"onboard" poems
The cars roll up and come to a stop
You jump onboard thinking this rocks
But the non-stop ride has only just begun
Before long you’re up and in rages again
Things fly through the air and break on the wall
You’re pushing and fighting and out of control
Then you run to your room and lock yourself in
Crying and shaking till your asleep yet again
You wake from your sleep but you haven’t a clue
You really don’t know why things are askew
Another day and what will it bring
Today the rollercoaster is on a downhill swing
You’re sad and mad and hating the world
There is no one to love and no one who cares
Forget the friends and forget the fun
You lay in your bed wishing you were gone
I tell you I love you and you say it’s not true
You’re the love of my life what can I do
Day after day the ride starts again
The only change is the curves and the spins
We have tried all the medicines but to no avail
We have gone to the psychiatrist but she is no help
I understand your thinking son but what can I do
We have tried so many things and yet I haven’t a clue
You beg me to **** you and to make it all stop
I want it to end but your request I can not
Please don’t give in to this terrible thing
Stay with me a while longer till I find you again
The rollercoaster will someday jump the track
And you will be free from the ride at last.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 6:40 AM UTC
Wasting my life.
Cause my time is so precious, ha!
Walking through my room,
the stench actually slows progress.
You feel it on your skin,
it thickens the air, increases drag.
They squirm on the floor.
I wipe them off my hands and stomach.
They might have had dreams, aspirations.
How ridiculous they’re just ejaculations.
I posses a value for life. But my children here.
I don’t feel anything for them, or without them.
Time ***** by.
Instinct, greed and something else win again.
This addiction doesn’t leave track marks,
***** spoons, or empty lighters.
But it does leave a stench, and little time.
It’s a **** I can’t get rid of. Literally.
It’s attached to me, I use it everyday in one way.
But **** it.
Whoops, phrasing...
I mean ***** it, school is in like 6 hours.
I feel relieved in one way. Now I have it onboard.
A nice big hit, of dopamine. Instantly.
Feb 20, 2020
Feb 20, 2020 at 10:17 AM UTC
Leaving Minnesota on train or buses,
crowded and alone, were you fearful
to sleep on couches and of the Village
people with a rhapsody of dreams
and cacophony of chords, under rain
and sewer stank was it hard,
to step inside and play
the first time for glistening eyes
and stage lights and to let melody
escape your belly-throat
for them, or did you know
more, that words can sculpt
delicacy as smooth
as Donatello and that life can be bought
without wrinkled greens and pressed
threads? Walking under a hard-rain
of assumption and change, did Greenwich
birth a demon-sadness, so you hid
your neck beneath collars and dark
glasses and smoky rhyme, when the ship
comes in will you be onboard or escape
to Louisiana, misunderstood, working
a river boat after you give Lennon
a puff and Warhol a tight-fist?
Did sad-eyed Sara send you back
leather spanish boots or forget,
and was Christ able to mend that
broken love, and did you later kick his idiot
wind away and in 2009 on stage when I could
see emptiness and heartbreak
hidden underneath your creased stetson,
were you still singing
it ain't me, babe?
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
Throwing the baggage onboard, I'm *****
and straight forward with you. No games.
If I ******* like you,
I won't spin this web of ******** and pain.
I ******* like you that is that.
We'll work out the rest, we'll deal with it,
and these sorry *** lines later.
You're more than some walking-wet-bag for my ****
You're you. And I like that ******* it. **** the rest.
That is the only straight forward part of my life right now,
you and writing. This is the best poetry you're gonna get,
because the rest of what was planned for this poem
went into conversation and pre-emptive love. What ever the **** that means...
But there will come a day when friends can't understand my poetry again,
that's when you'll know what has happened to us.
You'll know...
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
little girl, you better hold on
hold on tight to the charcoal
sturdiness of a railing, to the
warmth emitting from the
barrier of your father's arm, for
the bus would bring you there
once, twice, a hundred times
to the first turbulence of a
flight you are onboard from the
very start, and like that tedious
twenty-two hours to america
like the cousins who followed
the eldest, coolest brother up
hanging on an escalator track
turbulences come one, another
until the odyssey sews to a close
along with your shredded dreams
your corrupted perceptions, your
wrinkles, your bruised, weary heart
which would thus lay within your
burnt, soulless corpse
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
Carrying a thousand mistakes in my arms
Thoughts weighed down by words and worry
In my mind rolling back and forth
Judgement making vision blurry
Surrounding area fades into the background
I watch anything but you
We each play with the other's feelings
A foolish game we both are used to
All my stress becomes complicated
Stretch my patience until barely there
Give myself another headache
Wasting peace on you, I stare
Friend? Foe? Not sure anymore
In your eyes darkness is rising
Love you no matter what shape you form
Any secret identity you may be disguising
I take your hidden baggage
All that I will never see
Welcome confidential cargo onboard
I will accept you for you if you accept me for me
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
I seen her there in that rocking chair
Grey hair flying everywhere
She was rocking as fast as could be
Letting out shrill squeaks of glee
Beneath the wrinkles you could still see
The child she so long ago use to be
In her eyes was a glint
Of a woman hell bent
On squeezing out every once of fun
She knew her time was almost done
But for today she hadn't a care
Let the people stare
I watched the grandkids climb onboard
As Grandma throttled up and the soared
For imagination was her most prized possession
She was leaving it to her grandkids, you could see it in their expression
This lesson from their wild haired grandma that they got
Would never ever be forgot
As that rocking chair flew back and fourth
Leaving the gravity of earth
Headed for an adventure out in the galaxy
Sharing Grandma's fantasy
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
when I die
I do not ask that you surround my body with clay soldiers in the depths of the dirt
I ask only for you to lay me down in the grass
and construct over me a monument of your words
I ask for you to speak of me as I was unable to speak of you
for I can not articulate your presence past the word love
see, my vocal cords cannot adequately express the way I feel about you
the best I can do is replace the ink of my pen with the blood of my heart
and splatter it upon the page
you know, its times when you’re there, and i’m here
that my mind fills with your thoughts
that my elbow refuses to bend because it misses your shoulder
that I pick a flower, press it to my nose, but still smell only you
its those times, when this page, is all I have of you
so instead of folding it into a paper boat and sending it down the river
I write words upon it
I write how much I miss you — and then I send it down the river
for I know that the mouth of the river is your favorite place
that you love to catch things just before they reach the open ocean
just as you caught me, before I sailed off without direction
you stopped me, you handed me a compass,
and then you climbed right onboard yourself
and we faced the open ocean together
so when I die
I ask that you speak of our journey
speak of what we learned about love’s tendency to forget the cardinal directions
so that the compass of my soul points neither here nor there
it points solely and unwaveringly to you
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
Enthusiastically drawing an electrifying first breath of air as the emotionally significant cut of the umbilical cord welcomes an angel onboard
Capturing the delicate beauty of invisible, energetic strings eternally connecting two highly raptured, earthly beings; breaking free of the chrysalis, a monarch joyously spreads its invigorating wings and zings through the air with entrancingly colored wings.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
She have created a world,
that she did not know.
have appointed a pawn,
to build it for her.
Waited until it's done,
never ever sat on it.
No worries and second thoughts,
trusted on her mighty wits
thought this was good,
Will make her the master.
To go with the trends,
of this fast phased ambience.
Did not care on the work,
Showed a little effort.
while the poor pawn,
was proving his humble worth.
stayed late,
worked overtime.
to polish the demands
of the demanding divine.
while Time had flee,
the so-called universe was done,
completed the systems,
of holy progress crowned.
Yes! she was overwhelmed,
without knowing the details,
as she takes the merit,
the deed and the title.
Not until a flaw,
was shown and highlighted,
because of her ill leadership,
issues have ignited.
why and why,
are the repeating questions,
all thrown to the poor pawn,
gazillion revisions.
Yes she knows why,
but she never cared.
you can't approach and talk,
but the mood was always there.
All the issues,
resulted from the unobserved.
Scattered around,
up down onboard.
And you can see,
the blame is always there,
for the incomplete universe,
she want's to give and share.
as she pushes the pawn,
off the high cliff,
with spikes and swords,
sinking quicksand beneath.
as the Queen wants it,
the fame and popularity,
easily shifts mood,
cannot adjust to scarcity.
As she blames it,
to the skilled pawn,
turns to her scapegoat,
to protect her own
to misguide and uplift,
one's own selves.
to project a good image,
and please the elves.
as she was pressured,
by his lord King,
yes! she's pressured,
without a wink.
and she had slaved the kingdom,
for a long long time,
oh darkness ruled,
as she drinks her wine.
Until the pawn had chance,
to gather alliance,
break free from slavery,
come and hear the mob's chant.
Until they realized,
that they are abused,
given a title,
that is always misused.
Until the pawn reacts,
had the ultimate break.
saw an opening,
and it's zap, it's checkmate .
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 5:37 AM UTC
let´s meet in the hole
he said
where the ghost of the towers
looms
a friendly face
so long awaited
By rising dawn
the cruise ship pulls in
at Cape Liberty
and there´s the bustle
of anticipation
the excitement in the air
that we will see
the loving face
hear once more the loving words
the only words
that are
in the right language
And all in vain
You have to
stay onboard
Captain Papanicolau said
to honour gynechology
all the things we could have done
in Brooklyn
and Manhattan
and all the New York people
and New York streets
the trumpet players
and the Museum of Modern Art
Meant not for me
this is the new
forbidden land
the immigration officers
its guarding hounds
this is new york
this rubble heap
and the yellow cranes
the bridge and the horizon
and in the summer
I shall go
to the Bermuda Triangle
and hope to disappear
Nov 23, 2009
Nov 23, 2009 at 9:24 AM UTC
A warm dark rectangle.
That was what it was after all. A long toasty box, filled with rows of seats; all with a certain air of weariness about them. Covered in a thick crinkled heather grey material, they seemed to be begging silently for a kind of companionship.
Despite the silent, tired interior, the exterior was jumping, vivid, and fake. Bands of glowing neon twisted their way across the structure, globes of red light sliced through the dawns inky chill. This gaudy shell sped across barren city roads, quiet as a snake. As it slid into view, it's waiting passengers hoisted their heavy packs, and waited for their dazzled, stricken vision to return.
With a hiss, the double doors of the bus opened and the travelers mounted the dull metal steps, and deposited themselves into designated seats. Frigid and sleepy, neighbors attempted stilted conversation. Once the necessary social obligations where filled, they relapsed into a sort of semi conscious coma.
Maybe it was 10 minutes, Maybe it was 10 hours later. There is no sense of time on the bus. Just a cloying fog of heat and drowsiness. Whatever the moments had been, the passengers knew that their time to face the day had arrived. Gliding in front of the brick and glass monument to conformity, the doors opened, and the brave souls onboard filed out.
As they entered the building, the seats sighed. They missed the travelers. Carbon copies, possibly, but people all the same. And when your lonely, nothing is more desired then a human touch.
"Always give a word or sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, or even a stranger, if in a lonely place."
~Tecumseh
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 7:42 PM UTC
A cartoonish grim woman
in aft cabin was a harlequin let umbrage
squash her there a known charter while she'd smoke in bed
her aroma did permeate her rise to eat breakfast
a morning prepared for sore again
only technical her rouse indeed tripped her smoke alarm
and went unheeded to another deck till open bar decided her fate
while her interest there was crickety
where love is deep in the sea
their golden groves were bubbles and waves
while they brim with valuables onboard did spill
and they'd evoke near me without their calling
when aquanauts will buck up gear then they really sever
their troves below that really soften thine eyes
where the air is moist and ye suit there so well
I can tell you I am picky today and defray your kind.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 4:47 AM UTC
I'm downright parchy when you're icy
Slammin' wet when you're dulcet
So glum...lolled...you're nowhere onboard
Alacrity is farced as simpers scarce
Prolix spells ahead as your radiance effaced
Stunning silence!
Shan't be scraggy better be scoutty
Lame ruse meeds its match...
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
Keswick to Kendal by bus
Boarded at Keswick
few people aboard
lovely and peaceful
just watching
as the amazing scenery goes by
At Ambleside things change dramatically
an army of unruly schoolchildren
arrive onboard
The whole journey turns into a nightmare
I was glad when we reached sunny Kendal
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
It's that time of the year..
When it's supposed to be me time
The day I left my single life
And entered the coupled zone..
It's that time of the year
When I want to pamper my self
The day I left my care less self
To become a responsible partner..
It's that time of the year..
When life opened it's arm for me
New horizons ..
New adventures..
New difficulties..
New challenges..
All my text books failed to give me
An idea on how to prepare
For what's in store for me
After I come onboard..
It's that time of the year..
When I celebrate getting married..
On this day some 15 years ago...
I became Mrs. Of my Mr....
And life has never been similar again..
The carefree girl is no where to be seen..
The lady thats me today is so totally changed..
But, I love the new me..
The all grown, "wisdomised" me!!
364 days of a year I decide to be grown up,
Giving my kids commands and advices,
And getting up for my duties
But today is the day
I want to celebrate
Just like, I used to celebrate before being married,
So reasoning and all patience
All wisdom I want to bury under the carpet..
It's that time of the year..
When I want to celebrate, dance and party...
For becoming Mrs.... Of my Mr.
back then...!!!
**
Happy anniversary !!!!
**
Sparkle In Wisdom
November 2018
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC
Lately keeping my desire at bay.
Reminding myself on and off to accept what reality has to offer.
Do not try to seek out the unknowns.
Please keep the minds off the wild
Stay where you are
Here's beautiful as well.
Seeking for next thrill
Quietly, calmly, patiently
Am obedient as the the description goes
Yet thoughts mercilessly tilting toward the windows
Just like old days, being ignorant of classroom boards
What's wrong?
Hello.
The sun is hurting, couldn't worship for long
So bright, eyes barely follow the views
That's alright.
Not wanting to be moon just waiting for the shines
Well fed with greed, to be onboard in repeat cycle
Most willing to settle with current flows
Even though slightly insane, I thought.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 9:13 AM UTC
I don’t feel like listening to anyone anymore
Everybody’s reminiscing waiting for an encore
They just want more
Just stop lookin at me like I’m onboard
I’m not okay with this feeling I get like why am I being so nice for?
The assumption that I need something from you is the only misunderstanding
Our malfunction is now dumping garbage everywhere and it’s finally landing
Our planning isn’t withstanding the response you’re demanding
That’s what you told me with those word you were cramming
Down my throat
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
Lime charged locomotive
Engine full of pulp
And peel
Iron clad rails
Choo ******* choo
Choo choo.
Im hippin’ , but not as
The graffiti sweet grit
Covering the carts
Hoppin’ leaders onboard thisphucka,
I'm taking the stairs.
Its madness I know
Im crazie
But,
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
Like the swell of the screaming sea
That drowns the awaiting sands,
Unpredictability overthrows reasoning-
Abstracting me from all that still waits.
Unreachable, surreal-
As though life’s seams have been divided
By a tongue, rendering me voiceless
Amidst a thousand voices.
Words are devious; deceptive like the silent tears
That soaks my cold sheets at night.
Thoughts are a curse, merciless and unforgiving,
Plaguing honest judgements,
It is only within childhood innocence
That I find safe solitude.
In duty and in contract I’ am bound,
Though my heart is onboard ship
To familiar English shores.
Unceasingly my mind seeks out the shadows,
Torturing my affections with their poison
Of the one who holds my barely beating heart-
So carelessly in his hands.
Anna Elizabeth Rose ©
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 12:54 PM UTC
Lost
at sea
in the eye of the
Storm
The wind took
me here
pushes me further
away from
shore
away from
Home
I've sent birds
from the
deck
but none
have returned
and now I have
none left
The stars and the moon
are no match
for the clouds,
no silver lines
slice through
on this night
Only mouthfuls
of salt water
and the stink
of dead fish
swept onboard
by wave
after wave
of rouges
The crew wash
overboard while
repairing, raising
the ripped sails,
some swept away
taken by the darkest
blades, and some
cling to what they can
They beg for
relief, seeking a
break,
but I can't control
much, much
less the weather
and I wish they
weren't here because
this ship is going
down
eventually,
and I know my fate
lays at the bottom
of some yet
uncharted waters
and as captain
I have a duty to
stay with
my ship
and save
my crew but,
they stay
with me because
they always have,
always will,
after all,
That's what friends are for
to guide your ship,
repair her sails,
help you find
the way home
while the storm rages,
the winds never
stop,
maybe the birds knew
the journey was a failure
from the start,
and once released
they found a nest like
they should've had all along
and in that
I can't blame them,
I'm still looking
for my Home too,
on a ship of friends
with my broken heart
rudder pushing
forth,
but in a heading
unknown.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC
Shipping as it was
He had many ships the old ship owner
He liked to visit his vessels eat the onboard cuisine
Talk to the crew he knew their names
Listened to them and their problems
****** stayed onboard long on his ship some
Tor years they knew nothing of life ashore
And when the ship was in harbour only ventured to
The nearest bar one can say they had become
Shipionalised
He died the old man and the expert shipping people
Took charge, reduced the crew number no benefits
Finally hired crew from Asia and flagging out to
Avoid paying taxes.
Shipping as we knew it had come to an end, sad
But nothing lasts forever but it galls me to think
Fifty thousand seafarers lost their job and
It didn't make a headline in any newspaper
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 5:47 AM UTC
I was sat in a Tavern in Pompey Town,
Sipping a tipple of ***
When I watched a Jack make an axe attack,
Chop off his finger and thumb!
I couldn’t believe the blood that flowed
From the cut of that rusty blade,
But the barmaid Flo, said ‘You’ve done it, Joe,
Now look at the mess you’ve made!’
She cleaned it up with a swill of ale,
Walked off with the finger and thumb,
‘I’ll nail these up on the balustrade
With the rest that have been as dumb.’
But Joe sang out when he’d had a drink
‘It’s better than being a tar!
I spent three years, under the lash
On His Majesty’s Man o’ War.’
‘They ‘pressed me when I was still a kid
And treated me like a dog,
I suffered scurvy and couldn’t work,
The answer to that, was flog.’
‘They flogged me around the Southern Cape,
They flogged me a-ship and ashore,
Whenever I thought that I might escape
They dragged me onboard for more.’
‘And Cap’n Foggett’s abroad tonight
With his cut-throat parcel of rogues,
Impressing the able-bodied men,
They’re lining them up in droves.’
‘For Nelson’s lying abaft the lee
With barely a half a crew,
He needs more men for the ‘Victory’,
And that means me and you!’
‘In every tavern they’re moving in,
In every alley and quay,
At first they offer the King’s shilling,
To war with the enemy.’
‘But the Frenchies rake with the carronade
That will rip the flesh from your bones,
And the decks run red from the men who bled
Impressed from their wives and homes.’
‘They say he sails on the tide tonight
So they’re doing a quick Hot Press,
Even a gen’lman walking late
Won’t meet with their gentleness.’
‘A cudgel whack on a squire’s head
Then dragged to the bilges, free,
They’ll never know ‘til they all wake up
That they’re headed on out to sea.’
‘That Nelson’s got but a single arm,
He’s got but a single eye,
If that’s not enough to be alarmed
By God, then I wonder why!’
The Press Gang came to the Tavern door
But couldn’t come on inside,
They tried to sell me a Man o’ War
But Joe had made me decide.
I took a gulp of Jamaica ***
And I steeled myself to the task,
‘The Press are waiting outside,’ I cried,
‘Just hand me that rusty axe!’
David Lewis Paget
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Adobe and dust,
a place so quiet.
One grandfather
cottonwood,
leaves rustling,
listens with us
for the next train.
Drought has dried
this land beyond
any living person's
memory.
Now, a cooling wind
gathers power.
The sky over the old
mountains darkens.
As the train pulls
out from the antique
station, a single fork
of lightning frames
itself in the small
rear window.
The silvered tracks
put distance
rapidly behind us.
Opening out now
before us, sunlight
on the High Desert.
We turn to see
starched white
cumulous clouds,
absent for months
float by, flat bottoms
casting healing shadows
over the parched land.
In Albuquerque, we
stop for new passengers.
It's days after the 4th of July;
families have been visiting.
Roasted green chilies,
their fragrance so earthy
are brought onboard.
A mother and her
teenagers sit down
beside me. She smiles,
we talk. This brother
and sister are so good
to each other.
Dinner in the dining car
is an old-fashioned treat.
Big windows and white
cotton table cloths.
I find myself seated
family style, with a
father and son. Some
bicycle race has given
them rare time together.
As night comes on,
the conductor makes
a sleeping time call.
The lights are dimmed.
In the early hours,
walking aisle after
aisle and car to car
I see humanity
asleep in all its
quirky loveliness.
Tanned toddlers,
sprawled almost upside
down. Hair mussed up,
wearing bows meant
for grandparents.
Graying heads,
long accustomed to
leaning into one another,
rest peacefully.
One young man, a poet
with a crown of dreads
stands alone with his
thoughts, looking
out at the stars.
Jostled awake now,
I see the The Big Dipper
perfectly placed as a child
would draw it, twinkling
in my smudged window.
A haze of soft pink light
signals this new day.
All of us, coming home.
Human angels, each
here for one another.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC