"owen" poems
You just sit there like a nonexistent entity
Having no special identity
All your thoughts are not your owen
Only planted seeds in your mind is sown
You are so **** vain
This will probably have to be explained
Because you will probably take this as flattery
But I must say you have a vanilla personality
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
You just sit there like a nonexistent entity
Having no special identity
All your thoughts are not your owen
Only planted seeds in your mind is sown
You are so **** vain
This will probably have to be explained
Because you will probably take this as flattery
But I must say you have a vanilla personality
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
Dear ************
This is the hateful letter. This is the one in which I tell you how much of a ******** you are and how I am so much better off without you, so thanks for leaving me. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. This is where I tell you that you’re an idiot if you ever thought I depended on you for my self-worth, because I don’t need you for validation, and I never have. I was trucking along just fine before you came along, and will continue to do so without you, so you can go **** yourself.
This is the part where I call you a ******* for saying all those things you said. If you weren’t trying to hurt me, you must be an idiot to think that it was a good idea to say what you did. I’ll tell you that it ****** me off to realize that you obviously didn’t know me as well as I thought you did. It ****** me off that our communication was clearly not functioning like it should have been.
And I’ll tell you how ******* livid it makes me that you just sat there and thought and thought and ******* thought about this while I was still writing ******* poems for you. I am angry at how oblivious I was, which I also blame on you. I blame you for being so introspective and quiet, for needing to think important issues through in your head, only with yourself, before you can voice them, and I am angry because you thought and thought and ******* thought and made a decision that was logical from the inside of your head and you were confused by my reaction because, surprise! Owen’s-head-logic is not the same as Katie-is-being-broken-up-with-logic. And that’s where your speech faltered, where I stopped saying the lines that you wrote for me in your script, and that’s when all of those stupid words came tumbling out of your stupid head and things continued to not go as planned and it all eventually cumulated in this: zero contact. I know it’s not what you wanted but you’re a ******* If you were smarter about it, we may still have been talking, but you said all of the exact wrong things. So I am angry at you for hurting me with your idiotic words, but I am also angry at you for pushing me away. I may have liked to still be talking to you, but all of the **** that came out of your mouth just ruined whatever chance we could have had, so way to go. You are a ruiner - and so concludes the part where everything is always your fault.
This is the part where I understand where you’re coming from, I would have broken up with me too if I were you, I know it’s hard for you to put your words together sometimes, I know your (brutal) honesty only comes from a place of love, I know you love me, I know you miss being my friend…and so on.
That last section makes me sadder than I am willing to be at this point, so I think I’ll stick with anger for the time being and you can **** my nonexistent **** ************
Your Ex-Girlfriend.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 6:33 PM UTC
Owen: Hey. You're awake.
Cristina: You didn't come home.
Owen: Yeah, there was a--
Cristina: A bus crash or a train crash or a patient crashed? Yeah. Right. Why are you staring at me?
Owen: Well, I'm weighing how upset you are and if I want to get into this.
Cristina: You do. You want to get into this...
Owen: I'm tired and it's late.
Cristina: ... with me. You know what? That's the point. It's always late, and it shouldn't be. And you should want to get into it with me but you don't. I mean, where are you?
Owen: I am-- I am here. For God sake. I'm right freakin' here. I'm home.
Cristina: No, you're not. ... You have to be honest with me because I am going crazy here. Do you, um, do you love me anymore?
Owen: It's not about if I--
Cristina: Owen, please answer the question.
Owen: I love you so much that it hurts.
Cristina: Okay. Well, okay, then. Then we can-- We can work on this. We can talk. You know, we-- We have to talk, because I cannot be like this anymore. (voice breaking) And I Mean it when I say that I'm going crazy, 'cause... (sighs) 'Cause that nurse Emily-- I mean, I-I accused her of sleeping with you.
Owen: You what?
Cristina: I'm-- I'm sorry. I just-- I mean, I feel like... My whole body feels like... Like you were cheating on me. And then you come home and you tell me that you love me, and I'm... I'm-- I'm relieved. I mean, I'm so relieved because--
Owen: Stop. Stop. I said I love you so much that it hurts.
Cristina: Okay.
Owen: I said... it hurts... to love you.
Cristina: Just say it.
Owen: I'm not cheating on you with Emily.
Cristina: Okay.
Owen: But I did cheat on you.
________________________________________________________
He said he loved her so much it hurts.
He said it hurts to love her.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC
"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..."
Christ! Even the Son
of God can get it wrong!
Time his Second Coming
to end up in WW1.
To us he looked like one of the 'Un!
To the 'Un he was one of us.
Both sides let him
have it.
Him who had come
to die for us
and by God
He did.
Hung on the barbed wire
for days on end
we all thinking will it
never end.
Crying for His Father
getting on our ****** nerves.
Some say they saw him
at the Somme
some say at Crucifix Corner
"...forgive them for they know not..."
it went on and on
'...what they've done."
But I had by gum!
I pitied the poor ******
Crawled out under
****** fire.
Put my last ciggie
between his lips
made of nothing but
tea leaves....liquorice...treacle.
"Thanks mate.!" he gasped
with his last breath
turning into young Tommy
Smith at His Death.
A right good lad I knew
from Hudersfield.
Shell shocked
they said I was.
I wasn't.
All men are the Son
of God as it happens.
Even a dead 'Un is one.
The Son of God is forever
getting it wrong.
Christ! Will He ever
learn.
Timing His next Coming
to land up in WW11.
Other Wars
waiting in the wings
for Him
to come again.
Wish He would just
give up on us.
He's of no ****** use
whatsoever.
Death is a better
friend.
Survival as I know
is Hell.
***
***
"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..." is the last line of a Preface that Wilfred Owen intended for his book.
Was first going to write a sci-fi thing with the Saviour coming down at just the wrong time. But as I wrote I remembered an old man I used to look after who would tell me about his WW11 experiences and of his grand dad's tales from WW1 so that it ended up as a mixture of the real and the unreal in the surreal situation of war and all it entails.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
…These men are worth your tears:
You are not worth their merriment.
-Wilfred Owen, “Apologia Pro Poemate Meo”
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean? Paradise Lost? Probably not
Nor Saint Paul speaking on the Field of Mars
The Kalevala, Hagia Sophia
With its pendentives lifting up our prayers
Horatius fighting to defend his bridge
And Wilfred Owen dying bravely on his
Lord Tennyson and Idylls of the King
Chapultepec, Henry V, Becket
The paratroops at Arnhem, Saint Thomas More,
His King’s loyal servant, but God’s first
The Stray Dog poets of Saint Petersburg
The brave last stand of Roland at Roncesvalles
Lewis and Tolkien and glasses of beer
Montcalm and Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham
Hildegard von Bingen, Siegfried and the Rhine
Magna Carta, HMS Hood, the Thames
The Grove of Daphne, “The Old Rugged Cross”
Beatrix Potter and her little pet rabbit
El Cid, Anne Frank, John Keats, Saint Benedict
“I Have a Dream,” Dostoyevsky, and Greene
Viktor Frankl, Dag Hammarkskjold, and Proust
Good Chaucer’s naughty pilgrims telling tales
The Gettysburg Address, Willie and Joe
Stern Saint Augustine of North Africa
Wodehouse writing a jolly bit of fun
Saint Corbinian and Bavaria
The ancient glories of Byzantium
Pius XII contra the bombs and lies
The 602nd TD Battalion
Saint Joan, the Prado, and Robert Frost
And far, far more.
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean?
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
Here, and over here -
The fortunate sons
Those who made it home
To fields and hills of native tongue
In the soil their people toiled
- They listen quietly when we come
There, and over there -
Beneath crossed lines too many
Still - they man the trenches
Along the Marne and Somme
Below the woods of Belleau
And the forest of Argonne
No sonnets in a foreign language
Rendered where they languish -
The distant rest far and away
In a cold November grave
We should remember
Here and there
The old lie -
And the young.
r ~ 11/11/14
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
innuendo sushi is usher asking Sienese disowns shown plops aside ask dud
NCOs debs downwind UBS mayo Iowa. Laos Nissan seis *** so enemies Sandusky snails used iOS somehow Owen haikus eye owl ensues diss worsens skinned unique.
ushers witted hub woman's newish naval cavity sis wish lend USB
[rage typing doesn't work with auto correct]
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
People seem to say, "Oh, it's totally fake!"
"Why would you believe anything you see them do?"
"It's all acting."
And that isn't entirely true, at all, but many people won't believe me.
Now, don't tell me I'm wrong, because this is my opinion.
I won't say you're right or wrong in thinking wrestling is fake.
All I'll say is, if you think it's completely fake, then I disagree.
And here's why.
I always ask those I talk to about this the same question.
I ask, "If wrestling is fake, then why do people actually get hurt?"
Then I say, "If wrestling wasn't real, then people would never get injuries that either cost them a few months, or force them to retire."
The reason why I always say this, is because wrestling isn't a joke.
I see people actually get hurt because they botch a move, or land wrong.
I've seen punches and kicks actually connect, and cause someone to get a concussion.
I've seen people get dislocations and broken bones, and wonder how long they'll be out for.
Sure, there are things that can be overexaggerated.
And I won't doubt that injuries can be purely storyline driven.
But, when the person is actually hurt, and needs surgery, how can you call that fake?
How is it fake if the injury causes someone to have to hang up their boots for a while, and go into physical therapy to recover?
How is it fake if it can cost people their careers, or their lives?
Remember what happened to Owen Hart?
He was supposed to come down from the ceiling, but the thing broke, and he fell all the way down to the ring.
People didn't know whether it was real or not, but he ended up dying from injuries sustained from that fall that same night.
Wrestling isn't fake, but it is scripted.
The storylines are scripted, I don't doubt that for a minute.
There are many wrestlers who have feuds on camera, but are friends behind the scenes.
There are people who act like heels, but are the nicest people you'll ever meet, or the other way around.
Mistakes are real, and the bumps they take will actually hurt.
There are things you can fake, and it does take acting in order to portray the right emotion.
But when someone breaks something while wrestling, and is out for a long period of time due to surgery and recovery, then it's hard for me to believe for a second that it's completely fake.
I prefer scripted, so that's what I call it.
Raw is on tonight, so I had this thought in my head, and decided to get it out.
Okay, that's my library post of the day.
I'll talk about something else tomorrow, or the same thing, I don't know.
I just write whatever I feel like, and I thought about this, so I wrote it.
See you tomorrow, bye!
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
I’m told to let loose,
To let what loose?
“On the dance floor… on the dance floor,
let loose on the dance floor, Owen”
But… But…
To let loose is to lose;
to lose control.
Going “where the music leads”
is a new, scary place.
Everything must fit, must make sense;
Moving, swaying, ‘dancing,’ don’t.
What is there to gain
besides a common sense of…
awk
wardness?
“You’ll dance your way closer
to each other” (somehow).
But why grow closer in body?
Why not grow closer in mind?
Let us talk, dig beyond the surface.
“May I have this conversation?”
I’ll share my thoughts, my self,
and you’ll share yours.
So it will go, finding its own rhythm:
sometimes slow, methodical;
sometimes quick, passionate;
always common, enthralling.
Only then, with our intellects engaged,
engaged with each other’s,
can we truly dance:
the beautiful dance of the mind.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
Poulton Library and
Adele & I are here to
share with whoever
arrives some thoughts
concerning War and
Literature. Linda sets
us up with chairs and
table, and first here is
delightful surprise: Pat
who I taught thirty years
ago - there will be no
need for me to dig a
trench and put on a
jacket bullet-proof
with tin hat on my
head - Philip Larkin
Alun Lewis, Sassoon
and Wilfred Owen
give staunch support
to Jon Stallworthy's
World War One tome
Anthem for Doomed
Youth: Twelve Poets
but doomed not us
this century later.
(c) C J Heyworth June 2014
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
Bowen ounce and Owen bounce
fell off a speeding train,
both were rather fortunate,
Owen bounce,who weighed an ou ce,
Was cushioned by soft shrubbery,
Bowen ounce just bounced and bounced,
for he was round and rubbery.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
. i'm not an alcoholic, i'm an intermediating construct of blues... i think more about blank canvas i am to fill, than the next drink 'm about to have....
why give a dog's bollock's care
concerning yourself with
whst other other,
proper, "sober", sensible people
make of your?
i guess an inhibition of
a lost verse...
in poetry we call that a quais
take on a paragraph...
something akin to:
the same worth of the worth of
something worth losing...
get the drift?!
Clive Owen...
Denzel Washington,
Brian Molko...
now?
breed me, a ******* hybrid Q
your nag hammadi perfectionism!
you trans-gender
eucharist!
breed me an example
to my specification!
breed it!
show me the Frankenstein!
breed it!
i want wolf ***** "ingested"
in women subjects!
i, WANT, THEM!
you want the Frankenstein
monster?
first you need the mad doctor...
you have me...
cuffed and teasing!
i am,. dying to waake from
what is death, and what is death assured,
in the fork form of, shadow...
you, want, the monster...
i am giving your the antithesis
of the nameless
caricature of
what man's capability!
i need it, whatever "it", is...
i will not sleep till this "thing"
is awake in the womb
of my cognition...
and i know of its wake!
it's funeral a birth,
it's birth,
banshee screech!
the failed Polish
winged hussar charge against
the Ukranian Cossack upriing,
thick, in, mud...
i have the desires
to damage marking
banknotes...
Shelley will always outlast
the credibility of Austen...
Mary contra Jane...
horror...
Frankenstein monsters...
vampires...
werewolves...
she's the third of the canon!
you don't do that!
you can't do that!
but you did, do that!
there is a shadow of man,
he dares to call history
to contra the visage for the excuses
of journalism...
not here... not now...
as a young boy,
i dreamed of mingling the ***** of
wolves, being impregnated
in human females...
i guess, as a treat...
to alleviate
the existing product
of down syndrome'
what?
what is science?
if not the reinvigorated
perpetuation of
trans-categorical inquiry?
p.s. when i drink?
the last "thing" on my mind
is the activity of drinking,
notably, for socially unhinged
barriers to be broken...
i'm an anti-social drinker...
i hate conversation,
esp. when drinking...
a ******* desert,
when it comes to
the calorie intake!
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
Yea verily
The Movers and Shakers are society’s paveway makers.
They recognise a need, feel a cause and initiate action.
These people make things happen, they are the driving force in our society.
By virtue of their very nature, they are rarely perfect,
they have backgrounds and have, invariably, at some some stage of their life,
trodden on the daisies.
Our society could not do without these people.
They are a rare minority and because of their positivity and momentum
They make enemies.
The enemy of the Movers and the Shakers are the Naysayers and the Finger Pointers.
The Naysayers and Finger Pointers are the reactive side of society.
They rarely initiate and rarely expose themselves to the spotlight.
They fester in the shadows in their masses and froth into braying criticism
Which may, or may not, develop into righteous finger pointing and condemnation.
(Depending, of course, on the issue at hand and the degree of hysteria generated.)
The Naysayers and Finger Pointers are society’s negatives.
(They would say that they are society’s necessary checks and controls…
Which perhaps, to some degree they are.)
The realm of the Tall Poppy Syndrome is the perfect territory for Naysayer/Finger Pointer operation.
It provides the right mix of avarice, envy and vengeance to blend clandestinely beneath a covering cloak of righteous indignation.
And it provides the symbiotic platform for mass reaction from the great unwashed.
I note that Mayor Bob Parker and benefactor Sir Owen Glenn are the latest recipients of negative onslaught.
The Mayor has just announced that, after many years of public service, he has had a guts full of the braying abuse and is throwing in the towel.
I sincerely hope that he retires with wealth and lovely wife and that he bathes in the satisfaction of his many, many achievements…well away from the accusing crowd.
And if I was Sir Owen Glenn, I would abruptly cancel the offered, generous, $2 million finance for the Anti Domestic Violence Campaign
and with fierce eye tell the Naysayers and Finger Pointers of New Zealand society to go stuff themselves… then turn and walk away, never to return.
Marshalg
Pukehana Paradise
AUCKLAND
5 July 2013
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
A STRANGE thing surely that my Heart, when love had come unsought
Upon the Norman upland or in that poplar shade,
Should find no burden but itself and yet should be worn out.
It could not bear that burden and therefore it went mad.
The south wind brought it longing, and the east wind
despair,
The west wind made it pitiful, and the north wind
afraid.
It feared to give its love a hurt with all the tempest
there;
It feared the hurt that shc could give and therefore it
went mad.
I can exchange opinion with any neighbouring mind,
I have as healthy flesh and blood as any rhymer's had,
But O! my Heart could bear no more when the upland
caught the wind;
I ran, I ran, from my love's side because my Heart went
mad.
HDR II
The Heart behind its rib laughed out. "You have called me mad,' it said,
"Because I made you turn away and run from that young child;
How could she mate with fifty years that was so wildly bred?
Let the cage bird and the cage bird mate and the wild
bird mate in the wild.'
"You but imagine lies all day, O murderer,' I replied.
"And all those lies have but one end, poor wretches to betray;
I did not find in any cage the woman at my side.
O but her heart would break to learn my thoughts are far away.'
'Speak all your mind,' my Heart sang out, "speak all your mind; who cares,
Now that your tongue cannot persuade the child till she mistake
Her childish gratitude for love and match your fifty years?
O let her choose a young man now and all for his wild sake.'
1.8k
The Bells ring out great Peals of joy.
The war is won, Great Albion.
It merely cost a million dead,
a generation lost and done.
To you, fate tendered victory sweet,
to the Germans, a bitter peace.
There, fatherless boys, abed, asleep,
plot revenge for their deceased.
In the Wilfred Owen house;
no alloyed joy to meld with sorrow:
That day they learned their son had died
They’ll dress the house in Black tomorrow.
His mother knew before word came,
she had a sense her son was gone.
That he’d be among the last to fall
for the glory of Great Albion
He fought almost unto the end,
dying in the war’s last week.
When Mortal flesh and bullets meet
Poets are silenced when machine guns speak..
There is a pathos in his fate,
dying in the last week of war
Like the man who sailed the Ocean deep,
only to drown in sight of shore.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 9:40 AM UTC
"The pity of war, the pity war distills". - Wilfred Owen"
Just as a feral war begs for armistice,
a season of peace engenders
a violence vacuum that begs to be filled
as surely as a hollow begs for a pond.
It seems a cosmic battle rages
between the oversouls of people
who would chisel a sculpture to grace
and those who would hack off its arms.
History’s fools fire up their bully horns
shouting proud oratory to ignorance -
and lemmings goose-step to the precipice -
doomed to plunge into a sea of misery.
Then there is quiet - guilty and reflective.
How could we let this happen
with so much gain and loss in the balance?
and the sculptors of civilization
find fresh marble to once again
carve reason, beauty, purpose
from the acrid ashes of pride.
But the oversoul of hate will brood and re-fester
as long as it's thought noble to **** for a cause.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 8:50 AM UTC
**** you, and **** off. **** me? ohhh you wanna say **** you to me? Well here's a middle finger for you found this **** in my pocket, got it half price at target that is why I bought it. Who knew it would come in handy.
Our relationship is like a deviated septum because one side is always getting more than the other and if you didn't realize, you're the deviated side because no matter how hard I ******* try to give you the oxygen your heart desires, you can't open up to it. You sit and block almost all of yourself off to the world and even off to me and I've only known parts of you. A small wind casting through an open field, this is how I feel. I am the tumbleweed in every boring movie scene, gliding by just so someone will notice me, but essential to essence nonetheless. So **** me right? Well frankly, I'm tired of all this ******* because none of it consists of love making, because I don't actually know how to make love but I sure know how to **** And I find myself writing the same lyrics as Wale, I think this is what rock bottom feels like.. Because :p I :P find :p myself :p more :p content :p with :p being alone than I ever ******* have with someone else. Always stepping on toes or picking up the pieces and it's cool if you're parents are still together and you've seen love like that your whole entire life, but me? I haven't, **** I wish my parents weren't together maybe then I would be able to leave my prison cell of a room. I have seen love ripped from the hinges and thrown to the wind- like ******* Owen Wilson's nose type love. I grew up with that **** but I still love harder than I ever have but you can't tell me that you do the same because this fuckery has been my whole entire life, so I have adjusted.
I have dabbled in alcoholism, and maybe a little drug abuse, but see these apples don't fall far from the tree and misery seems to be the best currency.
So who the **** am I?
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
Once it was labelled
You lost what we were
Too many opinions
You couldn't defer
You faked a break up
That soon became real
Peer pressure forced you
To change how you feel
For the next long month
I took space to recover
But on Hallowe'en I found out
That you found another
You two broke up
And Edwin brought us together
We hungout just twice
In the near-winter weather
I thought you liked me
Because we kissed at the park
But you loved me like a sister
Thought there wasn't a spark
You moved on to Emma
And we drifted apart
You found a new family
And it broke my heart
Every promise was broken
You weren't the same Reagen
You forgot about my feelings
And left with no reason
We had the worst fight of our history
So many hurtful things said
The worst: that you're leaving
That ripped me to shreds
Two months spent without you
But only just physically
'Cause you plagued my thoughts
And wrecked my stability
Ironically, it was Emma,
The girl who stole your attention,
That convinced you to come back
And repair our connection
Our relationship improved
But it wasn't restored
We only talked about Emma,
The girl you adored
Eventually, I met a boy
Who seemed to treat me much better
We started to date
He lent me his sweater
Everything changed
When Jesse moved away
You realized who cared
And what mistake you had made
As we got closer
Tristan started to withdraw
I was being too clingy
It's always been my flaw
The saying "History repeats itself"
Has never been more true
When Tristan and I stopped dating
You hoped that we'd get to
And just like last summer
I made out with Owen
But again it felt awkward
So it won't keep going
They say I've chosen you
Like my love's a competition
They say I've chosen you
I do it like tradition
All I know is I love you
And I always want to see you smile
Just understand that I can't
Make decisions for awhile
So happy birthday baby
May all your dreams come true
I hope this year's amazing
And I can spend it all with you
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
I rode to the cemetery,
this Sunday morning.
I chained my bike to
the last log of the labyrinth.
I danced softly in the
center.
I walked up that hill,
while cars passed for
a burial service.
I wondered if I was rude,
not dressed like everyone
else, dressed in black.
I was afraid they could
tell, that I was looking
for names.
I hated feeling watched.
Even earlier when
I sat at the bar
of a diner for breakfast.
I kept to myself,
smiled to strangers,
so they knew that I
was friendly.
Could they tell that
I was hurting?
Could they sense
my quench of
thirst?
As I look too see,
and raise my head,
the corn rows are
to the right.
To the left,
a distant barn pillar.
The last time I felt
this way was six months
ago, or so.
In the month of April,
the Spring breeze
was there the ease my head.
I slept in the sunshine at
the top of the graveyard hill.
There next to me, a gentle,
wandering soul.
As I look to my right again,
barbed-wires keep
me from the corn.
This bench that I rest my body on,
engraved where my langley-legs
drape the edge,
"KEEP SEARCHING FOR A HEART OF GOLD."
In a handwriting that was too
familiar.
This shoots my compass magnet
North, South, East, and West.
19 years later, an Autumn
Breeze sways my way.
Sometimes the sun sets
when I am restless.
Other times, I will not rest
until the sun rises.
When I saw the name Ripley,
to the right was Bliss.
Behind the bush of pink flowers,
a rose bush I could only hope,
I did see the name Shannon.
I saw Melvin near Cahill.
I saw Hutchins, Tobin, and
Soloman.
I saw Thomas, Owen, Jones,
Donahue, and Roberts.
I searched for the names
that called to me.
They thanked me, they
apologized, and I did
likewise.
I searched for a name
like mine, and then
fell in love with the name I
was given.
As the burial service continued,
I followed the bits of grass-path
and gravel road, back towards
the labyrinth.
I am fire,
here to shine,
here to give warmth
to those who need it.
And one day, I too,
shall burn to ashes.
If they must, they might
try to simmer the flame.
Colorado forest fires
are a natural way to give
the Rockies a chance
to resurface.
And yes, my eyes have traveled
from stars to soil,
and now my eyes are set towards the
Himalayan, East.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
"The pity of war, the pity war distilled" - Wilfred Owen
Somewhere in the after-haze,
Jesus sought Mohammed
who was on his way to see him.
Moses met them on the ridge
and without a mike or gavel,
the meeting was convened.
They fell to their knees in sorrow
hands cupped to catch their tears -
shed for the smoldering chaos below -
so far from what was meant to be:
Sworded and chain-mailed crusaders,
suicide synagogue bombers,
machine guns stuttering in Palestine,
fire raining from the skies
bombs igniting at the speed of death,
slaughter at a Parisian concert.
Fathers of the light rise up
from your lofty provenance.
Unite your tear-drenched hands
and come dwell within us.
Breathe healing truth into the ears
of every foe of love and life.
So much more was meant to be!
Come to us now
before the setting of the sun!
November, 2015
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
I love you so I wrote another poem
This one should be better
God there's not a lot that rhymes with poem
At least, not to a letter.
I love you, you love me
Always together we should be
Talking to you is my ******
And baby you are such a heroine.
I don't think we should name our kid owen.
And it'll be fun to coordinate on Halloween.
Loving you is different every day.
Fun, new and exciting all the time.
Romantic and ****** all topics are in play.
And baby just for you, I'll find any rhyme
and
any rhythm to tell you how I feel.
Because I know one day before you I'll kneel
With the super-compressed carbon
on a circle of gold
And we'll be together, even as we grow old.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
She was surrounded by people with different identities
People celebrating being somebody else, if only for one night
Or possibly they were more themselves than ever
Perhaps they're reflecting the monsters they see in themselves at midnight
It was supposed to be a happy night and a fun party
With laughs, good food and jokes
So why were so many people sad?
Oh right, all of our love lives ******
Owen had a crush on Kitty,
Ellie had fallen for Jake,
Nate needed closure with Erica who never even came
And I was in love with the boy allergic to straight answers
With him things can never be in black and white
When I ask him a question yes, no and maybe are all his answers
That boy was a huge mystery
That I intended to master
He wore a tux, a top hat and a mustache drawn in sharpie
And God **** did he look good
I was dressed like Sherlock Holmes
But he was still an enigma I couldn't understand
I must admit, I made a ****** detective
And I could never be a Sherlock Holmes
I wasn't smart enough to get down to the science of how I felt
And as much as I wish I could, I was never able to read his emotions
But I was tired of pining over someone who would never love me back
I needed to tell him we couldn't be friends anymore, because I was too fond of him
Apparently I was more ignorant than I thought
Because according to everyone I was the only one who couldn't see you loved me a lot
So I found you and asked you if that was really true
You smiled at me and said
"No **** Sherlock."
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC