is it in the sword my mama raised me to be
Is it in the way
the moon tiptoes closer
when he says my name
in that beautiful way he does
or breaks my name
over his teeth like it's just
glass apples
God doesn't even look at me
he doesn't have to;
"Do you believe in angels?"
the wreckage answers him
"not lately"
full moon
And it begins again
I watch as he just looks away
and says it's fine
it hurts
god narrows his eyes but shrugs
"Pain had other plans for you."
I breathe out raggedly;
***"I guess,
if there's no key
then I'll just swallow the whole door."***
...
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 9:30 PM UTC
In slow, firm circles, my fingers glide,
Teasing her gently, her breath amplified,
With each trembling gasp, her body speaks,
The language of pleasure in waves and peaks.
"Do you like that?" I whisper, a firm command,
As I guide her desire with a steady hand,
In the rhythm of yearning, she finds release,
In the dance of control, a moment of peace.
Our world narrows down to this intimate bind,
Where power and passion in union unwind.
Sep 13, 2024
Sep 13, 2024 at 6:19 PM UTC
The Real Poets Here
are small craft
sailing between the narrows of crack'd lines,
employ the spyglass and luck to you,
for them to find
their voyages do not widen the chasm of waste,
yawning greater now by propped up boasts of
ugly shipowners who sin by commission,
national ***** crowing of the greatest length of their prow,
thinking that is a measure of prowess,
their tubs,
all but empty wordy new container ships,
that are forever lost at sea,
even before leaving port
they,
the real poets,
are the quiet lost lot,
a troop of forgettable ordinary Marines,
the sailors in the engine room toiling,
exploring cartographers ***** from the ****** crafting struggle,
looking to discover unmapped,
invisible poles,
East and West
opening up new passages,
within us,
with new passages
when called to arms,
the real poets
spill fresh ***** fluids from within the heart and mind borne,
upon the blank spaces,
they stain us with the grasping gasps of their sight insided
fertile are the pastures
where they lay low modest lay thinking,
amidst the splendor in the grass
of them
I
proudly will ever boast,
hold them close and ever nameless,
but deep inscribed inside of me
*Ah,
the real poets keep me
whole within the
ever smaller white purity of this narrow space
that has lost the struggle
to contains the
unceasing ever spawning black letter'd oceans and navies of
repetitive sad, sadly repetitive,
puerile singsong cant
that never sings,
can't never please,
but trends to the masses madly
dewdrops of tears,
are my own trees felled,
an acknowledgement that
when I read their unintended homages to humankind,
that when realized,
they speak with great respect,
all quietly scream this whisper...
all this,
that I have written,
and will yet to write,
this is all,
to give
greater glory to all human ability
whose
sole purposed to fill us,
wrench us from our lackadaisical comfort,
or urgently comfort us when none else can,
these are my friends,
the real poets here*
god keep you well
my trite words insufficient
so I gift you
some words worthy from
Wordsworth
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
After Li Po
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played at the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the lookout?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
You dragged your feet when you went out,
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-sa.
2.6k
Hungry stones line the narrows
a jagged, muddy trail
aspen trees as pharaohs
gaunt columns of massive scale
Broken wagon pieces lie
testament to treachery
splintered axles cry
hopeless dwell in reverie
only insects fly
Lonely road disintegrate
loose shades of beige and brown
fallen roadsigns instigate
nature steal the crown
Hungry stones in narrows
still are left unfed
bodies strewn with arrows
death they do not dread.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
Though flames may roar,
And raging fires sore.
When fear stricken heart,
We always play our part.
The bleak unsure smoke rises dense and dark,
Each moment grows longer with each little spark.
No matter the struggle we keep fighting through,
Alert and aware we know what we must do.
Blind to a hand just before
our face,
Against the clock we must quickly race.
For when it gets down to the last desperate wire,
Swift and efficient we will put out that fire.
Though the chances are we’ve never met,
When needed a savior you can always expect.
While echoed sirens may blare and ring,
We hear the muffled night cries sing.
There's no such thing as simple routine,
Ignoring monotony that lies in between.
Very real consequences we are more than aware,
From possible situations beyond any compare.
Not a second allowed for one breath of fear,
Never a moment to shed a single silent tear.
Because when you're in desperate dire need,
We will always strive our very best to succeed.
Blood flowing in Red, White and Blue,
We’re Brothers dedicated in all that we do.
In death’s darkest shadows we may dare to roam,
Yet we know that we may each not always come home.
This is our deepest heartfelt desire,
Given to us from a place so much higher.
In all that we do each risk taken for you,
Our passion runs deep we’re dedicated and true.
Some tend to forget that this is our real life,
That we also have children, friends and our wife.
We walk the thin line though it sometimes narrows,
In this world we are someone’s real life superheroes.
In case you forget dear when you leave in the morning,
I ask you darling to please head my forewarning.
When overcome with adrenalin I remind you to fight,
To come home yourself dear at the end of each night.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
Here is some water for the dead tree,
Beauty I found in its imperfections.
A dark-haired girl appears and looks at me,
Seen in the tarnished water's reflection.
"How foolish," she scoffs, and narrows brown eyes.
"You're wasting time on this tree, it's hopeless."
I look up to the sorry, laughing sky,
Turning to her moonlit face. "I confess..."
"It's gone now, and though I shouldn't linger,
The living memory I can't betray."
She plucked a branch with delicate fingers
Carelessly dropped it, and then walked away.
Your tree creaks in empty winds. This is me,
Without you, watering a long-dead tree.
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 12:08 PM UTC
I am fixed
to the walls of this house
so tightly joined to it,
this bed
through sinew and bone
thread, thread, thread
another plait into me
the night, the breed she is
with that ****** needle
and thread, thread, thread
knows I can’t stand within it
the vignette
the solitude
the white coats,
the men of the word
those in the mire of the clay
all prescribing the same thing
a hit of perseverance
“Oh, okay,”
“oh, okay,”
“oh, okay.”
I lick, lap at
the slow drip
so tightly fixed to where I always have been
don’t come in,
don’t go out
“I’m sorry,”
in the pooling of spit
one hand in the *****
reaching into the pit
the *********
night
I don’t say in vain
“Okay,”
“Okay,”
“Okay,”
she waits
loosens my thread
slips those little tethers
so much good slack
I run
take my hit of perseverance
I burn
burn, burn, burn
right up in the fire of day
she waits for the ash
the sun rises and sets
on the same thing, always
always
always
always
they don’t understand
those free feet, walking the narrows
I watch them all go
no wince, no limp
no thread, no spit
the way that it seems,
from my portion of shadow,
“Oh, okay,”
so easy
Dec 19, 2022
Dec 19, 2022 at 5:04 AM UTC
In experience you have learned
which tunnel to explore.
You enter this
tunnel for promises of
"gold and precious things!".
But this promise
did not enter through ear;
but thoracic permeation
Well prepared having
spelunk'ed before;
light- your pack
light- in hand.
Climbing, scrounging to escape
the tight entrance with
jagged rocks and false paths
it's many turns and falls-
although you cannot keep
your flashlight straight
experience triumphs, as in
a maze done quickly
once done before.
One strong pull
emerging through;
cave's pupil dilates.
Ground so smooth and wet
though wise to walk
we tend to slide
why?
Faster to the gold
Faster for exhilaration
Faster because faster!
and... why not?
hitting rough spots mid-slide
pain in debt to speed.
You let your feet
gain some tract
as the tunnel
narrows
Solomatic mind; without
doubt- body complies.
A slight gust tickles
but this tunnel is not through...
Alas! A shining shimmer is seen!
The earth is rough
to navigate
difficult; (but shimmers numb the sense)
pain soon saturates and stops your
smallest movement, heartbeat, fidget,
thought... The light is moving near?
As tunnels break space and time
and especially direction
feel as though you've lifted up
and the cave, the light, and all
rushes to you.
The sound of breathing relocates,
oh, yes that's you.
gun to back, hostage of Aphrodite
running, sprinting, breathless
you seek this precious shimmer
soon to realize it's coming
faster, harder, alarming to
you.
Looking ahead-
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap
the sound the light bequeaths
not from ten feet but maybe
five, you realize it's you
heavy- pack
heavy- darkness follows
sprinting, pushing through.
And the entrance could not be any farther.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC
a couple born blind at birth, decided that they would marry
and a child they wanted to carry.
when an acquaintance of a friend
began to question such an affair.
he had to question them, he did not care.
how can you marry one another?
when you can't even see each other?
how do you know if your partner
is a beauty or a beast?
and any children that you have
may come out the same as you.
living in darkness, is that what you
want for them too?
the blind couple holding hands, and smiles
on their faces, walked over to him.
the woman asked if she could touch him?
and he agreed.
she touched the features of his face
his hair, his shoulders, and leaned
over and inhaled deeply.
she stepped back, and in a soft gentle voice said:
you are a man 5'11' in height
but you have no clue- no insight.
by your features of your face
your looks are quite fine
your face narrows down to your chin
telling me you are slim.
the mark on the bridge of your nose
tells me that you wear glasses too.
the smell from your body, tells me that
you are a nervous person, and always on the move.
and the way you dress, makes you think
you're in the groove.
'shocked and dismayed, he did'nt know what to say'
she then said in that same tone.
because we are blind from our birth
does not mean we can not see.
we live in darkness, but love lights up our hearts.
and the other senses, we had from the start.
we do everything the same as you
and some things, we may do better too.
we dress ourselves, bathe, cook, clean the house too
and we know just what to do.
as for a child coming into our lives
and if the child will live in darkness
the same as us.
in GOD we put our trust.
embarassed and apologetic, he learned
a lesson that day.
LOVE AND FAITH, have no boundaries
and there is nothing that can not be overcome.
if you trust in the FATHERS SON
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, colors are the reason we're alive---at least for me;>
purple purple
in my mind forced hurdled
been scraped on my timeline
been worn on my curves fine
yes the archer in the water associated
stupid but for the imagination to retake it
on those eyes that looked into my defenses
affection in the caresses
of my defined tenses
rather than that of the skies illuminated on beach
or hairs on backs so hard to bleach
now I see clearly
nothing but the signs that come freely
butterflies that I hate secret narrows
walls already painted threatening arrows
already loving for them hollows
-------ravenfeels
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 5:15 PM UTC
we
mill the
wheat
and our bread
is
broken.
slack lung
sponge
anemone the cavitous
tide
po
ol
s.
we
chill complete stars
and oi ! our dead
are
tokens.
bad
nuns
expunged
eternally hap-hazardous.
blind
fo
ol
s.
we are not risen. we are unleavened.
our chevy glistens where the chrome clings to the rust bite.
the light tingles the rods and cones of Time's swipe across narrows,
it's arrow sings. it singes the rind of our fat lips
where it's teeth slide,
where our worlds kiss the pavement
from so much grinding
chaff
into gold.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
I was just walking around and spotted a golden ladder.
People walking past it, a swarm of people are under it
Yelling up at people, cheering loud when anyone falls down
Some fall and are slightly bruised, some aren't so lucky
Some charge right back up while others walk away sobbing.
As I walked closer, this ladder seems wider at the bottom
And narrows the higher it gets towards the top.
Using binoculars, I saw people climbing up and down it.
I even see some climbers kicking others down
As they climb and take their place like a rat race.
Racing up fast to get a bite of the cheese.
Some are taking their time, others are dashing.
The crowd underneath are cheering for those to fall
I walked closer, a few people looked scared
Desiring to be successful, but fearful to fall
So they never try, they become one with the crowd
The scornful, the haters, and the ones whom fallen.
So I touched the bar, instantly the boos began
Telling me that I am worthless, I will never succeed.
I touched the next bar, feeling hands on my feet
Feeling jealousy and envy by others under me.
I've just started this journey, I climbed higher
Trying to grab the arms of those that are falling.
The top of the ladder is so high that I can't see it
But I know that it's there, there has to be a ceiling.
And what's beyond the ceiling, who really knows?
I hear rumors of prestige, riches, luxury,
Honor, power, but is it really a myth?
As I climb, the crowd throws rocks at the climbers
Helping them to lose their grips and fall off.
The more I climb, the more callous is on my palms
My arms growing sorer, feet sweaty,
Head dizzy, fears increasing, scared to fall
Second guessing the desire to climb this ladder
But at the end, is it really worth it?
Climbing up the ladder of success.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
(Happy 150th, Canada!)
Canada Day - Just One?
With love from an ‘umble Yank
But every day is Canada Day!
The afternoon plane lands in Halifax
When the hatch is popped, cool air rushes in
Even the fog is happy in Canada
The Muskogee never made landfall here
And so we pilgrimage for her, complete
Her voyage from ’42 to Canada
Wolfville, Grand Pre’, Le Grande Derangement
The Deportation Cross and beer cans
Well, God forgive the Redcoats anyway
Newfoundland
Is a bold
Anapest
The church spires in a line, the light is green
The bold young captain shoots the narrows wild
Can you find your way to your painted house?
To walk again the cobbles of Ferryland
And smell the very blue of the Atlantic
The sea-blown wind is cold in Canada
Blue Puttees and a mourning Caribou
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord
Good children sing “We love thee, Newfoundland”
Quebec – royal city of New France
May Le Bon Dieu bless the Plains of Abraham,
And may God bless
The signs an English driver cannot read
The Coca-Cola streets of Niagara Falls
Yanks laugh at made-in-China Mountie mugs
And buy them, happy to be in Canada
A cup of Toujours Frais from – well, that place
But to us in your southern provinces
Below Niagara, Tim too is Canada
Though Canada goes on, these scribbles must not -
Your grateful guest wishes only to say
That every happy day is Canada Day!
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 11:39 AM UTC
Me and Dee,
2007.
An afternoon
Scrabble session.
Friendly game
Turning sour,
Silence,
Filling up the hours.
I slyly grin and
Slowly lean.
**** you Dee!
“Byzantine”.
He narrows his eyes,
Calm and small,
Then throws the Scrabble board
At the wall.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC