"newsman" poems
ARE YOU SLEEPING?
are you sleeping ?
JEFFY POO
JEFFY POO
here before the Telly
Shoving chips into my belly!
Jus like you
Jus like you!
••
Here before the newsman
Shoving lies into
My brain pan
Jus like you
Jus like you!
••
So
Quit hurtin yerselves
Take yer heads outa yer *****
•
And perhaps start livin like a human being
No matter what it takes !
••
Are you sleeping
Are you sleeping
Are you sleeping
Dreamin of bein dead
Razor in your hand
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
We all have our faults, fears,
I'll take you through my years:
guilt,
pain,
******* self blame;
lies, cheats, drugs, shame,
but I'm not the only one who plays that game.
Cruel eyes of the world
the darkness of our souls.
We try
we strive
we give
we share,
Mr. newsman tells us 'how much we care!'
for the racism,
the sadism,
no god **** ******* escapism from
judgement or malice
or the ****** up roles we practice,
that we pass to our children,
who pass them to theirs,
and it seems to me no one cares, that
the depths of our nature,
our instinct in fact,
will battle with us, till
we revert back;
to our agression,
our need for oppression,
our greed for power and possession.
So,
I want to fight back.
Because we are people
because we are strong
and no matter who takes us,
hates us,
breaks us,
we will carry on.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
that buzz starts
and my palms flood with
sweat.
the needle hits flesh
and it’s all familiar;
I’ve been here before.
still, it’s all forgotten,
except for the idea
that the images I’ve
asked him to mix up
on my arm are very comforting
to me.
Our Lady of Guadalupe
and an ink pen,
I’ve grown up surrounded
by both,
so to stir them together is safe
in its sacrilege,
not sacrilegious at all;
permissible in fact,
because of their combined power,
a display of faith in my own
ability to create, to destroy
darkness and demons
with notebooks and prayers
offered from a small stage,
through a live microphone,
or in a coffeehouse with
the newsman,
the laureate,
the tiger,
the bundle of nerves,
and the denim-clad
troubadour.
Our Lady of Poetry
will watch over us all,
in our church,
the church of the spoken-word.
***
©P&ZPublications; 2015
-JBClaywell
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
Puzzled by your too sudden disappearance,
I sat in your dim little room
trying to put the pieces together.
Sifting through the past week
trying to find something strange
you had said.
I kept coming up blank.
After sifting though each conversation twice
I dug deeper into the past.
My memory never did let me down.
Deeper.
Deeper
I kept digging and sifting through
the past 3 weeks of conversations.
Then after sitting for hours
on your made-up bed
it hit me.
In each little coversation
of the weeks,
there was a different flicker in your eye.
A change in your voices tone
and a shift in your body language.
You'd been building up to this.
You had planned it
and I didn't realise.
I should've known.
I then noticed your bed was made
and you never made it
unless you weren't coming back...
You
were in the headlines
of every local newspaper
and on the lips
of every local
evening newsman
just the very next day.
Missing teen found dead at the bottom of a cliff.
Family and friends swamped the lookout earlier today.
They say you fell...
But I know you jumped.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 6:51 AM UTC
The newsman said there was a lot of angst out there. I'm gonna
break apart the word angst, rearrange the letters leaving "ants"
with a "G" left over. I'll put the ants on display at the San Diego
Zoo and use the G as a nickname for the punk kid who lives up
the street from here, as in " hey G how's it going". A few ants and
a nickname and just like that, no more angst!
Your welcome America.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
Don’t play out in your yard in Miami
I heard it on the evening news
The newsman’s lips slowly moving
Repeating words he’d never choose
An 8 year old girl caught in the crossfire
A shooter so blinded with rage
That he never noticed she was singing
Standing up on her homemade stage
The reporter keeps giving the details
How the shooter had aimed for another
Over getting revenge for a break-up
How he got the gun from his big brother
He found it under the seat in his car
Children find what adults hide all the time
That it’s not unusual to hear when
A toddler shoots his mother in the spine
One mother grieves while another’s relieved
Either outcome leaves one dead kid
Playing out in her yard in Miami
The last thing that she ever did
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 12:07 PM UTC
“It Could Have Been Worse”
New York City, 31 October 2017
Our thoughts and prayers are with the families
copycat we are Something Strong we are
not afraid plow into mowed down it could
have been worse the new normal lone wolf we
will not change the way we live our thoughts
and prayers are with the families copycat
we are Something Strong we are not afraid
plow into mowed down: "it could have been worse…”
*Oh, newsman, how could it could have been worse
For the eight innocents murdered in the street?*
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 4:59 PM UTC
Labour all day to make another man's dime.
I find myself on the wrong side o' this paradigm.
Turn on the television, distract me from my career.
There's a newsman speaking, I'm sorry I didn't hear.
There's a politician speaking, I'm sorry, it's not very clear.
There's an army of robots marching, excuse me while I blankly stare.
let me lose my mind to the screen.
jingle your keys before me.
I am bereft of independent thought,
what our ancestors predicted this was not.
For those on top, this is what they want,
an army of robots bereft of thought.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 4:39 PM UTC
A kind word and an autograph
were the sort of things he did..
He always had a winning smile
The man we called “the kid”.
In Victory; magnanimous,.
In defeat: A stand up guy.
He was the newsman’s hero
with deadlines looming nigh.
With his Mets down two games to nil
and a must win game to play.
He drove the ball to Lansdowne Street
and showed his team the way.
He hated making the “last out”-
In game six he never did.
His single brought us to our feet
The man we called “the kid.”
Now the opposing pitcher, Death,
has slipped a changeup by.
That Gary went down swinging
will cause grown men to cry.
But somewhere, in some little league,
There’s a kid with curly hair.
Who loves the game like Gary did,
He’s the answer to our prayer.
He’ll play the game the right way,
just like Gary always did.
Then, when he smiles, we’ll think about
The man we called “the Kid”.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
For forty years he wrote thousands of
obituaries at his hometown newspaper.
This selfless solitary childless widower
never dwelled on shortcomings, never
mentioned flaws. Instead his writing was
fueled by the milk of human kindness,
nourished by a wellspring of compassion.
His reputation was built on shamelessly
deifying shady politicians, duplicitous
bankers, the occasional CPA with an
affinity for loopholes. Everyone - man
or woman - no matter what personal
failings they had, was elevated to near
sainthood by the time all caskets were
lowered, all tears shed.
And then the lonely newsman faced his
own grim diagnosis, his days numbered,
death imminent as it was for all of his
subjects. When they found him alone,
disheveled and deceased, in his tiny,
cluttered walk-up apartment, they found
a little handwritten poem stuffed in his
pajama pocket:
"I praised and eulogized
My less than perfect neighbors.
To my successor I simply say:
'Kindly return the favor.'"
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
another killed in helmand thats what the newsman said another soldier coming home but this time he is dead.
another family grieving there hearts so full of grief watching as there soldier is buried underneath.
now is home is heaven with the angels up above now is war is over and all he has is love.
Feb 12, 2010
Feb 12, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
This world is threatening me
This giant abyss
This newsman
Is bla-bla-blabbing
But he's just part
Of the program
I won't name
Her name
I wouldn't want
Her to be seen in a bad light
And although I think
Of the fun times we had
They are gone...
And she was just playing after all
She never really cared
That much
I mean I'll give her some credit
But people love money
Most of all
Remember that
The love of money
Is the root of all evil
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
I put his ***** in my mouth,
and he puts mine in his hand
and we laugh in unison
except my laugh sounds
like I'm gargling marbles
and his laced with
painful joy
We're on my mother's bed
and it's my fifteenth birthday;
The television is on,
and the sound of a
newsman fills the
evening air
60 dead and 5 others wounded
is all I can manage to hear
as he begins to make his way inside
of me, a silent joy consumes my
soul and I'm floating away to Heaven
I see God, and I feel him
fill me with contentment;
his hand is placed on my forehead
and I kiss his fingers
as they slowly leave my face
The front door shuts
loud with a bang and
my friend and I struggle to put
on our clothes;
It's father;
I've gotten
used to the loud,
calculated steps
he takes up the stairs
We both sit on the bed
and act as if we just finished
praying
The door opens
and he smiles,
and asks us
why we are
sweating;
but his eyes make his way
to the television;
he becomes distracted and tells
us with a grimace on his face
to go downstairs and
play a game
I grab my friend's
hand and rush
down the stairs
just to be alone with
him once more.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
Au revoir to the fever dream valentines strung out on the idea of an almost always that never was quite anything
To the ash tongued burn scarred stigmatized and delusional messiahs shivering outside the unemployment offices
To the leftist inquisition huddled together for the warmth of enlightenment,
In poorly knit thrift store sweaters,
In drug induced nightmares,
In outdated self referential rhetoric,
In visions of a reckoning that has already come they couldn't be bothered to notice
I can not be bothered to notice
I watch the dead eyed newsman cut his sweetheart a chelsea smile with dimestore switchblade and now he's reading to her manic and weeping from his ***** diaries
She's an actress and I can't feel anything anyway
The spirit is exploding out the back of the skull from shotgun epiphanies and the psych ward prophets are holding on for dear ******* life and I am losing control every second I think about it
I know they'll come for me this time, I can hear them calling for my blood when I turn my ears to the sky
Deliver my eulogy as if you were there to see the end
Fake whatever you have to for the crowd
Paint your idols in shades of gray and your wayward ******* fathers the same
We're building up to some kind of ****** here and I'd like to just get to it
Maybe the lights are only on because there isn't anyone home to turn them off
But I can't make any of that matter now
I have it, all of it
I have a medicine cabinet's worth of reasons not to wake up,
I have enough clarity of vision to know that I can't see anything,
I have a page that never fills and a poem that never lives up,
And I have a sign hung round my neck that reads:
"Days Clean: 0"
The only thing I don't have is something to lose
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
Several poets have told me
That I wear the wrong hat;
I should be a journalist
And let it go at that.
That I should write who-what-when-where
And put it out as news
And turn my eye to everyday
And pay the newsman’s dues.
I can’t put my quill pen down
And give up making rhyme.
I have vistas in my soul
That snare me every time.
Though I dance among the fairies
My words create brick walls
Devoid of hollyhocks and lace
When answering the calls
That urge me to take pen in hand
And share what moves my heart.
The need to see reality
Will doom me from the start.
I won’t wear a reporter’s hat
The double yous can rot.
I’ll keep searching for the elves
Whether finding them or not.
ljm
Sep 19, 2019
Sep 19, 2019 at 12:20 PM UTC
Accosted constantly by broken dreams ,spinning spiraling out of control it seems
Bright beginnings quickly quaffed while routinely enjoying your morning Joe
Shocked to the core effective in that they won't become a bore with daily schemes
Shake it off ,fresh air, but then the radios blare, commuters absorb newsman whoa
We smile but then accept all brash,rash craziness as it is played out on our day
Angry outbursts grab for space along with parades and time honored holidays
Common community thoughts & playing quickly becoming Passe
Begging for the beginning ,fire needing to rise higher than basics & normalities
Relaxing within reality ,heinous having the heading ahead of regularity
No longer the top lists for cinemas, full time becoming fixated on flashes of fear
Gloom,doom for noon leave us wanting an upper by supper or at least a similarity
Happy is simply half as important when redeemed with a tweet speeding in high gear
Vehemence can be be a double sided word why not the thrill with a big joy
Daily intake of faster moving "news" with pre conceived views is blindly hypnotic
While painting the world as a rainbow is off balance,showing all the ill is merely a ploy
Big world being reduced to a tweet,snap,c&p; A.P. dialogue being taken in as almost ******
R.C.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
the tube
on a synch
remedy for sickness
a kitchen sink
government says
stay at home
wink wink
for the most
part
the situations' stink
left here
to take
hold my drink
newsman says
this is what
to think
neighbour
peeking
through their curtain
turns into
another fink
love that
was all
around
gone in a blink
your finger
broke
searching
yet another link
we take nothing
with us but
our soul
think
Jan 5, 2022
Jan 5, 2022 at 9:02 AM UTC