"pap" poems - Hello Poetry

"pap" poems

I remember that day on Mount Tamalpais. We picnicked under the loving sky On Bolinas ridge, atop Wicklow hill, The maiden’s breast. We found those apple trees, Who’d gone wild and fell into their world. A blossom on the way. I took your picture and you developed into A sea-horse, or was it a mermaid? The ridge Was foaming about you and birds were swimming Like fish underneath. We found a tree, an umbrella Left at the beach. The coral-grass became our bed And wine turned into water. A spiral dance in arms of anemone, it was All embrace! That reef was spawning heaven. At the treasure chest under the sea maiden, Like children on highland pap, we played At the beach that day in a castle above the clouds, Beneath the wave.

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Aug 3, 2012

Aug 3, 2012 at 1:42 PM UTC

Beneath the Wave

I remember that day on Mount Tamalpais. We picnicked under the loving sky On Bolinas ridge, atop Wicklow hill, The maiden’s breast. We found those apple trees, Who’d gone wild and fell into their world. A blossom on the way. I took your picture and you developed into A sea-horse, or was it a mermaid? The ridge Was foaming about you and birds were swimming Like fish underneath. We found a tree, an umbrella Left at the beach. The coral-grass became our bed And wine turned into water. A spiral dance in arms of anemone, it was All embrace! That reef was spawning heaven. At the treasure chest under the sea maiden, Like children on highland pap, we played At the beach that day in a castle above the clouds, Beneath the wave.

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I Half of the fellow father as he doubles His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk, Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk, Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone Bolt for the salt unborn. The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop, The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled The swing of milk was tufted in the pap, For half of love was planted in the lost, And the unplanted ghost. The broken halves are fellowed in a ******* The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep, Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep, And stake the sleepers in the savage grave That the vampire laugh. The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees, ******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide, And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs, Rotating halves are horning as they drill The arterial angel. What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air, And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble. The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw, The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew Blinds their cloud-tracking eye. II My world is pyramid. The padded mummer Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt Incising summer. My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet, I scrape through resin to a starry bone And a blood parhelion. My world is cypress, and an English valley. I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards Red in an Austrian volley. I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads, ******** their bowels from a hill of bones, Cry Eloi to the guns. My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan. The Arctic scut, and basin of the South, Drip on my dead house garden. Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn Through the Atlantic corn. The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel On casting tides, are tangled in the shells, Bearding the unborn devil, Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels. The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide Binding my angel's hood. Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour? I blow the stammel feather in the vein. The **** is glory in a working pallor. My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn, The secret child, I sift about the sea Dry in the half-tracked thigh.

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3.9k

My World Is Pyramid

I Half of the fellow father as he doubles His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk, Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk, Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone Bolt for the salt unborn. The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop, The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled The swing of milk was tufted in the pap, For half of love was planted in the lost, And the unplanted ghost. The broken halves are fellowed in a ******* The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep, Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep, And stake the sleepers in the savage grave That the vampire laugh. The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees, ******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide, And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs, Rotating halves are horning as they drill The arterial angel. What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air, And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble. The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw, The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew Blinds their cloud-tracking eye. II My world is pyramid. The padded mummer Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt Incising summer. My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet, I scrape through resin to a starry bone And a blood parhelion. My world is cypress, and an English valley. I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards Red in an Austrian volley. I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads, ******** their bowels from a hill of bones, Cry Eloi to the guns. My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan. The Arctic scut, and basin of the South, Drip on my dead house garden. Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn Through the Atlantic corn. The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel On casting tides, are tangled in the shells, Bearding the unborn devil, Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels. The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide Binding my angel's hood. Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour? I blow the stammel feather in the vein. The **** is glory in a working pallor. My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn, The secret child, I sift about the sea Dry in the half-tracked thigh.

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pap pap pap I can't breath my stomach is bubbling like hot cheese on an fresh oven pizza my legs feel skinny I want to lean into a wall the floor looks spinny the wainscoting is squint my vision is blurry because...tears? Why is there worry in my middle? I feel fine, my mind is sound this fear isn't mine what’s it doing here? What is this panic? Fight or flight I understand, but this is plain manic. I need to go at top speed or maybe hide? Either way, be freed from this distress. pap pap pap Push someone over, human shield that **** reduce my exposure to hyperventilation. Shallow in, shallow out, I feel akin to sprinting Mufasa Pure distress acute discomfort, a proper mental problem. Nonetheless, it’s strange to foresee the diagnosis. It’s as if I’m watching from someone else’s skin as alligator clamps are botching holding my physiology in. A sunburn on my innards, a paperweight within you’d think I’d feel pride for finally having something wrong. Hypochondria being accurate the years of inventing doom, suddenly isn't aberrant those fabrications had substance. Or maybe all these thinks are symptoms in themselves after sifting through piles of shrinks, maybe I can finally get some help. pap pap pap Look at my pretty framed prescription, doctor certified, messy handwriting, this will take some decryption... don’t worry, take your time, this pathoreaction won't go away. I’m told desolation is a temperament set to stay until after eighteen simple payments. I’m inclined to reject treatment of drugs that fiddle with the mind I’d rather stay present, continue inconsistency. I would like to try narration, see how many kilometers I can recall. I can deal with frustration, so let’s talk about my childhood. Public transit without destination sends me on a revere, an absence of crippling desperation. I've found peace before it was between yellow poles, in the outside pocket of a backpack on parole. It smiled at me quietly. pap pap pap Apparently, it’s the small things that help you deal with anxiety.

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Jun 23, 2013

Jun 23, 2013 at 6:10 AM UTC

the-monster-in-the-mirror

pap pap pap I can't breath my stomach is bubbling like hot cheese on an fresh oven pizza my legs feel skinny I want to lean into a wall the floor looks spinny the wainscoting is squint my vision is blurry because...tears? Why is there worry in my middle? I feel fine, my mind is sound this fear isn't mine what’s it doing here? What is this panic? Fight or flight I understand, but this is plain manic. I need to go at top speed or maybe hide? Either way, be freed from this distress. pap pap pap Push someone over, human shield that **** reduce my exposure to hyperventilation. Shallow in, shallow out, I feel akin to sprinting Mufasa Pure distress acute discomfort, a proper mental problem. Nonetheless, it’s strange to foresee the diagnosis. It’s as if I’m watching from someone else’s skin as alligator clamps are botching holding my physiology in. A sunburn on my innards, a paperweight within you’d think I’d feel pride for finally having something wrong. Hypochondria being accurate the years of inventing doom, suddenly isn't aberrant those fabrications had substance. Or maybe all these thinks are symptoms in themselves after sifting through piles of shrinks, maybe I can finally get some help. pap pap pap Look at my pretty framed prescription, doctor certified, messy handwriting, this will take some decryption... don’t worry, take your time, this pathoreaction won't go away. I’m told desolation is a temperament set to stay until after eighteen simple payments. I’m inclined to reject treatment of drugs that fiddle with the mind I’d rather stay present, continue inconsistency. I would like to try narration, see how many kilometers I can recall. I can deal with frustration, so let’s talk about my childhood. Public transit without destination sends me on a revere, an absence of crippling desperation. I've found peace before it was between yellow poles, in the outside pocket of a backpack on parole. It smiled at me quietly. pap pap pap Apparently, it’s the small things that help you deal with anxiety.

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I pierced my septum with a magic bullet. Is Texas really the reason the president’s dead? I’d give anything for a scotch despite never having had one. I loaded my gun with Pall Malls and shot my brother dead in the woods. That son of a ***** is the Able to my Cain, the scissors to my paper. Pap has no son. **** Huckleberry, lying piece of **** I scratched my *** with steel wool. I drew blood, (in pencil haw haw) I’m tired, despite being well-rested. I ****** everyone in Gomorrah over spring break. Add salt to my pillar. And you say I’m ******* immature. Get loaded in Bozeman. I hate that you hate me. The KKK wasn’t this spiteful. Dying on a burning cross, I confess my sins to Richard Dreyfuss and ********* on Judas. He wipes it off with the Shroud of Turin but the streak is still there. I sold my brand and licensing rights for thirty pieces of silver. I ******* came on Judas. I never did anything to you that you didn’t do to me. My dad is bigger than yours. I’d abort myself just to get a reaction. I’m going to hell, but at least I’ll finally eat at the cool kids’ table. I’m done fighting with people I don’t speak to. So how about you just hit me, you just ******* hit me. I’ll launch into whatever the **** I want. I’ll ******* SOAR, like a ********* 747, I’ll **** birds into my engines and spray their guts wherever I please, because I’m finally done being manipulated. **** I don’t think I even started.

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Jan 18, 2013

Jan 18, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC

michael-siebert

I pierced my septum with a magic bullet. Is Texas really the reason the president’s dead? I’d give anything for a scotch despite never having had one. I loaded my gun with Pall Malls and shot my brother dead in the woods. That son of a ***** is the Able to my Cain, the scissors to my paper. Pap has no son. **** Huckleberry, lying piece of **** I scratched my *** with steel wool. I drew blood, (in pencil haw haw) I’m tired, despite being well-rested. I ****** everyone in Gomorrah over spring break. Add salt to my pillar. And you say I’m ******* immature. Get loaded in Bozeman. I hate that you hate me. The KKK wasn’t this spiteful. Dying on a burning cross, I confess my sins to Richard Dreyfuss and ********* on Judas. He wipes it off with the Shroud of Turin but the streak is still there. I sold my brand and licensing rights for thirty pieces of silver. I ******* came on Judas. I never did anything to you that you didn’t do to me. My dad is bigger than yours. I’d abort myself just to get a reaction. I’m going to hell, but at least I’ll finally eat at the cool kids’ table. I’m done fighting with people I don’t speak to. So how about you just hit me, you just ******* hit me. I’ll launch into whatever the **** I want. I’ll ******* SOAR, like a ********* 747, I’ll **** birds into my engines and spray their guts wherever I please, because I’m finally done being manipulated. **** I don’t think I even started.

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I remember that day on Mount Tamalpais. We picnicked under the loving sky On Bolinas ridge, atop Wicklow hill, The maiden’s breast. We found those apple trees, Who’d gone wild and fell into their world. A blossom on the way. I took your picture and you developed into A sea-horse, or was it a mermaid? The ridge Was foaming about you and birds were swimming Like fish underneath. We found a tree, an umbrella Left at the beach. The coral-grass became our bed And wine turned into water. A spiral dance in arms of anemone, it was All embrace! That reef was spawning heaven. At the treasure chest under the sea maiden, Like children on highland pap, we played At the beach that day in a castle above the clouds, Beneath the wave.

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Nov 19, 2012

Nov 19, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC

Beneath the Wave

I remember that day on Mount Tamalpais. We picnicked under the loving sky On Bolinas ridge, atop Wicklow hill, The maiden’s breast. We found those apple trees, Who’d gone wild and fell into their world. A blossom on the way. I took your picture and you developed into A sea-horse, or was it a mermaid? The ridge Was foaming about you and birds were swimming Like fish underneath. We found a tree, an umbrella Left at the beach. The coral-grass became our bed And wine turned into water. A spiral dance in arms of anemone, it was All embrace! That reef was spawning heaven. At the treasure chest under the sea maiden, Like children on highland pap, we played At the beach that day in a castle above the clouds, Beneath the wave.

Continue reading...

I remember that day on Mount Tamalpais. We picnicked under the loving sky On Bolinas ridge, atop Wicklow hill, The maiden’s breast. We found those apple trees, Who’d gone wild and fell into their world. A blossom on the way. I took your picture and you developed into A sea-horse, or was it a mermaid? The ridge Was foaming about you and birds were swimming Like fish underneath. We found a tree, an umbrella Left at the beach. The coral-grass became our bed And wine turned into water. A spiral dance in arms of anemone, it was All embrace! That reef was spawning heaven. At the treasure chest under the sea maiden, Like children on highland pap, we played At the beach that day in a castle above the clouds, Beneath the wave.

0

May 27, 2013

May 27, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC

Beneath the Wave

I remember that day on Mount Tamalpais. We picnicked under the loving sky On Bolinas ridge, atop Wicklow hill, The maiden’s breast. We found those apple trees, Who’d gone wild and fell into their world. A blossom on the way. I took your picture and you developed into A sea-horse, or was it a mermaid? The ridge Was foaming about you and birds were swimming Like fish underneath. We found a tree, an umbrella Left at the beach. The coral-grass became our bed And wine turned into water. A spiral dance in arms of anemone, it was All embrace! That reef was spawning heaven. At the treasure chest under the sea maiden, Like children on highland pap, we played At the beach that day in a castle above the clouds, Beneath the wave.

Continue reading...

I remember that day on Mount Tamalpais. We picnicked under the loving sky On Bolinas ridge, atop Wicklow hill, The maiden’s breast. We found those apple trees, Who’d gone wild and fell into their world. A blossom on the way. I took your picture and you developed into A sea-horse, or was it a mermaid? The ridge Was foaming about you and birds were swimming Like fish underneath. We found a tree, an umbrella Left at the beach. The coral-grass became our bed And wine turned into water. A spiral dance in arms of anemone, it was All embrace! That reef was spawning heaven. At the treasure chest under the sea maiden, Like children on highland pap, we played At the beach that day in a castle above the clouds, Beneath the wave.

0

Nov 19, 2013

Nov 19, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC

Beneath the Wave

I remember that day on Mount Tamalpais. We picnicked under the loving sky On Bolinas ridge, atop Wicklow hill, The maiden’s breast. We found those apple trees, Who’d gone wild and fell into their world. A blossom on the way. I took your picture and you developed into A sea-horse, or was it a mermaid? The ridge Was foaming about you and birds were swimming Like fish underneath. We found a tree, an umbrella Left at the beach. The coral-grass became our bed And wine turned into water. A spiral dance in arms of anemone, it was All embrace! That reef was spawning heaven. At the treasure chest under the sea maiden, Like children on highland pap, we played At the beach that day in a castle above the clouds, Beneath the wave.

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When I was younger, my mother would sing you are my sunshine, and I knew she loved me. When I was older, my pap whistled to my gram I've got sunshine on a cloudy day, and I knew he loved her. Now I'm grown, and I tell you every morning I'm a ray of sunshine, hoping that maybe you'll love me, too.

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Jan 20, 2016

Jan 20, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC

When I was younger, my mother would sing you are my sunshine, and I knew she loved me. When I was older, my pap whistled to my gram I've got sunshine on a cloudy day, and I knew he loved her. Now I'm grown, and I tell you every morning I'm a ray of sunshine, hoping that maybe you'll love me, too.

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Hie Yamaha Wegman ****** voyager, voted vonage valuable, unrepentant TIME Magazine subscriber. Spotify sportsman Snapchat smartly. Sleuth slenderman silences Shutterfly schvitzing. Saxby sassy Santander sais sage rues rudimentary router rotorooter. Royale Rococco rigged remarkably regular referee reefers red reddit reeder recuperating. Reconnaissance recluse really rabid. QVC quotient quoting, quo quoi quivering quite quirky. Quisling quipped. Quintuplets quintessentially quiet. Quids Quicken questions. Quartermaster qualified quaint quaffing quadrilateral Pythons. Pyrex pylons put purdy purposeful puny punsters punching. Pumpkin pumice publicized prudential protean pros properly pronouncing prolific prodigies. Proletariats professors' problematic. Pro privileges prioritized. Principle primates prevaricate. Preppy pregnant, praying prattler possibly Porgie. Poseidon pooping poodle ponders poppycock. Plum? Polite poison pods ply pitiful pinterest. Pinhead Pillsbury pillager Pi. Pigskin pierce petsmart pests permanently. Perdition percolates peppered PennState pedigreed PearlJam Patagonian. Pastor pastes passion passably. Papas' paginated orbitz okayed. Nutty node needs money. Next netzero nee naugahyde. Nattering nationwide nabob Moxie Molly McGee. Monosodium livingsocial joyus je kickstarter. Identityguard Huffington GMO. Gluten Glutamate footloose fancy free footlocker. Fingerhut fetishistic fabrication Cingular.

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Feb 3, 2018

Feb 3, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

Just Mien Pap Smeared Vapid Yawping

Hie Yamaha Wegman ****** voyager, voted vonage valuable, unrepentant TIME Magazine subscriber. Spotify sportsman Snapchat smartly. Sleuth slenderman silences Shutterfly schvitzing. Saxby sassy Santander sais sage rues rudimentary router rotorooter. Royale Rococco rigged remarkably regular referee reefers red reddit reeder recuperating. Reconnaissance recluse really rabid. QVC quotient quoting, quo quoi quivering quite quirky. Quisling quipped. Quintuplets quintessentially quiet. Quids Quicken questions. Quartermaster qualified quaint quaffing quadrilateral Pythons. Pyrex pylons put purdy purposeful puny punsters punching. Pumpkin pumice publicized prudential protean pros properly pronouncing prolific prodigies. Proletariats professors' problematic. Pro privileges prioritized. Principle primates prevaricate. Preppy pregnant, praying prattler possibly Porgie. Poseidon pooping poodle ponders poppycock. Plum? Polite poison pods ply pitiful pinterest. Pinhead Pillsbury pillager Pi. Pigskin pierce petsmart pests permanently. Perdition percolates peppered PennState pedigreed PearlJam Patagonian. Pastor pastes passion passably. Papas' paginated orbitz okayed. Nutty node needs money. Next netzero nee naugahyde. Nattering nationwide nabob Moxie Molly McGee. Monosodium livingsocial joyus je kickstarter. Identityguard Huffington GMO. Gluten Glutamate footloose fancy free footlocker. Fingerhut fetishistic fabrication Cingular.

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I don't wish for many things from others. But I do wish the most from myself. I wish I could play the guitar, the piano, the ukulele, the violin, the cello; as many instruments as I possibly can. I wish I had amazing grades, like 90's and 100's on all of my educational classes; and that I had joined the PAP and AP courses sooner in order to impress colleges and universities. I wish I was more slim than I am now, and that I had attractive curves - not as in oversized ******* but as in nice curves on my stomach, legs and arms. I wish I was pretty, as in big beautiful and attractive eyes, soft and colored (not pale) lips, clear skin free of acne and ****** hair, long and luscious and silky hair, soft skin, and a cute nose. I wish I was a nice sister, one who didn't ignore her siblings, who interacted with them and got along with them greatly. I wish I was an amazing daughter and family member, one who didn't argue and wasn't distant from her parents, who visited her family members frequently and was sociable with them all. I wish I had the best personality, one that didn't ignore her friends and family, one that always made people smile and laugh, one that was sweet & nice to everyone, one that was perfect. I wish I was perfect. Too bad they're all wishes.

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Apr 10, 2015

Apr 10, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC

I don't wish for many things from others. But I do wish the most from myself. I wish I could play the guitar, the piano, the ukulele, the violin, the cello; as many instruments as I possibly can. I wish I had amazing grades, like 90's and 100's on all of my educational classes; and that I had joined the PAP and AP courses sooner in order to impress colleges and universities. I wish I was more slim than I am now, and that I had attractive curves - not as in oversized ******* but as in nice curves on my stomach, legs and arms. I wish I was pretty, as in big beautiful and attractive eyes, soft and colored (not pale) lips, clear skin free of acne and ****** hair, long and luscious and silky hair, soft skin, and a cute nose. I wish I was a nice sister, one who didn't ignore her siblings, who interacted with them and got along with them greatly. I wish I was an amazing daughter and family member, one who didn't argue and wasn't distant from her parents, who visited her family members frequently and was sociable with them all. I wish I had the best personality, one that didn't ignore her friends and family, one that always made people smile and laugh, one that was sweet & nice to everyone, one that was perfect. I wish I was perfect. Too bad they're all wishes.

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within Zieglerville, pennsylvania genuine snow white hair upon her noggin doth adorn, perhaps she will divulge to me (in private) after i croon (to said lass), the melody of Jimmy Crack Corn hmm...or, maybe this mission perchance twill be doomed from the start, and hence finding me forlorn thenceforth, a backup contingency measure, would warrant me to don my thinking cap, and for extra ordinary reinforcement unfold each Taj Mahal shaped ear flap plus (for reinforced ironic steeliness), aye also resort to buttress any aural "stormy Dani yelling) via walled in interlap, which accouterment functions as a double agent i.e. (or, to be rather crude), an audiological jockstrap to vet or figuratively kneecap any unwanted infiltrating leaping lap ping "FAKE" distracting news inducing madcap mass media circus driving this generic teetotaler to pour himself a nightcap essentially providing wig gull room with very little margin of ear err, or overlap against bigwigs to trumpet pap pill low ma rendered free and clear asper insidious (mama mia) paparazzi charting imp pea ching fear bringing out bare arms most likely something internuclear simply to discover visa vis authenticity if cute employee (sporting hair white as the ****** snow), which doth simmer and glare blindingly, thus necessitating sunglasses (I choose the Ray-Ban brand) as recommended by cited all time favorite pharmacist who unwittingly (or simply because my myopic eyes didst stare) fixedly - drawn to such a darling (doll ling) explaining any reason to go THERE to CVS - that tis where.

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Mar 28, 2018

Mar 28, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

Dani (a Charming CVS Pharmacist)

within Zieglerville, pennsylvania genuine snow white hair upon her noggin doth adorn, perhaps she will divulge to me (in private) after i croon (to said lass), the melody of Jimmy Crack Corn hmm...or, maybe this mission perchance twill be doomed from the start, and hence finding me forlorn thenceforth, a backup contingency measure, would warrant me to don my thinking cap, and for extra ordinary reinforcement unfold each Taj Mahal shaped ear flap plus (for reinforced ironic steeliness), aye also resort to buttress any aural "stormy Dani yelling) via walled in interlap, which accouterment functions as a double agent i.e. (or, to be rather crude), an audiological jockstrap to vet or figuratively kneecap any unwanted infiltrating leaping lap ping "FAKE" distracting news inducing madcap mass media circus driving this generic teetotaler to pour himself a nightcap essentially providing wig gull room with very little margin of ear err, or overlap against bigwigs to trumpet pap pill low ma rendered free and clear asper insidious (mama mia) paparazzi charting imp pea ching fear bringing out bare arms most likely something internuclear simply to discover visa vis authenticity if cute employee (sporting hair white as the ****** snow), which doth simmer and glare blindingly, thus necessitating sunglasses (I choose the Ray-Ban brand) as recommended by cited all time favorite pharmacist who unwittingly (or simply because my myopic eyes didst stare) fixedly - drawn to such a darling (doll ling) explaining any reason to go THERE to CVS - that tis where.

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an old man insists that you are his father. you cannot get rid of him. he is everywhere. always nagging "papa, pepep", but you don't respond because you are most certainly not his father; that would be absurd. but he doesn't know that. he wants his pep pep. you tell the police "get this old man away from me, keep him out" but they cannot find him. "elusive" they say. "cold case" but you hear him always, whispering in your ear. "pep pep, make garlic bread." "pappy, cook toast, I'm hungry!" no one can see him, no one can hear him nag. the old man drives you mad, he is your old man, and you are his pep pep are you his pappy? are you? you are his pep pep, his pap. are you still his pappy? you are his pep, his pappy pep, his pep pep mcpaps FIN

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Sep 29, 2013

Sep 29, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC

an old man insists that you are his father. you cannot get rid of him. he is everywhere. always nagging "papa, pepep", but you don't respond because you are most certainly not his father; that would be absurd. but he doesn't know that. he wants his pep pep. you tell the police "get this old man away from me, keep him out" but they cannot find him. "elusive" they say. "cold case" but you hear him always, whispering in your ear. "pep pep, make garlic bread." "pappy, cook toast, I'm hungry!" no one can see him, no one can hear him nag. the old man drives you mad, he is your old man, and you are his pep pep are you his pappy? are you? you are his pep pep, his pap. are you still his pappy? you are his pep, his pappy pep, his pep pep mcpaps FIN

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By nine, trucks old and new line the street, spilling into the yard. Jim Beam and George Dickel lubricate the chord progression. Drinks go down, volume goes up. I’ll be reading in the backroom as Pap raises a glass to Hank Sr. When the last burning drop of homage trickles down his chin, he gyrates across the floor, flat-top in hand, looking for Jim. Some other picker takes his spot by the fireplace and bellows about a cheatin’ heart. One Saturday, I rescue Huck Finn from under the pale, bearded face of a picker who stumbles into my room, collapsing across the bed. His dreams of Ryman Auditorium go without interruption. I slip to the floor, settling down on the raft. A slow, steady current carries us downstream to another shaded swimming hole. © 2011 C.T. Bailey

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Apr 9, 2011

Apr 9, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC

Papaw Picks on Saturday Nights

By nine, trucks old and new line the street, spilling into the yard. Jim Beam and George Dickel lubricate the chord progression. Drinks go down, volume goes up. I’ll be reading in the backroom as Pap raises a glass to Hank Sr. When the last burning drop of homage trickles down his chin, he gyrates across the floor, flat-top in hand, looking for Jim. Some other picker takes his spot by the fireplace and bellows about a cheatin’ heart. One Saturday, I rescue Huck Finn from under the pale, bearded face of a picker who stumbles into my room, collapsing across the bed. His dreams of Ryman Auditorium go without interruption. I slip to the floor, settling down on the raft. A slow, steady current carries us downstream to another shaded swimming hole. © 2011 C.T. Bailey

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My pap saw ghosts The night he died. I stood in his old boots One year later, and learned A subtle love of power With fire, fire, fire

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Jul 6, 2014

Jul 6, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC

miranda-santoro

My pap saw ghosts The night he died. I stood in his old boots One year later, and learned A subtle love of power With fire, fire, fire

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Here’s a story for you, dear About a girl who had no ears Could not hear of the world’s fears Here’s a story for you, dear About a boy’s vision so unclear He could not see his mother’s tears Here’s a story for you, dear About a dad who loved his beer Too drunk to know the end was near Here's a story for you, dear About a man who worked cashier With wish to be an engeneer Here’s a story for you, dear About a helpful volunteer Who most times was insincere Here’s a story for you, dear About a woman’s failed pap smear Preparing for a condition so severe Here’s a story for you, dear Although we try to persevere We all want to disappear

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Sep 1, 2014

Sep 1, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC

Here’s a story for you, dear About a girl who had no ears Could not hear of the world’s fears Here’s a story for you, dear About a boy’s vision so unclear He could not see his mother’s tears Here’s a story for you, dear About a dad who loved his beer Too drunk to know the end was near Here's a story for you, dear About a man who worked cashier With wish to be an engeneer Here’s a story for you, dear About a helpful volunteer Who most times was insincere Here’s a story for you, dear About a woman’s failed pap smear Preparing for a condition so severe Here’s a story for you, dear Although we try to persevere We all want to disappear

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Tell us the truth.. or lie some more politicians dare decide our law just once would be nice instead of pap just one real thought not under attack tell us the truth and lie no more tell us reality no stories i plore lie like you do and we wont vote lie like you say and we wont show llie through your teeth and god forbid you turn in your grave and face his death

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Feb 11, 2011

Feb 11, 2011 at 6:58 AM UTC

Tell us the truth.. or lie some more politicians dare decide our law just once would be nice instead of pap just one real thought not under attack tell us the truth and lie no more tell us reality no stories i plore lie like you do and we wont vote lie like you say and we wont show llie through your teeth and god forbid you turn in your grave and face his death

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Pap... My limbs are lead My mind is fogged And the only light within Is one thought: "Keep going." I rise higher and higher The air becomes thinner My ambitions become clearer "Make it to the top." The others will meet me up there Except everything is quiet My breathing is the only echo Within the surrounding expanse of darkness My numb fingers creep unto a ledge I hold my hand out waiting For help No one is there I push myself on top Look around and see no one The view is lonely without people The sun's rays cascade over me Their warmth feels colder alone Success does not fill me Loneliness does, though. *It hurts*

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Oct 30, 2014

Oct 30, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC

Pap... My limbs are lead My mind is fogged And the only light within Is one thought: "Keep going." I rise higher and higher The air becomes thinner My ambitions become clearer "Make it to the top." The others will meet me up there Except everything is quiet My breathing is the only echo Within the surrounding expanse of darkness My numb fingers creep unto a ledge I hold my hand out waiting For help No one is there I push myself on top Look around and see no one The view is lonely without people The sun's rays cascade over me Their warmth feels colder alone Success does not fill me Loneliness does, though. *It hurts*

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Sappy pap poetry Does not do a thing for me

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Aug 24, 2016

Aug 24, 2016 at 6:53 AM UTC

Sappy pap poetry Does not do a thing for me

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*Yesterday, I got caught in A downpour waiting for My bus. At the gas station, I Saw a lady praying to God As I passed by. Thought of These holes in my face like Those of her Holy ghost, or My pap's sturdy old boots. He always said somehow I Look just like the mona lisa.*

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May 6, 2015

May 6, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC

miranda-santoro

*Yesterday, I got caught in A downpour waiting for My bus. At the gas station, I Saw a lady praying to God As I passed by. Thought of These holes in my face like Those of her Holy ghost, or My pap's sturdy old boots. He always said somehow I Look just like the mona lisa.*

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Soowee, soowee. Top of our lungs That’s how we used to call the hogs And every time they would come, Running just like well trained dogs, Because they knew it meant food Even though that food was just slop, Those pigs have nothing like taste. But nothing could make them stop. Lately I have noticed human beings Who seem to behave the same way. They gobble the media slop they hear Every day after mind-numbing day. They too seem to have no taste And smell something they really dig; Nothing any sensible creature eats But it seems to be ambrosia to a pig. Squee, squee, squee they snort And salivate, squeal and chow down On the unpalatable pap served up By the greedy media super-clowns. It’s almost like they would pass up A meal of honest, unvarnished truth To gorge themselves to a stupor On the crap they loved as a youth. I’m always surprised that these folks, This metaphoric, too human swine Don’t go out in public in pajamas Like worn by young neighbors of mine With cartoon mice and supermen Instead of the clothes of an adult. They go vote like uninformed fools. And current Congress is the result.

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Dec 12, 2016

Dec 12, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC

CALLING THE HOGS

Soowee, soowee. Top of our lungs That’s how we used to call the hogs And every time they would come, Running just like well trained dogs, Because they knew it meant food Even though that food was just slop, Those pigs have nothing like taste. But nothing could make them stop. Lately I have noticed human beings Who seem to behave the same way. They gobble the media slop they hear Every day after mind-numbing day. They too seem to have no taste And smell something they really dig; Nothing any sensible creature eats But it seems to be ambrosia to a pig. Squee, squee, squee they snort And salivate, squeal and chow down On the unpalatable pap served up By the greedy media super-clowns. It’s almost like they would pass up A meal of honest, unvarnished truth To gorge themselves to a stupor On the crap they loved as a youth. I’m always surprised that these folks, This metaphoric, too human swine Don’t go out in public in pajamas Like worn by young neighbors of mine With cartoon mice and supermen Instead of the clothes of an adult. They go vote like uninformed fools. And current Congress is the result.

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I remember that day on Mount Tamalpais. We picnicked under the loving sky On Bolinas ridge, atop Wicklow hill, The maiden’s breast. We found those apple trees, Who’d gone wild and fell into their world. A blossom on the way. I took your picture and you developed into A sea-horse, or was it a mermaid? The ridge Was foaming about you and birds were swimming Like fish underneath. We found a tree, an umbrella Left at the beach. The coral-grass became our bed And wine turned into water. A spiral dance in arms of anemone, it was All embrace! That reef was spawning heaven. At the treasure chest under the sea maiden, Like children on highland pap, we played At the beach that day in a castle above the clouds, Beneath the wave.

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Oct 6, 2014

Oct 6, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC

Beneath the Wave

I remember that day on Mount Tamalpais. We picnicked under the loving sky On Bolinas ridge, atop Wicklow hill, The maiden’s breast. We found those apple trees, Who’d gone wild and fell into their world. A blossom on the way. I took your picture and you developed into A sea-horse, or was it a mermaid? The ridge Was foaming about you and birds were swimming Like fish underneath. We found a tree, an umbrella Left at the beach. The coral-grass became our bed And wine turned into water. A spiral dance in arms of anemone, it was All embrace! That reef was spawning heaven. At the treasure chest under the sea maiden, Like children on highland pap, we played At the beach that day in a castle above the clouds, Beneath the wave.

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She tiptoed through the city playing 'Hot Sticks' on her snare drum Her fire-engine-red bright-as-shit-mother-fucking-snare-drum Midnight street lights jumped off the chrome tube lugs harder then her four sixteenth notes Never had realized how good the acoustics were here on 47th Not so much an echo A reverb The lights on behind every curtain Children pressing oils stains into the windows leaving little ovals of fog from their nostrils Old ladies in the middle of dialing 911 The telephone wire shoes tap dancing her rhythm on the sky pop ta-pop-pap-op pop pop-pap-pap-pap-ta-pap-pat Tip toeing Like she was yelling the whole world the biggest secret she could think of just wanted to make sure she didn't wake her parents in the next room I can't remember what she wore A dress, I guess Whatever She kissed my cheek and bit my shoulder Tip toed away Blue high heels...hooker eye-shadow blue high heels I yelled at her, "Why are you tip toeing, you've already woken the whole neighborhood?" Without a thought Without a pause Without missing a beat she yelled back, "If I am going to wake them all up anyway it ought to be with my song, not my step" I sat down and heard the stem of a flower snap beneath me The drumming was gone, all the lights were off There were no footprints to follow My shoulder dry My cheek a tingle I had woken them with my step Had no song to put them back to sleep with that night Tried to whisper a lullaby Instead pulled the trumpet from my pocket Blew 'Taps' the whole way home A string of cop cars, and yelling ladies with their curlers in behind me Stage lights and groupies And from somewhere in the fog my desperate attempt to wake them all up became a duet to play them back to sleep.

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Jul 14, 2014

Jul 14, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC

The Fleeting Vision of a Long Night on Cough Medicine

She tiptoed through the city playing 'Hot Sticks' on her snare drum Her fire-engine-red bright-as-shit-mother-fucking-snare-drum Midnight street lights jumped off the chrome tube lugs harder then her four sixteenth notes Never had realized how good the acoustics were here on 47th Not so much an echo A reverb The lights on behind every curtain Children pressing oils stains into the windows leaving little ovals of fog from their nostrils Old ladies in the middle of dialing 911 The telephone wire shoes tap dancing her rhythm on the sky pop ta-pop-pap-op pop pop-pap-pap-pap-ta-pap-pat Tip toeing Like she was yelling the whole world the biggest secret she could think of just wanted to make sure she didn't wake her parents in the next room I can't remember what she wore A dress, I guess Whatever She kissed my cheek and bit my shoulder Tip toed away Blue high heels...hooker eye-shadow blue high heels I yelled at her, "Why are you tip toeing, you've already woken the whole neighborhood?" Without a thought Without a pause Without missing a beat she yelled back, "If I am going to wake them all up anyway it ought to be with my song, not my step" I sat down and heard the stem of a flower snap beneath me The drumming was gone, all the lights were off There were no footprints to follow My shoulder dry My cheek a tingle I had woken them with my step Had no song to put them back to sleep with that night Tried to whisper a lullaby Instead pulled the trumpet from my pocket Blew 'Taps' the whole way home A string of cop cars, and yelling ladies with their curlers in behind me Stage lights and groupies And from somewhere in the fog my desperate attempt to wake them all up became a duet to play them back to sleep.

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