"newcomers" poems
“Moby **** Herman Melville
<•>
~for the lost at sea~
after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining
the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls
sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality
I’m called to depart my beach shoreline unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming
god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion, nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties
my in-camera brain eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles
walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?
puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others
perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered
Memorial Day 2018
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
Lipstick cigarettes and the empty soul of modern rock n' roll
laid in ruin amongst my collection of black soul addictions and sultry benedictions.
MIDI saxophones and an ex-girlfriend on the telephone
directing me to find my home, to rebuild the comb, to banish the bartender and the Reverend ******
Alamo idiot stand and a neon Jesus
waving newcomers into the whitewashed port town known as "Cuba North".
At the Caged Gorilla, Linda, the waitress,
laughs through yellowed teeth, while my bloodshot eyes crawl up her red gums.
Binge'd and my brain keeps parallel with the ceiling fan
while a plain clothes cop tries to give me the reprimand for nostalgic mischiefs.
Handcuffed and looking for that old fiend, Freedom,
while Miranda spews on the back of my skull, slides down my shoulders, dots the cement.
Out the door and tourists with cameras looking for evil behind my irises,
but I can assure my handshakes feel the same, I'm front pew tame, and I blend with the parade.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
i will carry your body from the flicker
i will lose my eye
four houndred and fifty seven times
before i jab back.
all this makes a sister look weak,
but this is what i know of patience and loyalty.
and we will stare into the souls we drain everyday
and drown in the woes of alcoholism
and suffocate in the smoke
and go bankrupt from the weekend rut.
and i am happy
that i know
i could be doing this alone
but alas
i have a twinsoul
a twinflame.
for vinagar girls,
full of *** and vice
and all horrible things,
somehow we manage to hold more value
in each other
in people and parents
and newcomers
than any one any where
can relate.
my partner in crime,
my fellow feline,
i will follow you into the flame
and drag you back out.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
Welcome to Hello Poetry
and thanks for following me.
I know it can be tough when you start,
but your poems are always great if they are from the heart.
You'll stay up late awake at night
staring at your computer light
with no thoughts coming to your mind,
ticking your fingers on the keyboard while your teeth grind.
This poem is a thanks
for the times you deal with blanks.
The times you know are tough,
I, too, am familiar with how rough
that feels.
And I swear it never heals,
only goes away temporarily
just to smack you more disparagingly.
So, here's to the poets
who are so fixated on blemishes that they don't even know it.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
Strobe lights
Flashing different colors
Every which way I look
They catch the texture of my dress
As I shimmy beside you
We are a strange couple
You with your pale skin
Me with my sweet caramel twist shade
The song changes
This more upbeat
The florescent lights flash faster
The bass thrums in my heart
My body starts to feel the music.
I let go and allow my body to do the rest
I feel a tap on my shoulder
Him.
This boy
I declined
Because of an age difference
He bows and asks for a dance..
I consider
I look at my date
With a stern look upon his child-like face he nods his head at me
He doesn't like this newcomer
Yet
He let's go of my hand as if to say
"It'll be okay for one dace"
I go take this newcomers hand
And dance a slow dance during a fast paced song
Odd...
The song is over as fast as it started
The guest thanks me
and sends me back on my way
back to the boy awkwardly waiting for his mistress to return
A smile immediately illuminates his face
"We are just friends," I think
"We must be..."
As the night progresses it is soon time to leave
He kisses me on the cheek as another once once did and goes off on his way
As I do mine
I see the visitor once more but I decide to evade him
For he is not worth my time
He does not notice me
Good.
I am off
Off to sleep
Now safe in my bed
Homecoming?
Perfect way
To end my night.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
the censorship meme
alive inside me as a child:
some books were worth the mention of--
war and **** were not.
untimely at a pennsylvanian writers' club
where fear lodged quiet smile-halves
in talking clouds and farmyard metaphor,
to weekly bray the corner of an antique movie-house
newcomers weren't to share their work
we three were welcomed as an audience at best
we passed the others' writers' chapter-copies on
on which i scribbled notes of praise
on notes of theme-entwining anti-argument
and **** zests of vast significance:
notes of floral yearning, meadowed love--
iron skies and ahistoric dreams--
off and on archaic themes
of which we weren't to share
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
They gave me a name that didn’t suit me.
What’s funny is
the universe recognized that
before I did.
She paid me this compliment:
*“There’s too much person to you.
You can’t be tripped up with so many
syllables in something so trivial as a name.
Less speaking, more breathing,”* she said.
Four reduced to two.
Now I can exist in half the time.
I became “Bitsy.”
Which means I’m associated
with certain things.
Mainly tiny spiders
and brightly pattered swimwear.
It’s easy to be irked by that, you know.
Yet, I smile and take it,
because they raised me
with the patience of an idiot.
I get automatic cute points
just for introducing myself with a name like this.
Newcomers get giddy,
like hearing my name is equivalent
to receiving a box of kittens.
I always try to drop an expletive or two—
I just don’t want them
to get the wrong f#@%ing impression.
“Less speaking, more breathing.”
I instructed the universe
not to do me any more favors.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
The lead ideas fell on a field as voices
coming from a bad dream. The yellow
of the daisies became sharper than the
serpents’ teeth, and the fragrant sun
started to tremble in the wind. The ideas
would fall into a silent abysm, but they
have become as hard as those boulders
falling to hit people and to ****** their
reality. I am talking about those newcomers
picking the flowers and having injured
smiles. It looked like the life was destroying
itself under a predefined set of circumstances.
Those people had ghostly, spectral feelings.
Those feelings began to grow into the Light of
God, Who has started to reconcile all things
to Himself through His Embodied Word.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
and maybe you don't want me here.
and maybe I don't want you to want me here
and maybe I want you to want me so much that your heart hiccups
and maybe I drink to summon the courage to say it
and maybe I drink to find it
and maybe I loved you
and maybe I still do
and maybe I don't want you to see me broken
and maybe I want you to feel the shattered glass of my fingertips
and maybe we're doomed
and maybe we're destined
and maybe last night was different
and maybe we'll never change
and maybe we love like cancer
and maybe we walk like Egyptians
and maybe we just need time
and maybe we've had enough for tonight
and maybe we make bonfires on bunk beds
and maybe you turned your back to me
and maybe I left
and maybe you love the hawk with brown tipped wings
and maybe common sense isn't so common
and maybe we're newcomers
and maybe we never got there
and maybe those weren't tears, but stray raindrops
and maybe all my words are lyrical
and maybe my pen is tapping out my heartbeat
and maybe I watch you watch me
and maybe we jive like honey bees
and maybe I dream of daffodils and popcorn
and maybe we've lost faith in God and gravity and poetry
and maybe I ride my bike down the narrow streets downtown
and maybe I sunbathe on park benches
and maybe I fell from my tree house
and maybe I flew
and maybe our hands don't fit quite right
and maybe I tried to recreate snowflakes
and maybe I dance to the songs you hate
and maybe you know every word from my favorite poem
and maybe I cry when I think too much
and maybe I smile at every hair on your body
and maybe I loved you
then again, maybe not.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
The whole thing smells like chlorine, which is extremely unsettling because chlorine always tastes green and a lot like hereditary paranoia. These pants were only two washes removed from brand new, and now there's a slit in the knee, a slit as precise as the shape my eyes make when I'm suspicious of wanderlusting newcomers who moonlight in my former prison cell. And I'm unsure if I should call it like I'd like it to be and say the **** things were defective or if I should investigate further as to where I placed my legs while hacking bits of plastic.
I'm TIRED of hacking at bits of plastic. I daresay if things start looking up, I could get there. I'm desperate, while this pumpkin-leaf hole grows in my chest, I'm realizing I'll never get to Lancaster at this rate. Sure, sure, I'm obsessed. I also have a blonde tail hanging from a tack on my shelf and a lot of cards tacked to my wall. They either resemble a quilt, a window or a complete mess.
I'm relying on plastic cups and the Internet to continuously foster this false sense of belonging. And I don't want to shatter it, but I'm terrified by the threat of a midterm and I feel trapped by my own sky. I mean, have you SEEN the prices for quaint bed and breakfasts? But the sad truth is, I would be haunted by insurmountable guilt at leaving her behind. The cash flow isn't flowing, either. I'm thinking I'll have to forget about it and sit at my shiny laptop on an empty desk, staring at the cottage cheese ceiling and wondering if God is looking back.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 10:17 PM UTC
You made a personal decision to leave HP, based on dissatisfaction with the abundance of certain language issues that have, in my opinion, saturated the site. I couldn't agree more with what you say, but is it enough to leave a site that has provided the majority with many enjoyable works.
I don't know just how old "The 'Ole Storyteller" is, it makes no difference. An enjoyable read is always an enjoyable read, and one that is read multiple times. Writers like yourself are important to the site. They are the ones we respect, look up to, learn from. Your writes serve as an inspiration, not just to the newcomers trying to find their way, looking to create their own style, dabbling with many, but for all of us that want to do better, better than the last one, and the one before it, and so on.
Your writes, teach. What more can you ask. Yes, there will always be those that want to waller in misery, wanting everyone else to swim with them in their muck. Some feel it necessary to throw in a few four-letter words which add nothing, but succeed in ruining what could have been a very good write.
Come back "Ole Storyteller"! Show those that cause your discontent that you are above what seems to becoming the norm.
copyright: richard riddle January 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
We're new at this,
so please make allowances,
to why
your so shy,
and I smile up like an idiot
into your ocean misted eyes.
That shade,
the same,
as Forget-Me-Not's
but they should be called
Make-Me-Forget-my Name,
as I'm so busy tracing the lines of your face.
What do we do?
As we fumble and skid, were both like Bambi
on a slippery slope,
Launched into foreign territory.
Amateurs adventurers,
as we sit arm to arm,
my nerve endings singing,
at your very proximity.
I'm new at this,
so please
for me
make some allowances
and if it's not much to command
Could you maybe
Hold my hand?
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
Mountain air as sweet as wine,
Stone layers forested in pine;
These are another's words, not mine,
And it is she that they indeed define.
She basks in a light that's all her own,
From newly paved streets to ones of cobblestone;
From her blackest of nights to glorious days,
Halos of holiness blanket her mazes.
For those who love her, she does treasures unveil,
And if you will hear it, she'll tell you her tale:
How she fought for her children, tooth and nail,
So that she could newcomers hail.
You'll hear it in her winds' faint sighs,
Her buses' roar, her peddlers' cries:
How long she's suffered through the false claims and lies
Of the ones afraid to see her rise.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
To the east
To the sundered east
Of the deserted Isle
Their lies a wrack
black timbered bones
Scold clinging clams
That harbour there
In the Wrack of the Isle
As she lies down
They say
In hushed wispers
it happened
Many years ago
Men died
Or so they say
But now, no one really knows
It's all been forgotten now
Through foggy years of
Sun and Snow
And dirth the man
Who can name her
The wrack rises
To the waters
To greet the
High airs above
The darlking deep beneath
Where once there was a love
Who can say, now
When looking at the wrack
In its black longingness
That once, it was a brightened
Vessel, fine and new
Filled with laughter
And simple joys
They dive there sometimes
When the tides allow
But divers have to be wary
It's dangerous near
Wrack waters, so easy
To be pulled down and
Within, you go
And once in her shell
The air can not sustain
You, for it is
Not for breathing
Creatures
Remember the shore
They tell
The newcomers
You must remember
Where it is
To the west you
Must go, and so on....
But carefully,
The wrack will
Call at you
Softly, and slow
Breathing liquid fumes
That fill the lungs
And crush the ribs
I swam round her once
It was a heady -
Experience, all shoreline
Was forgotten
I was lured by her
Cracked spars and
Speckled beams
So beautiful
Beneath a shining sea
But I learned there
That no man may
Swim the wrack
Forever, and not forget
Deep death there awaits
And lies down
With you
In a wet grave
So be forwarned
Before you swim
The wrack of the Isle
To the East
The sundered East.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
Stay put Owner occupiers are now envied
corners of smudged wealth,
suburbian renters isotope
brandish new England
more the continental model.
In derelict public houses
inside weightless Box Rooms
every blade of concrete counts.
I shall play in once Lavender fields
and usher questions.
How many times
do we render our knowledge?
ghost town forms are in submission,
again recession chimes
more than a lack of opportunities,
but who are these newcomers arriving en masse
to once bespoke areas
with money earned
from former unfashionable abodes ?
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
Windows rolled down to catch the hint
Of the first faintest salt-tinged taste
Of air as it rushes into our eyes and ears and noses.
It arrives long before the destination,
Expectations increasing as sandy patches
Begin to burst into view.
Never before witnessed by eyes of these occupants
The palm trees, seashell shops, and forever blue expanses
Plaster our faces and finger-pointing hands to windows.
A flying fish breaks the surface as we skim our own sea
Curving and turning the contures woven for us.
The stop is long-awaited, long-sought, long-debated
But soon, as in a dream awakened, our feet touch
Something other than carpeted floorboard. Sand
Gives us one second's pause until shoes are discarded
Where they lie unguarded as toes touch the sandbox.
Hot sand guides us quickly to water where white waves
Rush on its newcomers, greeting with kisses the blue-white
Eyelashes of the ocean eye. Splashing and crashing
Waves beat us down, then again pick us up, lifting
And twisting till our faces wear red-sun masks.
Collapsing in sleep, energy spent by ocean's leaching
Reconvening in silence as bed's teaching leads us
To dream and desire, the new advantages of energy
The ocean, with no ride to slow us, wakes us with calls
"Rush on! Rush on!" as every wave turns.
The one day of driving, seems so long compared
To the week of fun flying sooner than thought.
The best trip, this trip, had come unexpected,
And its end, abruptly so.
A trip discovered with the flip of a coin,
heads: east, tails: west.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 4:33 AM UTC
My wife, Karen, looked out onto the patio, "why do they always come to us?", speaking of mama and her kits, newcomers they were, but apparently enjoying the food and shelter of this "safe house". Just some, of the many, that had blessed us over the years with their magic , showing up unannounced, cats, dogs, raccoons, possum, to name a few. Some stayed, some left.
You see, it is our firm belief, that God's closed fist, with index finger extended and pointing downward, looming over our rooftop, wherever we happened to be, is a "guiding star"for them, and only the animals are capable of seeing it, telling them to "go here, for your safety, shelter, and food".
God has many such fingers, in every city, town, state, province, and country on this earth. Why, I would bet that right now, he has a cat(s) asleep on his lap, as a way of saying, "thank you, Lord, for helping all of us."
copyright May 18-2014 richard riddle
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 7:39 AM UTC
We're waiting every night
To finally roam and invite
Newcomers to play with us
For many years we've been all alone
We're forced to be still and play
The same songs we've known since that day
An impostor took our life away
Now we're stuck here to decay
Please don't let us get in!
Don't lock us away!
We're not like what you're thinking
We're poor little souls
Who have lost all control
And now we're forced here
To take that role
We've been all alone
Stuck in our little zone
Since 1987
Join us, be our friend
Or just be stuck and defend
After all you only got
Five Nights at Freddy's!
Is there where you want to be?
I just don't get it...
Why do you want to stay?
Five Nights at Freddy's?!
Is this where you want to be?
I just don't get it...
Why do you want to stay
Five Nights at Freddy's?!
We're really quite surprised
We get to see you another night
You should have looked for another job
You should have said
To this place
Good-bye
It's like there's so much more
Maybe you've been in this place before
We remember a face like yours
You seem acquainted with those doors
Please don't let us get in!
Don't lock us away!
We're not like what you're thinking
We're poor little souls
Who have lost all control
And now we're forced here to take that role!
We've been all alone
Stuck in our little zone
Since 1987!
Join us be our friend
Or just be stuck and defend
After all you only got
Five Nights at Freddy's!
Is this where you want to be?
I just don't get it...
Why do you want to stay
Five Night's at Freddy's?!
Is this where you want to be?
I just don't get it...
Why do you want to stay?
Five Nights at Freddy's?!
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
As with any person that comes to the city
others will say of him that he came to be
where the action is, looking for his share of the spoils
but the truth is, he came to put on his suit and toil
more than most newcomers here
he knew already what skyscrapers were:
a daywatch to guard the sun from you
and leave you long shadows to walk through—
even on his shaded way to the ad firms
he slides on his sunglasses, he squirms
through the crowds relishing a moment
of thick silence in a packed elevator, as if sent
on a mission to happy anonymity—
but to die at this point would be a cliché
he thinks, and goes to the shiner to shine his shoes black
black, color of the pavement, the suit, the tie and the hat
black, the color of the plush bruise
in an apricot’s skin, the fruit he adores
taking his time to pick out the finest,
juiciest, softest, the freshest
but this man! you would never know it
seeing him walk in the street
seeing his sunglasses over his eyes—
it’s only apricots that separate his from yours or mine
barely two inches of sugary meat
and some skin to get stuck in the teeth
eventually spat onto the sidewalk—
rubbed by passing shoe soles into a grayish spot
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 5:18 AM UTC
EᔕᔕᕼI ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Ainhara, Esshi..." she says weakly.
"We...we have brought you some meals,
My Lady-" Ainhara says.
"I'm not hungry," Lyn shakes her head.
"Share it amongst yourselves. I... I
really don't have the strength to eat."
"If you do not eat, how will you have the
strength to write?" Esshi counters, earning
a weak laugh and a deep sigh.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"My Lady, we know you are worried
Aurelinaea and about the morrow," Ainhara
takes a step towards her, " but I assure you,
all will be well."
"More and more people are coming in,
I'm struggling to find good homes for them.
And tomorrow, marks the beginning of my
10-week studies." Lyn murmurs. "I'd be
lying if I said I wasn't terrified. I don't
want to be a failure. I want to believe that
I am good enough, but..."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn covers her face with her hands and
begins to whimper, her body shaking
slightly in fear. They hear tears hit the
papers below her.
Ainhara and Esshi frown and place hands
on her back.
"My Lady, please don't cry. You are a
wonderful ruler," Esshi cooes, "you will
find homes for the newcomers. Aurelinaea
blossoms more with under your rule!"
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"And with your bookish nature, you
will surely do well in your studies."
Ainhara adds. "You did say you wanted
to challenge yourself and this is a sure
way to do it. It's normal to be afraid but
once you settle in, it will all be well.
Just remember to enjoy the ride."
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:12 PM UTC
Lost
In seas of
age and
self-doubt
As I watch newcomers
Drink to a new year of
Love
Work
Play
Knowing tonight will be one not
remembered by morning
As I watch middle-aged couples drunkenly
spill over
Each
Other
Slur words like
"Iloveyou"
Slop kisses onto
*******
Cheeks
Lips
Not knowing which is which but knowing
that lips belong on such places
As I watch old folks taking their toast of
champagne
Bundled up to face the cold on brittle
bones
Thinking quietly to themselves if this
New
Year
Will be their
Last
As my head ***** with itself slowly
Tortures
With wishes of being those who I observe
Tricking
Myself
That satisfaction lies in the
Future
This
Year
Will be another one
Closer
To satisfaction.
Jun 6, 2011
Jun 6, 2011 at 10:59 PM UTC
🕊🕊🕊🕊🕊🌹💐🌷
Doves and roses are sought
when hurtful, tempestuous thoughts
flood and create lumps in the throat,
the urge...the surge grow stronger,
much to write...we grab pen...paper,
suddenly......we are "there,"
in that comfortable nook...where,
We create fictional love scenes,
or...relive tremulous experiences
of blazing lava flows, souls despondent
driven by disastrous rains, by discontent,
or, of souls cherishing rare times, serene,
a lake, warm sun...calm coffee moments;
all these become messages conveyed
they're the carbon dioxide we exhale;
Verses are afloat above our heads
until they're written.....and read.
Both old poets and newcomers
come up with stuff...funny or bizarre,
some readers relate...epiphanies occur.
isn't that what really matters?
No kings or queens in prose or poetry.
some came first, others came later.
surely, both want to write...to share.
in God's eyes, no one is above the other.
::::::::::::::
Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
November 27, 2023
Nov 27, 2023
Nov 27, 2023 at 4:47 PM UTC
My Tango Master
His hair was deep, rich,
the black of unweathered basalt,
slick backed, like his look,
an arrogant dare to stare,
eyes directed at newcomers,
intended to make me,
a novice especially aware,
a bon voyage has begun,
now a worshiper, full of faults,
warning that I sought entry
to a temple where admission was a
sworn affidavit promising
total sacrifice of body
The flat contours of his body
disguised a airy litheness that
embraced and made me giddy,
pliant to his methodology,
mastering my psychology,
making the whole of my body breathe,
as if for the first time
No questions asked or allowed,
he bent me, taught me supple,
the surety of the pleasure of
following a leader unreservedly,
my body straight from within,
but the exterior,
a symmetry of curves,
I am,
his precision human tool
His hands grasped me
with utter certainty,
with a petal light touch
and fingertip precision,
directing me to Rio de la Plata,
where his swivel hips
lift this black robed disciple
upon a golden altar where
I have remained, entranced,
a devotee forever more,
enslaved to our one god
Demanding the perfection
that comes only from rigidity,
irony of ironies,
it was a vocabulary of
spontaneity and fluidity
step by step learned,
this contradiction, soon intuitive
With posture *****
he taught the history of seduction,
constructing the tale
each time differently,
creating within me
the ravished need for the
surprise of the unknown,
teased me into obediently
accepting the satisfaction of
joined at the hip ecstasy
With boleos that mesmerized ,
but not a one memorized,
he captivates me,
a tandem for a tanda,
until cortina-released
What is your name?
Tango
he whispers,
his name is in his eyes,
never spoke aloud,
I am your new master,
now come and master me
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
The bills you get from an ATM located in a Headshop called the Refinery in the Valley are not going to be the same that you cash out of your local Wells Fargo.
They've been used before.
You can almost imagine the staff feeding the all-cash green you give them back into the machine (once a day when things are slow).
These are just facts.
When you say you don't want a 3:1 you want a 3:0... They show you a 3:1 anyways.
You know, the marketing system has really changed.
I get a discount for bringing in two newcomers.
My coworker keeps saying we are buying 'drugs'.
I tell her 'it's not "drugs";
even before the legislation passed, all you needed to say is that you had cancer and they would drive away ashamed for asking'.
I tell the staff I want something that will get me through the day,
nothing too crazy and I don't want to fall asleep.
I end up with a 3:1 CBD hybrid again.
I pay my 101.00 for the hybrid and a bit of gummy 50/50 Sativa and indica hybrid 'for the road'.
She giggles.
I remind her we have a whole department dedicated to this **** now,
she should act more professional as she selects her joints.
My other coworker gets a salve because his joints have their own problems.
Just another day with the work-family.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 1:52 AM UTC
Follow me to a paradise not many have seen before
a kind that welcomes newcomers with its natural allure
Step through the iron gate with me, witness a scene like Arden
and feel the awe that comes with seeing my beloved secret garden
The vines will greet you as you enter, brushing your skin as you come
Blossoms will turn toward you as if you were as warm as the sun
Cacti will hunger and thirst for your kind and gentle touch
as if they've lived in the desert and it all became too much
But one must not relish in this beauty for too long
because anything abused past its use is just simply wrong
The vines will constrict you, you'll burn as hot as the sun
and suffer of constant ****** from the cacti you once loved
So, with this I warn you before you enter my piece of Eden
that this grace comes with a price as you begin to weaken
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC