"overhear" poems
Paris
The city of light
Having its darkest night
Since World War Two.
Lebanon
Double the body bags,
Yet no media hags
Turn their heads.
Normal
For there they say
But for Paris nay
And so we pay attention.
Kenya
Syria
Iraq
Libia
A suicide bomb
Over here,
Two hundred dead, we overhear
Wrapped into our daily news.
We pay it
Almost no heed
As the blood drips down to feed
The list of the dead.
We say
It is because we have grown
Accustomed, yet we have flown
Over the Coocoo's best to believe this.
The truth is,
Both for here
And there,
A white life is worth far more.
It is worth
10 Black American lives,
16 Hispanic or Asian lives,
27 Arab lives,
35 African lives,
These numbers
Straight from CNN
And the New York Times.
Do we not bleed the same blood?
Have we forgotten what it is to smile
Such that we cannot see ours are all the same?
What has happened to this world,
Once so gold and bright,
Now a darkened, saddened grey
As it weeps it's tears
Upon the red river
That runs through the valley of fears.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
The Equalist!
RE: The guerrilla girl’s poster 5% women artists yet 85% of the models are female.
This poster was heralded as a feminist rebuff of misogyny and the male gaze.
It is my opinion: one of the reasons females are more sexualised than males in Western society; is because the majority of women working in a sexualised industry such as modelling, dancing, fashion or *********** choose to perpetuate that role and the connection between *** and femininity; often in industries where females outnumber the men six to one; I'm also aware that the majority of the hierarchy in theses industries are male, it seems their gender solidarity is more concerned with the money; than notions of ****** inequality; thus perpetuating the issue.
Vernacular test:
Step one - Question one:
I took a survey of 30 fellow artists asking what is a misandry? followed by what is your gender?
Step two - Question two:
I took a survey of 30 fellow artists asking what is a misogyny? followed by what is your gender?
I did offer any information or allow any of the subjects to see the survey paper, or overhear the question.
Results: 30 subjects took part in the survey; One female knew both words and their meaning, and one female didn't know what Misogyny was. (Two females approached refused to take part in the survey, all men approached engaged.)
Step three - Question three:
I then gave all the subjects the dictionary definition and asked why they thought the vernacular misandry is not as well known as the word misogyny?
(I should add that I too couldn't recall the vernacular meaning of: Misandry; though I could recall the meaning or definition of Misogyny.)
Answers:
Female... "I don't care"
Female... "It's due to a gender economic imbalance"
Female..."Blokes just don't like it when women speak out about it"
Female..."I don't get involved in protests"
Female..."I don't know"
Female..."Men just think with their ******
Female... "There's more misogynists"
Female... "Because men are pigs"
Female... "Why does it mater"
Female... "It's just a word"
Female... "I'm not interested"
Female..."Try being a women"
Female... " It's ******** it's just a vernacular"
Female..."You wouldn't understand your a man"
The other 5 Females... chose to offer no explanation.
Answers:
Male..."I don't know"
Male... "who cares"
Male... "Yeh that's interesting"
Male... Why does it matter"
Male... "Let me think about it"
Male... "Who gives a ****
Male... "What's this about"
Male... "Can I see the results later"
The other 2 males... Chose to offer no explanation.
I personally identify as human; and don't wish to be defined, labeled or marginalised; I also don’t believe that secularism in any measure is healthy or meaningful in an inclusive society.
I question why 29 out of 30 subjects had heard of Misogyny; and just one person had heard of Misandry.
Sexism is not as the dictionary suggested prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination, typically against women.
Everyone is effected buy prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination.
The subtleties of which is played out every day.
Feb 5, 2020
Feb 5, 2020 at 11:32 AM UTC
Even as you leave my presence, I must collect my heart
And softly weave my memories one by one
On the edges, they quietly sit apart
Until I say to myself
I am done
If the ocean could overhear, the memories I recall
I could throw a net reaching out for miles
Capture every bit of love as it falls
To join the lines of our hearts
In my smile
All along the blue skies, in the shadows of the sun
Inside of these memories, I could spend days
Traveling through my heart’s caverns
Inhaling a touch left trailing
Of the things you say
Even as you leave my presence, I must collect my heart
Draw back time enough to sweetly examine
The joy all these memories will impart
Until I say to myself
I am done
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 7:01 PM UTC
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their ******* were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging *******
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
3.5k
Today I walked into Barnes and Noble to buy my summer reading book which just so happens to be super thick and its boring **** me now!) Anyways, while we're there, out of curiosity, I asked if they had any John Green books (because everywhere else, they're either sold out or on hold) and they did. The lady brought me to a table. A few of my friends had recommended his works. Scanning the table of books, unsure of what to chose, a guy walks up to me. He looks about my age, maybe a year or so older. He's pretty cute, which is quite the pleasant surprise because usually guys don't talk to me. He says, pointing to The Fault in Our Stars, "I couldn't help but kind of overhear you talking, but I read this and it was amazing." He points at Looking for Alaska. "My girlfriend read this... said it was pretty good." So I say thanks and something awkward like 'I'll have to check it out,' and get The Fault in Our Stars. This small gesture has restored my hope in our generation. The guys in my school are mostly arrogant airheads with no taste in music, in my opinion, anyway. In addition to this experience with a stranger, today, while at a shopping center, I saw a girl wearing a 5 Seconds of Summer shirt, as I had mine on, too. I complimented her and she smiled and said, "Thanks, you too." This small gesture has also restored my hope in our generation. Today I learned that not everyone ***** and that makes me really happy. I guess that if you put yourself out there, ever so slightly, in the right places, you might learn things or make new friends. What if I'd talked to the girl about 5SOS? Or asked the guy about other books he's read? There are so many opportunities every single day to improve the quality of our lives and we pass them up, because they're things that are thought of as small, but can have huge impacts. I believe that if each and everyone of us tried, just a little bit, to talk to strangers, the world would be a better place. Not everyone wants to hurt you. I'm not saying to invite some random person into your house, but to talk to people with common interests, or compliment someone on their shirt. Little things like that, as they did to me, can make someone's day. I walk to my mom with a pile of books. She turns to me and says, "Since when did cute boys talk to you at bookstores?"
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
He smelt like smoke
as he leaned away from me,
texting himself with my phone.
We left the campfire outside,
in our shoes by the door
our socks overlapped in a tangle of limbs.
In that leftover guest room,
on the bottom bunk of the microwaved bed,
I remembered why I thought I knew what love was.
He was tired and needed a nap,
I was restless and cold.
Trapped inside because of violent temperate rainstorms.
This boy owed me stubbed toes,
thorn ****** through my jeans,
nicknames and rubber soles.
This was the boy who had always smelt of smoke,
who knocked over dead trees for me,
who lied about being able to rock climb.
This was the boy who went swimming in the ocean
before summer had properly began
when it was still much too chilly.
I taught him a new card game,
he beat me at badminton.
We played capture the flag and threw pinecones.
We sold cookies on the side of the road,
ate dusty blackberries,
traded innuendos and bad jokes.
This was sea-urchin boy,
slug boy,
the boy with the bird's nest hair.
This boy grew taller,
dropped his voice like a used bus pass,
looked past the top of my head.
He laughed when i stepped in a mud puddle,
dared me to walk in bare feet.
This boy suddenly went mountain biking.
I talked extra loud, in hopes that he would overhear me,
offered him rootbeer straight from the can.
Ate pretzels and learned to read his mind.
We shared our childhoods like penny candies,
switching all the peach ones for strawberry.
we agreed these are the best years of our lives.
He layed beside me, underneath as many covers as we could find,
taking up too much space and he knew it.
my cartoon boy.
My hand-drawn boy,
With smoke coming out of his ears
moved away.
We didn't talk again
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
Long I followed happy guides,—
I could never reach their sides.
Their step is forth, and, ere the day,
Breaks up their leaguer, and away.
Keen my sense, my heart was young,
Right goodwill my sinews strung,
But no speed of mine avails
To hunt upon their shining trails.
On and away, their hasting feet
Make the morning proud and sweet.
Flowers they strew, I catch the scent,
Or tone of silver instrument
Leaves on the wind melodious trace,
Yet I could never see their face.
On eastern hills I see their smokes
Mixed with mist by distant lochs.
I meet many travellers
Who the road had surely kept,—
They saw not my fine revellers,—
These had crossed them while they slept.
Some had heard their fair report
In the country or the court.
Fleetest couriers alive
Never yet could once arrive,
As they went or they returned,
At the house where these sojourned.
Sometimes their strong speed they slacken,
Though they are not overtaken:
In sleep, their jubilant troop is near,
I tuneful voices overhear,
It may be in wood or waste,—
At unawares 'tis come and passed.
Their near camp my spirit knows
By signs gracious as rainbows.
I thenceforward and long after
Listen for their harplike laughter,
And carry in my heart for days
Peace that hallows rudest ways.—
2.2k
The sun is still up
Your time is almost up
Where have you been
Did you feel any rush
or do I have to hush
and put a lot of cream
Do I have to buy you a watch
Because you seem like you had a 7-hour flight
The sunset carves your silhouette
As if you were a part of the 7 greatest wonders
Your voice penetrates my ears
unexpectedly
it starts to damage its functions
Did you overhear my name
Or was it from your own private research
I've been seeing your face lately
Is it a mirage or are you next to me
You're with those other girls
While I'm foolishly occupied by you
Appearing randomly is a bad idea
I've waited for that adrenaline moment to come
Your motorcycle is a heavy attractive ride
Holding you tight was serenity
I'd probably miss my head on your shoulders
As the wind celebrate our joyfulness
Or was I alone in my own twisted, never-ending game
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
You would love me more
if you knew
the things I don't say
love me more
for the tears repressed/unseen
the thoughts that rise
yet fast sequestered,
virus quarantined,
lest infection spread
occasional
moan groan
an Ebola moon June
escapes,
inquiring ears overhear
and ask...
but quick deflected
with a
** hum,
nothing luv,
pushed back into
the hidey hole of opprobrium
and acid reflux
why why
suppress
if loving you better
the net net of it?
this is not the candy coated,
but the coal glow strife
that cannot be
quenched nor
solved with
anti-pain
meds
so put away, aside,
push back inside
you would
love me better
for the sharing,
but love me enough
for the be I be,
let my roughened edged pains,
be buried with my remains
a love unfettered
will place no obstacle
before you
from within me
love me for the man I am,
just the average man iam,
knowing that not knowing all,
not a deceit,
but a reprieve,
what I share,
strained and sleeved,
tho unrelieved,
it is relief
that burdens but,
only me
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
774
It is a lonesome Glee—
Yet sanctifies the Mind—
With fair association—
Afar upon the Wind
A Bird to overhear
Delight without a Cause—
Arrestless as invisible—
A matter of the Skies.
1.8k
Versifyin'
Isn't dyin',
But man,
It's hard to do.
Words and lines
Sound like cliches,
What once
Was old
Is new..
Familiar phrases
Crowd the pages,
Causing such to do.
Can anyone write
Anything new.
Did I write that;
Overhear a wit?
Read it in the loo?
I'll note it down,
Sit,
Sweat and swap,
Get off the ***
And write it.
I don't purloin
Pretty Woman
Because Roy
Is older than me.
To write Yesterday
Is almost to say,
I've hijacked
Sir McCartney.
Write Daffodils,
And see what thrills
That word brings to you.
We may overuse them,
Unwittingly
Abuse them,
And with some we amuse,
But they're ours,
Put to good use
With me.
The number of chords
Limits the hordes;
Repetition ensues,
The decry is sung:
I've heard that song before.
The great ones of writing
Are cause for citing,
By we and me and you.
Can't contrast love to roses,
Shakespeare's told us;
Can't compare eyes to stars,
Lips to petals:
To say,
Your soft, white skin
Is an ink-black sin.
And Beautiful should not
Be used as such.
If one must use it,
One needs
A thesaurus.
Thee, Thine, and Shall
Have taken their toll;
Like Death,
Be not proud.
Be the chosen one,
You know how.
Words and phrases
Are replete;
Too well known
Not to repeat.
They're in
Our vernacular
To be used by
Any author.
But verbatim
Copying's outlawed.
The copy cops
Finger-print
The frauds.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
one drink illuminated by candlelight
you sit across from me
and talk and talk
but your voice is in a low whisper
you don't want anyone
to overhear your pitiful excuses
you scold me
then feel bad
the red rose you gave me
when we first sat down
now sits awkwardly
on the small table
two drinks illuminated by candlelight
you beg me to say something
my mouth is closed
only open to the liquor
"you're acting ridiculous"
I don't respond
I ask the waiter
for another
three drinks illuminated by candlelight
I begin to envy the rose
it looks beautiful
there is no mirror
but I am ugly
I take the rose
and peel the green coat off
then the petals
until it's ugly
as ugly as I feel
four drinks illuminated by candlelight
you stand up
put on your jacket
"where are you going"
you don't answer
I watch you walk away
you don't turn around
you don't say goodbye
five drinks illuminated by candlelight
the glass is half full
the glass is half empty
the drink is gone
down into the pit
of my stomach
the seat
across from me
is empty
i toast the invisible man
he smiles
six drinks illuminated by candlelight
i don't know
why i'm sad
i just know
i feel sad
i sit
i say nothing
the glasses are scattered
on the table
my mind is muddled
my brain
is in pieces
i stand
i sit
i stand
i leave
Jan 14, 2010
Jan 14, 2010 at 6:13 AM UTC
You play three.
Me, seven.
Fifteen for two.
This is where I lose you.
Your phone vibrates,
You leviate
Sitting across from me,
Making me an unwilling audience
To all the drama.
You vibrate. Your shoulders droop
Like the gape-toothed village idiot.
You gesticulate,
Fading in and out
In a semi-conscious awakening.
You're trembling under stones
Sitting on your chest.
It shows in your tembling hands.
*Twenty, for two...
Twenty-five, for six...*
I overhear your child is truant,
Another wants a ride,
Another a car, doctor or lawyer.
You're shuffling in your seat.
Not to worry.
Affter the stones are lifted,
And you're properly pegged
In the stink hole, the game's over.
Thirty, for twelve and a go. Game.
So deal with it.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
Great news Marjorie!
I have had tasar treatment on my eyes, so I am finding my keyboard much easier to abuse.
What a week I have had! Since you sent my letter to the local paper, I have had several people contact me. I had no idea the scribbles of an old woman like me could generate such interest. A young reporter even called round, and I thought I was going to have to call an ambulance, the poor boy went red and laughing all the time. In fact I was certain he needed medical attention but he assured me he would be fine in a minute. He did not tell me what it was he found so amusing, but young people can be quite strange, don't you find? He may have needed the toilet but was too shy to ask.
Despite this we did get on well, and he even said he wished I was his Grandma, which I thought was very sweet of him, while making odd gestures with his hands.
After we had enjoyed a mice cup of tea together I showed the young man around the garden and he seemed very interested in the greenhouse, remarking on its spaciousness. I asked if he had green fingers and rather enigmatically he replied 'sometimes'. He enquired if I would be interested in renting it out to him, an idea I found rather appealing. I think he wants to grow salad plants for his family. My faith in the younger generation is restored.
His mobile telephone rang while we were in the garden, and feeling it was rude to eavesdrop I went back into the kitchen, but I did overhear him say that he hadn't had so much fun since his granny died, so I suppose they must have given her a good send-off.
I am rather enjoying my position as a minor celebrity in the village. Even the bus driver was more cheerful than usual today, so I smiled and gave him a cheeky little w*nk as I got off, and I'm sure he noticed it.
Ever your devoted fiend, Dottie **
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 7:49 AM UTC
The looks are easy to fall for
but I know I‘m not
they still believe that they love me
while I‘m screaming out loud
and they all overhear it
they think it’s the game
when all I ever wanted
was for my soul to be tamed
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 1:59 PM UTC
Silence speaks —
its say beheld in its
own truth laid bare
Its voice is deeply felt
but rarely revealed
in the tight economy
of considered words
it quietly whispers —
The reality it bares,
soundlessly eroding with a
shameless emotional deluge
that rivers through
the poet's heart
When you feel alone
in a crowded room,
you overhear the drone
a racing heartbeat ...
When you're
going down the road
feeling bad, chasing
the centerline,
reckoning some kind
a life passing by
out the rolled down
window ;
hearken in nature's
tone poems
blowin' in the wind
It was thence
i came to know
my sum of simple truth:
Organically self-wrought
Environmentally molded
from the clay of life
a survivor of many
a passing storm
Season's change,
water seeks its own level
The silt does not get to say
how far down stream
the river carries it
and we still wind up
in the same old place
parsing the watermark
stains of time
and a poet — is not a word
i'll longer use to describe
who i've become
harlon rivers ... December 7th, 2018
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
Bleary-eyed, an old man asks for change,
coins rattling in his hand. A woman
hands him saltine crackers across the aisle.
“God bless you,” he mutters, takes a seat,
and unwraps the plastic with shaking hands.
He smiles at her before she leaves the train.
Tonight, the passengers on the train
are surprisingly quiet for a change.
We are all staring down at our hands.
And then the silence breaks - a woman
cackles aloud to herself in her seat.
Her laughter travels up and down the aisle.
I overhear a conversation across the aisle
between a couple who’ve just entered the train,
and are searching for a pair of empty seats.
They’re muttering “the country is changing”
and they say they are afraid. The woman
sighs, and reaches for her lover’s hand.
I look over at a child holding her mother’s hand.
I meet the little girl’s gaze from across the aisle.
I see myself as a child too, but to her I’m a woman.
I wonder how often the little girl rides the train.
Does she long to see something else for a change -
something other than the back of a seat?
I notice a lady who has started dancing in her seat,
snapping her fingers and waving her hands,
bobbing to a silent beat. I imagine her changing
into a sequined dress and waltzing down the aisle,
giving everyone a performance to watch on the train.
I imagine standing up and dancing with that woman
and then everyone begins to dance with the woman -
we all jump up onto our seats
and suddenly we are in a ballroom, not a train.
We are tapping our feet and clapping our hands
to the music - the little girl across the aisle
is dancing with the old man who asked for change.
The train stops. We’ve arrived at my station. The dancing woman leaves the train. The passengers change and now there are strangers in their seats. I wave my hand goodbye to the little girl as I walk past her down the aisle.
Mar 6, 2021
Mar 6, 2021 at 7:50 PM UTC
Sleep with my eyes open.
Hearing the redundant
crack as my heart is broken
and keep it submerged in tears
to truly know it's choking.
Losing life
before my eyes
I send my ***** to the sky
and hope to never love until
the day I die.
Admitting riddance
to take care of my heart’s
disappearance.
No one else's love to chase
while ice grows in a particular shape and
formed a cold faux heart to take its place.
Stares grow colder.
False heart gets older.
Mentality changes as
he finally lets go of the boulder
residing on his shoulder.
Family doesn't need him.
If he succeeds they'll need him.
Talk about how they never [leaved] him
and as truth resides in your eyes you
correct, and say [left].
You hear their lies in every single letter that is spoken, but where were they when your heart was broken, where were they when your innocence was stolen. Which one of you helped me look for it? Which one helped me find my dad. Who told me to just forget him. Who told me to just ignore it. None of you taught me to write, but you all wish to take credit and I won't let it happen.
I'm angry release endorphins.
Ignore every family member
until they see me become an orphan.
Hold back all the frozen tears.
They want me gone I overhear
and so I pack it all up.
Leave with no regret.
Family said they'd never
Leave, but I'm the one
who left.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
Finally got my second chance,
The other night or other day
I had a dream I sent this man I work
with an email, I think from my personal email address,
Revealing something I can't remember now
that was too personal in nature.
As soon as I sent it, I realized it
was the end of the world. I knew I couldn't unsend it
so I braced myself and told myself so what.
Then I woke up and was relieved this was just a dream,
this whole thing that never happened, just one less thing
to worry about.
But it felt like so close of a call.
That was last week or something,
Today I work, I go on too loudly,
He can always overhear me.
Sometimes I pass him in the hallways,
I look the other way.
Maybe it wasn't a second chance at all,
Just a retelling of what really does happen,
every day, every day.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 3:38 AM UTC
1. No Limits
Anything passes,
Let the sins of mankind roam,
They have no limits.
2. To The Barrier Breaker
Heard he had a dream,
Unite the segregated,
Changed the way we live.
3. Dusk
Evening now enters,
The sun still colours the land,
Distorted shadows.
4. Dawn
A twilight moment,
The sun hasn’t reared its head,
Horizons soft light.
5. Depression
Plunge lower than low,
Mental design of anguish,
Dark beast locks the door.
6. Swallow The Pill
Damaged by habit,
Addiction of the worst kind,
Pop to help forget.
7. Inject The Juice
Doesn’t like himself,
Takes needles to ease the pain,
In and out of life.
8. Voices At Night
I hide from their eyes,
Overhear malicious words,
Knives stabbed in my back.
9. The Piano Player
On her wooden stool,
Her hands; perfect emotion,
Ivory rhythms.
10. The Performer
Commands crowds of fans,
Confidence masks the weakness,
Bowing with élan.
11. The Spotlight
Light blinds and dazzles,
As a monologue is read,
Star; celebrity.
12. Learning Lines
Armchair, coffee, script,
Read over, over again,
Recall; osmosis.
13. Applause
Don’t let it finish,
Continue, I’ll ride the wave,
Excitement and drive.
14. Their Laughter
Deliver a line,
Chuckle to aisle rolling,
Feeling of delight.
15. Dancing
Music in my blood,
The blood begins my movement,
Dance ‘til I collapse.
16. Rehearse The Scene
Practise lines and moves,
Again, again ‘til it’s learnt,
Sections of the play.
17. Backstage
Actress waits backstage,
Breath trapped in her throat; focus,
Nerves; then she enters.
18. Rehearsal For Life
Hope this is a try,
Just a run-through of my life,
Must change decisions.
19. My Gift To You
Enjoy these pages,
Words from somewhere in my mind,
Passionate haikus.
20. Thank You…
…for reading this book,
…for trying to read between,
Thank you and goodbye.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
Time to bee invited to Honeycombe
The news of Blues-Bee’s demise had far reaching effects.
The worms had disappeared deep underground
And the fleas had all fled.
Harmony was going to bee restored,
To the happy place it was a long time before.
This was nice to hear for a Bee who was far away,
For he had already lived through The Hive Wars.
He happened to overhear a conversation about a bee one day.
His name was Heroshima and he knew of Humble’s hive.
He heard how it had been attacked and was almost destroyed,
But fortunately The Queen had survived.
Blues-Bee had hired a group of ***** rats,
But try as they might the bees never succumbed to the attack.
One night Heroshima said this bee has been through enough;
Bring him to me. His hive is welcome to move in with us.
There is plenty of space, so make haste with the messengers.
Go find this Humble B. Bumble, wherever he is, never mind the danger.
Tell him about us and tell him he should come to bee with us soon
And he will bee welcomed always into Honeycombe.
So bees were sent out and eventually Humble was found.
He didn’t want to go; he wanted to go home,
But the bees were insistent and gave Humble a crown.
This is a sign of our loyalty to you.
Come live with us in Honeycombe as a King; you can start anew.
Your Hive are all welcome to join us too.
Humble took the crown and said thank you friend.
We will take a look around
And then placed the crown on Bee Bee’s head.
I guess this belongs to you, Love.
Oh no sir, it is yours. You have been so good.
You are to bee made a King and you may choose your Queen.
I have no need for a title; I already have all that I need with Bee Bee.
Then neither do I said Bee Bee throwing it away.
But sir! But maam! You have no idea what that crown is worth!
We have no wish to rule your domain anyway.
Let all bee’s bee equal and rise from the dirt.
You shouldn’t bee throwing it around.
It is made from the finest honey.
Then you can have it, take the crown,
I already have my honey, buddy.
Humble held Bee Bees hand and said lead the way…
I will just fetch the crown first sir. Ok?
(C)2019 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 7:00 PM UTC
111822
If I die today, I don’t want a sorrowful service
I know it is quite inevitable and yet I want people
To learn not to lose hope or lose joy.
If there’re words that they will utter,
I pray it’s no longer for me but for those who are left —
Who are truly in need of comfort as living individuals.
Let them play a Worship Song
And remember the goodness of God
And His faithfulness that will endure forever!
For even death should not separate
Every relationship with Christ
But death should add fire to their faith.
I hope they will sing a song for the Lord
And no longer sing me some lullabies
For I would no longer hear them.
If I die today, I want to leave not an earthly legacy
But I want people to remember me
As a follower of Jesus who has finished her race.
If I die, I would no longer run
Coz I have stopped where God told me to stop
And let me see His face as He grants me a “Well, done” hug.
But today, I still breathe the air God has given the world.
Life is a gift and there’s no reason to waste it.
Let me appreciate life by serving my Master with all I have.
Today, I want to keep speaking life to others –
And I’d rather choose to empower them now
Than hearing them later with no ears to sense them.
I’d rather receive rejections today as I speak the truth
Than overhear their late acceptance
When I lie in the last home the world could give me.
Today, I want to move freely – led by the Holy Spirit.
I’d rather move now for the sake of God’s will
Rather than not being able to move anymore
Because my timeline has passed its season.
I know God has planted so many dreams within me.
I know I can do more in this world and I can achieve more.
But I want to learn how to achieve the things
That my flesh cannot attain.
I want to give a smile,
Not to those who may laugh at me when I am at my worst.
But I want to focus on my Only Audience
Who is the Ultimate Judge of my life.
I knew I am inconsistent in so many things
And I have failed my God so many times.
But if He exposed me today, then it is for my good.
I may not understand why and how
But I am sure that my God doesn’t lie.
He knows I am tired of the pressures life pours on me.
I may find myself drowning in the worries of this world
But these things are only temporary.
I know someday, I no longer need to lie on my bed
To have the rest which I think I deserve.
And when the Day comes,
I will no longer sleep
And I can no longer distinguish Night and Day
For my eyes will only be fixed on the Apple of my eye.
It’s crazy pleasing the world
And running the way people do.
We are all tired but may we know
The rest our Saviour had freely given us.
We don’t need to toil the way we know how.
Coz this time, we will shift from “prison” to “reason.”
And there will be a huge elimination
Of the things that do not matter in eternal life.
And I pray we can distinguish it
Through discernment which is a gift from above.
Nov 18, 2022
Nov 18, 2022 at 11:43 PM UTC
There’s a change soon to come with autumn signs,
And with leaves rustling above in the trees,
To breathe in each scent as I raise window shades
A gentle rain starts to fall you can hear its pleas
On this beautiful day with all the leaves changing
Within a splash of vibrant colors inside rain
While drops fall on the windowpanes in soft rain
A beautiful time of year with all the signs
Of autumn and this seasonal changing
That I see out my window in the swaying trees
Just listen to them closely and hear their pleas
Appeals of constant changes I see out the shades
In greyish skies dark clouds I see outside my shades
To wander off to day dreams in light showers of rain
Is such a peaceful calm as I overhear all its pleas
Within soft winds which carry each of the signs
through tiny delicate leaves drying above in trees
while leaves whirl and twirl in the times changing
Reddish, yellow, brownish and orange changing
Leaves changing soon will lose their colorful shades
And bare limbs shall soon follow within the trees
whereas the snow will fall in a form of white rain
But for now I’ll just enjoy these beautiful signs
with watching swaying tree limb and listing to pleas
While quietly enjoying the rainwater and their pleas
In harvest time at times when all leaves are changing
Juggling around in the air is one of this first signs
As they hit the ground such loveliness out my shades
Each filled with tender drops from the soft falling rain
And each leaf in a gorgeous view ruffling in the trees
Soon children will be playing in the leaves from trees
with such pleasure and laughter just hear their pleas
After the weather dry’s and coming to a stop the rain
Much joy there is to watch nature constantly changing
In this special place I love to sit just behind the shades
totally mesmerized by each of the beautiful signs
Lovely autumn trees, with colors ever changing
Silent cries within pleas, between window shades
Tiny drops hit the glass I watch autumn’s first signs
© Debbie Altiparmakis, All rights reserved.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 5:39 PM UTC
What is this precious stone
placed in the palm's heart, or ear's drum?
From where you stood
a new language has replaced your standing
and it glides and arches about you,
revealing your weight by not striking any where.
You are the leftover space,
the blood rising under the tongue.
***
*Istanbul Metro
First I notice her other face
in the window her mirror reflection
I realize the only one she has ever lived with
and so it is full of heaviness and pull.
I am alone and so I can't but overhear
the two young woman across from me
coolly picking words from the air
and building a shelter of conversation.
and as they are sent hurtling,
delighted with the results
and shaking with laughter,
for the spangled moment
and nothing more,
The dim cabin made only for practicality
and the stale metro wind
add to the lightness,
that all of this will never come again.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 1:03 PM UTC
Oh dear one, give me something I can keep,
let words be ardent messengers of thought,
then yours will be the place twixt wake and sleep,
and once that's true you'll never be forgot.
For now your mind's a window shut and drawn
and I outside can only overhear,
I'll piece together stories till the dawn
though if you'd open up I'd give you ear.
A simple peice of mind is all I ask
and hopefully it's flown up from your heart
let fly the words you've held up in your casque
and once they're in the air you've done your part.
Oh, speak your passions in a conscious stream
and claim the place of peace before a dream.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 10:53 AM UTC