Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Lindsey Bartlett Nov 2012
Papa
Papa repeats bad jokes
like a broken record, an overplayed
and under paid radio station
that forgot how many times
we've heard the same
song.

Out to eat at a fine dining
Mexican restaurant, Papa orders
a hot dog. The waiter
doesn't get it. The joke, nor the
hot dog.

Who would guess so many
bad one-liners and puns lie behind
your dark leather skin and
tired jaw? The waiter cannot tell
that buried underneath pages of wrinkles and
stoic smiles, Papa
is only joking.
Continue reading...
JB Claywell Apr 2017
Cat and Mouse (Harper’s Story) Part 1
Hello.

My name is Harper.

I am a mouse.

My momma hasn’t let me out of our nest very often yet.

It has only been a short time since I stopped taking
her milk.

And, even still, sometimes,
when I am frightened by
a bad dream,
or feeling very small and very alone,

I will again take some of her milk
and she will sing to me,
stroking the fur on my face and neck
while she sings.

I want to tell you about my home and my family.

My momma, my papa, my two sisters, and I
live in a neat and tidy little hole
behind the refrigerator that sits
in a warm little house.

The house belongs to five humans.

So far, the humans do not know
that we live with them.

(My papa says that they would not like it, if they knew.)

But, the humans have a cat.

And, the cat knows about us.

The cat’s name is Chauncey.

I hate him.

He scares me.

Papa doesn’t think so,
but our human family is nice.

There is a momma and a papa.
two loud boys; one older one who is
tall and thin.

The other boy is small,
but very loud.

He reminds me of the squirrels
that live in the trees near the
back of the house.

The small boy never walks,
he runs everywhere he goes.

Sometimes he jumps and jumps
for no reason at all.


The girl is in the middle.

She is usually very quiet.
I like her best.

The girl reads stories from books.
Sometimes she reads aloud,
when she does,
I sneak in to listen.

I like stories.

I don’t know much about the human momma
or
the human papa.

My papa tells me not to get too close to any of
the humans.
My papa tells me to
stay especially away from the adult humans;
to never let them see us.

I do my best to follow the rules,
to do as I am told,
but I like the human girl
very much.

The stories that she reads to herself
are full of adventures.

I do so very much like to hear her read
the adventure stories.

(I wish I could go on an adventure.)

But, I must be very, very careful.

Chauncey, the cat, likes adventure stories
too.

*


-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications
*an exercise in fiction
Continue reading...
Krish R Jul 2019
Tears of a caged girl..
I will be free, Papa said.
No more tummy growls, Mama said.
I won't be sick often, Papa said.

I can dream, Mama said.
School I can go, Papa said.
Stars I can reach, Mama said.

Land of plenty, Papa said,
Cats have toys, Mama said.
Dogs sleep on beds, Papa said.

Don’t drag my Papa, I begged.
Don’t take my Mama, I cried .
Inside a cage my tears dried.
Family seperation at border
#tears #dreams #suffering #migration #girl #family
Continue reading...
XIII May 2015
To Papa
I saw you staring blankly in your room
You were lying down, like energy has nowhere to bloom
Mama always deliver you food
You don't eat with us anymore

I heard you cried, Mama told us about it
I understand why and my heart wrenched
I wish I can do or say something, anything
But I don't know what act or words will be soothing

I know your body misses to puff that smoke from a cigarette
It is hard to stop, friends who've been there told me about it
But you had to, we've been telling you to
And because your body is also disappointing you

I wonder where your sweetness has gone to
Maybe they literally seeped into your blood and runs through
Maybe I had inherited it in my veins too
Don't worry I am proud, because this is from you

Worrying has been your hobby lately
Because our youngest still has one more year 'til she finishes her college degree
The house, electricity, water expenses, and the money
Because you could work no more, as per your exhausted and old body

I wanted to tell you that everything's gonna be alright
But, Papa, I cannot lie
I honestly don't know if it will
I am also doubtful, I am also worried

But Papa, as your eldest, I am ready
To take on the responsibility you carried
I know, I know, it'll be heavy
But I can do it, don't worry about me

You have worked hard enough
See, we already came this far
If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have had
The best family I can wish for, and the best of life

So please, be energetic again
Please eat with us again
Please dry your tears
Please get well

Please tell us those sweet-nothings
Or the corny jokes that had us laughing
And we'll tell you, you're still the most handsome being
Our eyes have ever seen

So get a lot of rest
This is just an obstacle, a test
Sit back and relax
Just watch your eldest, just watch
From,
Your eldest
#father #papa
Continue reading...
JK Cabresos Jan 2012
Dear Mama and Papa
For all the ******* I have given
sometimes, I realized;
I’ve never been a good person to you,
but still you stood with me
against all the odds,
still you held my arms
when I’m about to kiss the ground,
still you never left me hanging,
never allowed my questions unanswered,
still you tried to understand my personality
as other people don’t.

I followed all your rules and commands,
I followed every step you were making,
perhaps, now is the time
to discover myself on my own way;
I listened every moment to your words
but please,
can I lend also your ears?
Unraveling the inner reason why I was born
but indeed I’m thankful , I found
an exquisite love from both of you ―
my parents.

Thank you for letting me
embrace the beauty of nature,
for letting me perceive the world,
and for letting me wander
beneath the pouring rain
(I learnt the lessons then).
Thank you for scolding me,
for giving me pieces of advice,
for the care,
for every sweat you tasted
(from sun-up to sun-down)
in order for us to experience things
that some could not
(I appreciate it like rain),
thank you for everything,
Mama and Papa.

I’m not used to, of saying
“I love you”, “Thank you”
and “I’m sorry” in front
of your eyes, but it
doesn’t mean that I don’t consider
these thoughts in my heart,
it doesn’t mean that these phrases
have never been at the corner of my mind.
You may not know, but as I’m breaking free
from my childhood stories and fantasies,
I’m also losing my strength, for I know
your presence is not permanent.

But Mama and Papa, I’m begging God
to bestow upon me enough time to show how
much I love you; how much
I need you both
in my hardest
battle, and in my greatest  loss.

It’s been years that were already in memories;
still you don’t recognize that I write,
that whenever I can hold my pen
I can’t resist the art of poetry,
yet I hope you will find
this poem I made before you depart.
I’m sending all my hugs and kisses
inside this treasure,
I may hate you sometimes
the way you talk to me ―
when I encountered mistakes;
but it’s only mild,
because you can understand me
as other people can’t.

Sincerely yours,
your child
-Lhordyx
© January 14, 2012
Continue reading...
Alexander K Opicho Jan 2014
THE TEMPTOR AND THE TEMPTED
A PLAY


BY



ALEXANDER   K   OPICHO









THE CASTE
1. Chenje – Old man, father of Namugugu
2. Namugugu – Son of Chenje
3. Nanyuli – daughter of Lusaaka
4. Lusaaka – Old man, father of Nanyuli
5. Kulecho – wife of Lusaaka
6. Kuloba – wife of Chenje
7. Paulina – Old woman, neighbour to Chenje.
8. Child I, II and III – Nanyuli’s children
9. Policeman I, II and III
10. Mourners
11. Wangwe – a widowed village pastor

















ACTING HISTORY
This play was acted two times, on 25th and 26th December 2004 at Bokoli Roman Catholic Church, in Bokoli sub- location of Bungoma County in the western province of Kenya. The persons who acted and their respective roles are as below;

Wenani Kilong –stage director
Alexander k Opicho – Namugugu
Judith Sipapali Mutivoko- Nanyuli
Saul Sampaza Mazika Khayongo- Wangwe
Paul Lenin Maondo- Lusaaka
Peter Wajilontelela-  Chenje
Agnes Injila -  Kulecho
Beverline Kilobi- Paulina
Milka Molola Kitayi- Kuloba
Then mourners, children and police men changed roles often. This play was successfully stage performed and stunned the community audience to the helm.













PLOT
Language use in this play is not based on Standard English grammar, but is flexed to mirror social behaviour and actual life as well as assumptions of the people of Bokoli village in Bungoma district now Bungoma County in Western province of Kenya.

























ACT ONE
Scene One

This scene is set in Bokoli village of Western Kenya. In Chenje’s peasant hut, the mood is sombre. Chenje is busy thrashing lice from his old long trouser Kuloba, sitting on a short stool looking on.

Chenje: (thrashing a louse) these things are stubborn! The lice. You **** all of them today, and then tomorrow they are all-over. I hate them.
Kuloba: (sending out a cloud of smoke through her tobacco laden pipe). Nowadays I am tired. I have left them to do to me whatever they want (coughs) I killed them they were all over in my skirt.
Chenje: (looking straight at Kuloba) Do you know that they are significant?
Kuloba: What do they signify?
Chenje: Death
Kuloba: Now, who will die in this home? I have only one son. Let them stop their menace.
Chenje: I remember in 1968, two months that preceded my father’s death, they were all over. The lice were in every of my piece of clothes. Even the hat, handkerchief. I tell you what not!
Kuloba: (nodding), Yaa! I remember it very well my mzee, I had been married for about two years by then.
Chenje: Was it two years?
Kuloba: (assuringly) yes, (spots a cockroach on the floor goes at it and crushes it with her finger, then coughs with heavy sound) we had stayed together in a marriage for two years. That was when people had began back-biting me that I was barren. We did not have a child. We even also had the jiggers. I can still remember.
Chenje: Exactly (crashes a louse with his finger) we also had jiggers on our feet.
Kuloba: The jiggers are very troublesome. Even more than the lice and weevils.  
Chenje: But, the lice and jiggers, whenever they infest one’s home, they usually signify impending death of a family member.
Kuloba: Let them fail in Christ’s name. Because no one is ripe for death in this home. I have lost my five children. I only have one child. My son Namugugu – death let it fail. My son has to grow and have a family also like children of other people in this village. Let whoever that is practicing evil machinations against my family, my only child fail.
Chenje: (putting on the long-trouser from which he had been crushing lice) let others remain; I will **** them another time.
Kuloba: You will never finish them (giggles)
Chenje: You have reminded me, where is Namugugu today? I have not seen him.
Kuloba: He was here some while ago.
Chenje: (spitting out through an open window) He has become of an age. He is supposed to get married so that he can bear grand children for me. Had I the grand children they could even assist me to **** lice from my clothes. (Enters Namugugu) Come in boy, I want to talk to you.
Kuloba: (jokingly) you better give someone food, or anything to fill the stomach before you engages him in a talk.
Namugugu: (looks, at both Chenje and Kuloba, searchingly then goes for a chair next to him)
Mama! I am very hungry if you talk of feeding me, I really get thrilled (sits at a fold-chair, it breaks sending him down in a sprawl).
Kuloba: (exclaims) wooo! Sorry my son. This chair wants to **** (helps him up)
Namugugu: (waving his bleeding hand as he gets up) it has injured my hand. Too bad!
Chenje: (looking on) Sorry! Dress your finger with a piece of old clothes, to stop that blood oozing out.
Namugugu: (writhing in pain) No it was not a deep cut. It will soon stop bleeding even without a piece of rag.
Kuloba: (to Namugugu) let it be so. (Stands) let me go to my sweet potato field. There are some vivies, I have not harvested, I can get there some roots for our lunch (exits)
Chenje: (to Namugugu) my son even if you have injured your finger, but that will not prevent me from telling you what I am supposed to.
Namugugu: (with attention) yes.
Chenje: (pointing) sit to this other chair, it is safer than that one of yours.
Namugugu: (changing the chair) Thank you.
Chenje: You are now a big person. You are no longer an infant. I want you to come up with your own home. Look for a girl to marry. Don’t wait to grow more than here. The two years you have been in Nairobi, were really wasted. You could have been married, may you would now be having my two grand sons as per today.
Namugugu: Father I don’t refuse. But how can I marry and start up a family in a situation of extreme poverty? Do you want me to start a family with even nothing to eat?
Chenje: My son, you will be safer when you are a married beggar than a wife- less rich-man. No one is more exposed as a man without a wife.
Namugugu: (looking down) father it is true but not realistic.
Chenje: How?
Namugugu: All women tend to flock after a rich man.
Chenje: (laughs) my son, may be you don’t know. Let me tell you. One time you will remember, maybe I will be already dead by then. Look here, all riches flock after married men, all powers of darkness flock after married men and even all poverty flock after married. So, it is just a matter of living your life.
(Curtains)
SCENE TWO

Around Chenje’s hut, Kuloba and Namugugu are inside the hut; Chenje is out under the eaves. He is dropping at them.
Namugugu: Mama! Papa wants to drive wind of sadness permanently into my sail of life. He is always pressurizing me to get married at such a time when I totally have nothing. No food, no house no everything. Mama let me actually ask you; is it possible to get married in such a situation?
Kuloba: (Looking out if there is any one, but did not spot the eaves-dropping Chenje).
Forget. Marriage is not a Whiff of aroma. My son, try marriage in poverty and you will see.
Namugugu: (Emotionally) Now, if Papa knows that I will not have a happy married life, in such a situation, where I don’t have anything to support myself; then why is he singing for my marriage?
Kuloba: (gesticulating) He wants to mess you up the way he messed me up. He married me into his poverty. I have wasted away a whole of my life in his poverty. I regret. You! (Pointing) my son, never make a mistake of neither repeating nor replicating poverty of this home into your future through blind marriage.
Namugugu: (Approvingly) yes Mama, I get you.

Kuloba: (Assertively) moreover, you are the only offspring of my womb             (touching her stomach) I have never eaten anything from you. You have never bought me anything even a headscarf alone. Now, if you start with a wife will I ever benefit anything from you?
Namugugu: (looking agog) indeed Mama.
Kuloba: (commandingly) don’t marry! Women are very many. You can marry at any age, any time or even any place. But it is very good to remember child-price paid by your mother in bringing you up. As a man my son, you have to put it before all other things in your life.
Namugugu: (in an affirmative feat) yes Mama.
Kuloba: It is not easy to bring up a child up to an age when in poverty. As a mother you really suffer. I’ve suffered indeed to bring you up. Your father has never been able to put food on the table. It has been my burden through out. So my son, pleased before you go for women remember that!
Namugugu: Yes Mama, I will.
(Enters Chenje)
Chenje: (to Kuloba) you old wizard headed woman! Why do you want to put    my home to a full stop?
Kuloba: (shy) why? You mean you were not away? (Goes out behaving shyly)

Chenje: (in anger to Namugugu) you must become a man! Why do you give your ears to such toxic conversations? Your mother is wrong. Whatever she has told you today is pure lies. It is her laziness that made her poor. She is very wrong to festoon me in any blame…. I want you to think excellently as a man now. Avoid her tricky influence and get married. I have told you finally and I will never repeat telling you again.

Namugugu: (in a feat of shyness) But Papa, you are just exploding for no good reason, Mama has told me nothing bad……………………
Chenje: (Awfully) shut up! You old ox. Remove your ears from poisonous mouths of old women!
(Enters Nanyuli with an old green paper bag in her hand. Its contents were bulging).
Nanyuli: (knocking) Hodii! Hodii!
Chenje: (calmly) come in my daughter! Come in.
Nanyuli: (entering) thank you.
Chenje: (to Namugugu) give the chair to our visitor.
Namugugu: (shyly, paving Nanyuli to sit) Karibu, have a sit please.
Nanyuli: (swinging girlishly) I will not sit me I am in a hurry.
Chenje: (to Nanyuli) just sit for a little moment my daughter. Kindly sit.
Nanyuli: (sitting, putting a paper-bag on her laps) where is the grandmother who is usually in this house?
Chenje: Who?
Nanyuli: Kuloba, the old grandmother.
Namugugu: She has just briefly gone out.
Chenje: (to Nanyuli) she has gone to the potato field and Cassava field to look for some roots for our lunch.
Nanyuli: Hmm. She will get.
Chenje: Yes, it is also our prayer. Because we’re very hungry.
Nanyuli: I am sure she will get.
Chenje: (to Nanyuli) excuse me my daughter; tell me who your father is?
Nanyuli: (shyly) you mean you don’t know me? And me I know you.
Chenje: Yes I don’t know you. Also my eyes have grown old, unless you remind
me, I may not easily know you.
Nanyuli: I am Lusaaka’s daughter
Chenje: Eh! Which Lusaka? The one with a brown wife? I don’t know… her name is Kulecho?
Nanyuli: Yes
Chenje: That brown old-mother is your mother?
Nanyuli: Yes, she is my mother. I am her first – born.
Chenje: Ooh! This is good (goes forward to greet her) shake my fore-limb my
daughter.

Nanyuli: (shaking Chenje’s hand) Thank you.
Chenje: I don’t know if your father has ever told you. I was circumcised the same year with your grand-gather. In fact we were cut by the same knife. I mean we shared the same circumciser.
Nanyuli: No, he has not yet. You know he is always at school. He never stays at home.
Chenje: That is true. I know him, he teaches at our mission primary school at Bokoli market.
Nanyuli: Yes.
Chenje: What is your name my daughter?
Nanyuli: My name is Loisy Nanyuli Lusaaka.
Chenje: Very good. They are pretty names. Loisy is a Catholic baptismal name, Nanyuli is our Bukusu tribal name meaning wife of an iron-smith and Lusaaka is your father’s name.
Nanyuli: (laughs) But I am not a Catholic. We used to go to Catholic Church upto last year December. But we are now born again, saved children of God. Fellowshipping with the Church of Holy Mountain of Jesus christ. It is at Bokoli market.
Chenje: Good, my daughter, in fact when I will happen to meet with your father, or even your mother the brown lady, I will comment them for having brought you up under the arm of God.
Nanyuli: Thank you; or even you can as well come to our home one day.
Chenje: (laughs) actually, I will come.
Nanyuli: Now, I want to go
Chenje: But you have not stayed for long. Let us talk a little more my daughter.
Nanyuli: No, I will not. I had just brought some tea leaves for Kuloba the old grandmother.
Chenje: Ooh! Who gave you the tea leaves?
Nanyuli: I do hawk tea leaves door to door. I met her last time and she requested me to bring her some. So I want to give them to you (pointing at Namugugu) so that you can give them to her when she comes.
Namugugu: No problem. I will.
Nanyuli: (takes out a tumbler from the paper bag, fills the tumbler twice, pours the tea leaves  into an old piece of  newspaper, folds and gives  it to Namugugu) you will give them to grandmother, Kuloba.
Namugugu: (taking) thank you.
Chenje: My daughter, how much is a tumbler full of tea leaves, I mean when it is full?
Nanyuli: Ten shillings of Kenya
Chenje: My daughter, your price is good. Not like others.
Nanyuli: Thank you.
Namugugu: (To Nanyuli) What about money, she gave you already?
Nanyuli: No, but tell her that any day I may come for it.
Namugugu: Ok, I will not forget to tell her
Nanyuli: I am thankful. Let me go, we shall meet another day.
Chenje: Yes my daughter, pass my regards to your father.
Nanyuli: Yes I will (goes out)
Chenje: (Biting his finger) I wish I was a boy. Such a good woman would never slip through my fingers.
Chenje: But father she is already a tea leaves vendor!
(CURTAINS)


SCENE THREE
Nanyuli and Kulecho in a common room Nanyuli and Kulecho are standing at the table, Nanyuli is often suspecting a blow from Kulecho, counting coins from sale of tea leaves; Lusaaka is sited at couch taking a coffee from a ceramic red kettle.


Kulecho: (to Nanyuli) these monies are not balancing with your stock. It is like you have sold more tea leaves but you have less money. This is only seventy five shillings. When it is supposed to be one hundred and fifty. Because you sold fifteen tumblers you are only left with five tumblers.
Nanyuli: (Fidgeting) this is the whole money I have, everything I collected from sales is here.
Kulecho: (heatedly) be serious, you stupid woman! How can you sell everything and am not seeing any money?
Nanyuli: Mama, this is the whole money I have, I have not taken your money anywhere.
Kulecho: You have not taken the money anywhere! Then where is it? Do you know that I am going to slap you!
Nanyuli: (shaking) forgive me Mama
Kulecho: Then speak the truth before you are forgiven. Where is the money you collected from tea leaves sales?
Nanyuli: (in a feat of shyness) some I bought a short trouser for my child.
Kulecho: (very violent) after whose permission? You old cow, after whose permission (slaps Nanyuli with her whole mighty) Talk out!
Nanyuli: (Sobbingly) forgive me mother, I thought you would understand. That is why I bought a trouser for my son with your money!
Lusaaka: (shouting a cup of coffee in his hand, standing charged) teach her a lesson, slap her again!
Kulecho (slaps, Nanyuli continuously, some times ******* her cheeks, as Nanyuli wails) Give me my money! Give me my money! Give me my money! Give me my money! You lousy, irresponsible Con-woman (clicks)
Lusaaka: Are you tired, kick the *** out of that woman (inveighs a slap towards Nanyuli) I can slap you!
Nanyuli: (kneeling, bowedly, carrying up her hands) forgive me father, I will never repeat that mistake again (sobs)
Lusaaka: An in-corrigible, ****!
Kulecho: (to Nanyuli) You! Useless heap of human flesh. I very much regret to have sired a sell-out of your type. It is very painful for you to be a first offspring of my womb.
I curse my womb because of you. You have ever betrayed me. I took you to school you were never thankful, instead you became pregnant. You were fertilized in the bush by peasant boys.
You have given birth to three childlings, from three different fathers! You do it in my home. What a shame! Your father is a teacher, how have you made him a laughing stock among his colleagues, teachers? I have become sympathetic to you by putting you into business. I have given you tea leaves to sell. A very noble occupation for a wretch like you. You only go out sell tea leaves and put the money in your wolfish stomach. Nanyuli! Why do you always act like this?
Nanyuli: (sobbing) Forgive me mother. Some tea leaves I sold on credit. I will come with the money today?
Kulecho: You sold on credit?
Nanyuli: Yes
Kul
this is a manuscript of a play, please guys help me get any publisher who can do publishing of this play
i  will appreciate. thanks
Continue reading...
Ciel Oct 2019
Papa
I feel a sharp pain in my chest;
A numb pain.
I gasp for air that seems to not be there.
I let out a scream,
But I cannot hear a thing.
My vision gets blurry.
I cannot think.
Silence. Cold. Numbness.
Has the pain disappeared?
Has the world stopped?

Papa,
Are you there?
Can you hear my voice?
Can you feel my pain?
Do you see my tears late at night
As I reminisce our times together?

Papa,
Please tell me why.
Why did you have to leave me?
Why am I not able to feel anymore?
Why is the world still spinning?
Am I the only one whose heart is chained?

Papa,
How I wish you were still here
To answer all my questions,
To guide me through this labyrinth that is life.
Two summers ago,
you went back home.
You are now at peace but
I would give the world to have more time with you
An hour, a minute, or even a second.
Just enough time for a hug, a kiss,
an ultimate “je t’aime” and a last “bonne nuit”.

Papa,
You were my first and eternal love.
My teacher, mentor and kindest critic.
You have always been my guardian angel.
From you, I learned to walk, swim and dance
But the greatest lesson you ever taught me
Was to forgive others and believe in myself.
You held my hand as I took my first steps,
Taught me to use my brain instead of my fists.
Your intelligence, faith and dedication
Were often the source of my admiration.
You dimmed me “Queen of my heart”,
And no one shall ever take that title away from me.
My conviction and passion,
My two most prized qualities,
Are nothing but a reflection
Of your great education.

Papa,
Although my heart aches,
my mind is at ease
knowing that you are finally free.
A few months from now,
I will be starting a new chapter of my life.
One that terrifies me,
But I know you are by my side.
I hope that when you look down upon me,
All you feel is pride.
I cannot deny the pain I feel
But the joy of your memory is far greater.
I have found myself doubting my faith lately,
But for the sake of potentially seeing you again ,
I am willing to believe.
#pain #grief #sorrow #love #father #dad #poem #poetry #peace #acceptance
Continue reading...
Jose Radin Llorca Garduque Sep 2019
Legasiya ni Papa Francisco sa Pilipinas
Oh Papa Francisco, Supremo ng Simbahan
Ang iya pagtambong daw ano ka bulahan
Siya naghatag kalipay sa aton duog
Matapos ang makakulugmat nga bagyo kg linog
Gani sa una nga adlaw sg iya pagbisita
Bisan gab-i don madamo guihapon nakita
Nga mga Pilipino nga nagdulog sa iya alagyan
Agud siya sugaton kg amligan
Sa ikaduha nga adlaw sg iya pag-abot
Iya gin-akigan mga pulitiko nga kurakot
Iya ginpahanumdom ang pagtatap sa mga karnero
Iya ginlaygayan ang mga pamilya nga Pilipino
Sa ikatatlo nga adlaw niya sa pungsod
Iya ginpahagan-hagan ang mga nagakalisod
Iya ginbendisyunan mga biktima sg kalamidad
Iya ginhatagan puloy-an mga imol sa komunidad
Sa ikaapat nga adlaw niya diri sa aton nasyon
Iya ginpakigkita mga lideres sg iban nga relihiyon
Iya gin-ulu-ulo mga kabataaan nga nagpa-utwas
Iya ginpangamuyuan ang bilog nga Pilipinas
Gani sa ulihi nga adlaw sg iya pagkari
Madamo sa guihapon nagbantay sa iya diri
Sin-o bala ang magakalipat sa isa ka Santo Papa
Nga bisan may bagyo sa guihapon nagbisita
Bisan iban nga relihiyon sa iya nagsaludo
Kay iya ginpamatud-an nga siya para sa tawo
Matuod guid nga kay Hesukristo siya tiglawas
Salamat Papa Francisco sa kabalaka sa Pilipinas!

-01/21/2015
(Dumarao)
*Pope Francis Fever Collection
My Poem No. 321
Continue reading...
Victor Tripp Oct 2014
PAPA WAS NEVER HOME BY VICTOR TRIPP
Papa was never home, women he held in his arms were't his own
Papa did't like to do much thinking.His natural talents were
Gambling loving drinking .Mama I don't need you to tell me the truth
Papa was never home , the loving he did was always his own
And when he died did't even our dog a bone
Continue reading...
Mikayla Smith Jul 2017
Mama's and Papa's
Mama washes the clothes
And hangs them out to
Dry, she takes me by my
Hand and we dance beneath
The twelve o'clock sky.

Papa goes to out and
Doesn't come home until
Late, we're all snuggled in
Bed by the time Mama asks
Him why he hasn't ate.  

He's missing out on time with
The kids, Mama tells her sister
One dreary day.

I might just have to work more, she'll say.

Papa feels weak, thinks it's his job
To provide for a family that's
Just starting to fray.

Mama works and we ask
Why she won't come to play.

Papa tells me she's off to
Work, that it'll just be for
A little while.

But, days turn into weeks,
Weeks turn into months,
Months turn into years.
Instead of Mama, Daddy now
Wipes my tears.

They tell him that he's a poor
Excuse of a man
And that Mama is better
Off finding a real one.

Times have changed,
Families grow in different ways.
Sometimes things happen,
But I've learned that
Mama's and Papa's still
Love their children just the same.
A piece reflecting my childhood. My mother and father struggled for years to have children. When they finally did, my mother dreamed of being a stay at home mom to me and my younger brother. However, my father struggled to hold down a job, forcing my mother to work full-time while my dad looked for anyone who would hire. This lasted for years: my father losing job after job, drowning his sorrows in alcohol and my mother growing more and more bitter at my father and at the fact that she was missing out on time with her children. I was too young at the time to realize the circumstances, but now that I'm older, I have a much better perspective on it.
#family #dysfunctional #childhood #alcoholism #bitter #estranged #strained #marriage #reflection #nostalgia
Continue reading...
Sanjeev joshi Dec 2013
Memoirs..
I don't cry papa, but the tears spill out
I don't dream too, but the memories sprout loud.
I ain't moving papa, my legs are stuck
So is the moment, and it won't pluck...

Woven in the time papa, here I lie
Hugging up the memories that tends to fly...
Looking through the window,all but fog do I see,
But eyes still awaits papa, widens to see if it's thee..

Time has passed by papa, wounds would've healed
But what about the scars papa? And the memories it has sealed??
Still, I don't cry papa,but the tears spill out
And I don't dream too, but the memories sprout loud...
Continue reading...
Emily Dickinson
Papa above!
61

Papa above!
Regard a Mouse
O’erpowered by the Cat!
Reserve within thy kingdom
A “Mansion” for the Rat!

Snug in seraphic Cupboards
To nibble all the day
While unsuspecting Cycles
Wheel solemnly away!
Continue reading...
Shashank K Dwivedi Sep 2015
KANYADAAN HUA JAB PURA
Kanyadaan hua jab pura, Aaya samay vidayi ka
Hashi khushi sab kaam hua tha, Saari rashmm adaai ka
Beti ke uss kaatar swar ne , Baabul ko jhakjhor dia
Puch rahi thi papa tumne, Kya sach-much me chodd dia

Apne aangan ki phulwari, Mujhko sada kaha tumne
Mere rone ko pal bhar bhi, Bilkul nahi saha tumne
Kya iss aangan ke kone me, Mera kuch asthan nahi
Ab mere rone ka papa, Tumko bilkul dhyan nahi

Dekho antim baar dehri, Log mujhhe pujwaate hai
Aakar ke papa inko kyu, Aap nahi dhamkate hai
Nahi rokte chacha taau, Bhaiya se v aas nahi
Aisi bhi kya nishthurta hai, Koi aata paas nahi

Beti ki baato ko sun ke, Pita nahi rah saka khada
Umadd pade ankho se aanshu, Badahawas sa daud pada
Kaatar bichia si wah beti, Lipat pita se rotii thi
Jaise yaado ke akshar wah, Ashru bindu se dhoti thi

Maa ko laga god se koi, Maano sab kuch cheen chala
Phool sabhi ghar ki phoolwari se koi jyo been chala
Chota bhai bhi kone me, Baitha biatha subak raha
Usko kaun karega chup ab, Wah kone me dubak raha

Beti ke jaane par ghar ne, Jaane kya kya khoya hai
Kabhi naa rone wala baap bhi, Phoot-Phoot kar roya hai ............
Copyright© Shashank K Dwivedi
Website :- www.skdisro.weebly.com
Follow me on Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/skdisro
Continue reading...
Brandon Webb Nov 2012
Observations Of An Algebra II Class
1
she taps he hand, twice.
across the room,
he stares, thinking
into empty air.
others, scattered
tap pencils or fingers
on desktops, booktops
and phone keyboards

the balding man
with black hair:
combed backward
and to differing angles
so that his head is split
vertically-
stands, above the room
his back turned

his words,
meant for the crowd
reverberate only
along classes fringe
but still take precedence
over nothing
even to them-
academics, outcasts


2
back of the room
reveals everything
to the observer
trying to see

blue-eyed brunette
glares vengefully
at no one,
just to glare

he looks up once
to watch
as another
pulls up
drooping jeans.
she laughs
at conversation
unmeant for,
and inaudible
to her


3
today, she smiles
and lets her lip fall
begging, like a puppy
But when they
lose eye contact,
she glares, again

he leaves footprints
on parallel desk
from lounging
then fires himself
to his feet
using stored energy,
and sugar from gum

words bounce along
the walls in the back,
and isolated eyes peer
towards the screen
but hide the fact
that they care


4
two week vacation
has left their minds
full of everything
except math,
so they listen
to him, while he speaks

but travel backward
in time, with
those closest them
while he creeps,
silent, around the room

she concentrates hard,
on her work
glaring at the page.
he sits a desk forward
feet on floor
neighboring desk full
today, but only physically

blue hat rests
on sketchbook,
its border
barely covering
closed eyes

blond head
implants itself
jokingly, into
smooth shining
white wall
with enough force
to collapse
accidental target

a hand raises
attracting gazes,
awestruck,
at her interest
in forgotten
material
of future tests


5
only a few eyes wander
from blue lined notebooks
though the left flank
still chatters, embodying
either a secretive chipmunk
or the breeze which starts the storm

storm clouds appear slowly
in sketchbook, blue hat bobbing
rhythmically in response to active pen

perched above the flock
reminiscent, split headed
papa bird scans the masks
of his shockingly silent chicks

random lecture breaks the silence.
Her eyes aren’t the only ones
Fixed into a steel laden glare
But the chipmunk wind ceases


6
his questioning glance lands
on uninhabited space,
exhibiting a yawn
which traverses through,
and twists, the faces of
those otherwise engaged

lecture ends with a question,
the scent of nuts blows through
mentally empty classroom
turning desks to predetermined
positions and swiftly inhabiting
three-quarters of the physical class

his steel glare has replaced hers
the latter’s eyes now soft as an infants

within five minutes, his voice
undergoes  a brutal, complete cycle
pleading, congratulating, yelling
and as always, lecturing


7
pre-test:

preparations for misery-
mundane chipmunk chattering,
jokes and laughs from random
oddities appearing everywhere

blue hat rests in intervals.
Blue coat rearranges
essay for another class

The girl in the sunny plaid
Rolls an orange along her hand

He points at nothing and asks
Nobody something without answer

The left flank, as always
Is turned away, conversing

A sigh rings outward loudly
Everyone glares, nervously,
Everywhere, reward of concentration


After my test:

First paper in, he scans lightly
Sets it down with a scowl
and yawns, twice, breaking the
silent shroud of heavy fog
which is hanging overhead

wandering free eyes witness
down-turned heads concentrating
as much on tests  as on moving
their hands wildly, excitedly
trying to communicate non-vocally

others have yet to detach themselves
from their seats and stride upward,
hopefully more triumphantly
than their sole predecessor

one shuffles now, slowly toward him
his hand shaking as he releases
that  paper, he turns away as it flutters
onto the desk- he replants himself in his

twelve others walk forward
smiling, shrinking, sometimes speaking
and always he glares, triumphant
knowing his success at our failure


later:

his near-sleeping form            
finds distraction, in waking
dreams, jumping back suddenly
breaking from his plank-like state
without speaking. excitement
for approaching weekend is
communicated in the left flank

two girls break the silence
running in from outside            
he glares at them, but laughs

everyone breaks into groups
after the conversation about
mysteriously nutty discarded sock

he runs to the forefront
forehead folded, finger on mouth
no-one notices, but still he glares

8
he smiles and glares at the floor
his legs swinging back and forth            
tan slacks rustling softly

exaggerated scores bubble in ears            
as they search for their destroyer

in front of forgotten faces falls
the page of a forgotten tome

several yawn, hoping, understandably
that their stretched lips
will pull themselves far enough
to barricade ears from his droning

he kills himself, twice, bumbling
into half-thought chastisements
of the  flittingly flirtatious students
intermingling hoping behind him
causing waves of whispers, laughter
and slightly strengthened chatter

he re-aligns his thoughts quickly
and rambles on again, always

9
he speaks to her softly
from across a sea of desks
she looks up, panicking calmly
distracted from distraction

in silence, blank eyes turn
surprised at the non-withering
state of her barely living corpse

he asks a question, looking up
a single answer is given
unemotional and short, buy ending
heavy hanging awkward silence

how talented the teacher
who gives his lecture while
still addressing unrelated
student self lectures

the still silence given
in his questioning lull
hangs so loudly the whispers
traversing the classroom appear
silent as finger wiggle
and pencils trace zeros

his extrication, caused by
distractingly thunderous voice
is met with a comment
causing a wave of laughter
starting at his mouth
and extending to inhabit everything

10
half the time gives
twice the attention
as they concentrate
on keeping him on
the undying topic
of the work we
have already done

they admit defeat
as dusty tome opens
spreading a nutty cloud
causing heads to turn
and words to leap.

from opens lips,
mischievous gremlins
sprout, dancing on
tables and chuckling
away from the sigh
of his down-turned, split
shining, globular mind

he scratches pink ear
with bone pale finger
reading unrelated words

in the center of the room
both mentally and physically
he sits, momentarily quiet
as dark eyes glare past
rumpled pink nose,
concentrating

blue hat rests on open palms
above dust covered open page
he slips into sleeping state
but picks himself up
and stares though thin borderline
toward shiny rambling forehead

a shutter cord flies forward
the hand at the end pulling hard
but with no affect to the shutters
neither lowering the physical
or raising the mental

the color of non-color pencils
interrupts the class momentarily
as she strides forward to compare
and then criticizes his care

he just sits, smiles and stares

11
eleven desks lie empty
of one form more than usual
amplifying the arm movements
of the ever ticking seconds

his obscured mouth flings seeds
which sprout into words
before even meeting the worn
blood-colored carpet below

in the main room, sixteen
sit silent, sketching, sleeping
or siphoning the last minute

12
those left awake, and alive
have come to understand
the numbers on the screen
this being their specialty
in a nutty shell, of course
splitting, as we are, large
crowds of numbers, and us
being teenagers, isn’t that
how we think, in numbers
and ratings of everything
and, sitting in the central
crowd are the talented
crowd-splitters
flattery-spitters

13
the silence of half absence
is pierced, as always by vocal
anomaly, centered around
rows of shining wood
bookrests, but only one
set of hollow, dark-rimmed
vacant eyeballs watches
well-welcomed interruption

he lets us work, standing.
Someone somewhere opens
A large container of nuts
Entire class starts stuffing
Handfuls into puffy cheeks
Absorbing sensations into
Eternally ravenous minds

The apocalyptic mix of noises
Is split again by central
Nutcracker, and those in corners
Glare, smiling, rubbing shadowed
Acne scarred faces
with raw-bitten nails

14
balding papa bird speaks loudly
transforming his voice, becoming
vocally legendary cartoon duck

the wave of resulting laughter
ends in un-given nut-break
spreading, without speech
the understanding that his
comedic digression will not
meet a quick extinction

we greet the weekend
by rising early
our excuse: competition
to devour the worm

15
three heads are downturned
peering into textbooks
as the tsunami breaks

the days end starts
and beady eyes peer
in the direction of his
moving head, colored
gothic gargoyle in the
dim cloudlight streaming
through dust coated
slit windows

the room transforms
becoming triumphantly,
grumpily, repeatedly
conversational

artificial silence
spreads like a wave
from right back corner
to left front corner
leaving behind
the half of the room
hidden behind the wall
of troublemakers
who will eventually
cause the wall to topple
with the sheer force
of assorted nuts

16
blue hat is scrunched
under the of a fist
pounding on his head,
result of the decibels
consumed, and produced
by the embodiment
of the thoughts around him
which fall from stuffed
cheeks. Bounce off tables
and spread a sickening aroma
as their shells split
exposing, revealing
nothing

17
red face glances upward
as harsh words split
the widening sea of snickers
his words stop, first time today
as whispers spread wildly
of his speed in delivering answers
seconds later, room is silent
as statement ends and lecturer
turns back to him, offering
as always, another wave
of deep felt, anger hardened
quietly whispered, criticisms

thunderous-rush-voice leads
out of habit and necessity
the minutes following
his behavioral digression
each word stabbing split-headed
pointy-nosed papa bird, their
form a walnut-wood spear
crafted from drifted thoughts
of those sitting nearest him

18
on his back lies a pile of nuts
professor’s earthquake
shoulder shaking causes
eyes to open, back to rise
and with a tremendous roar
both physical and meta-physical,
it topples to worn carpet
and the laugh-track plays on

19
silence- pierced into being
by shrill, violent, mountainous
rise, and fall, of thunderous decibels-
hangs, heavier, louder than
the quick gone loudness replaced
or, in all actuality, displaced
mere seconds before being scrawled
into eternal memory
of those whose noses
sniff, daily, nutty clusters
of letters, which exclude
always, the ever-present x
the destructive π
and that y, which of course
flies as high as forgetful
nut-bearers




©Brandon Webb
2012
This is a series of observations, and. collectively, is the longest thing i've ever written, at 8847 words
Continue reading...
AntRedundAnt Jan 2014
Words
love   apple   like   time   know   feel   heart   bed   little   life   home   red   boy   georgie   sleep   away   left   dear   ruth   gone   just   right   long   mind   hope   hair   mi   parts   say   fear   met   laugh   makes   sailing   make   tell   hands   day   poem   different   small   words   private   wish   legs   child   man   free   te   welcome   easy   apples   meteorite   smile   flower   want   way   arms   look   eyes   better   war   lie   good   thing   truly   teeth   passion   thought   work   seen   letters   friend   talk   brought   future   fingers   knew   imagination   sure   told   space   cold  la   mask   black   big   bite   age   size   shadow   petals   inane   stretchmarks   medic   we've   wouldn't   hear   tap   really   best   goes   face   gray   maybe   things   dream   tongue   forever   hate   set   room   death   need   truth   comes   night   lost   calves   pain   end   years   brings   touch   feet   blades   memories   new   core   times   dead   favorite   finally   minute   brain   hearts   getting   belly   far   rain   blue   knees   filled   stupid   woke   cream   fit   young   brown   se   fat   tan   cough   spoke   says   unlike   footprints   ******   rough   forward   buckle   blues   task   shoulder   grace   *******   reason   nostrils   firm   juice   palms   someday   mis   thumbs   screams   arguments   wobble   *****   elbows   *******   wrists   headaches   amo   pesky   ligaments   one-liners   thoughts   later   ash   clouds   lips   dreams   breath   mouth   hold   sense   taking   world   bit   speak   dance   gave   shall   ready   skin   air   single   breathe   button   peace   choices   hill   wrong   weak   close   use   quite   sky   phrase   darkness   justice   sound   unable   brave   holding   deep   grabbed   ****   try   building   paper   lunch   think   kind   stay   days   smooth   perfect   learned   care   fair   hard   grant   sweet   high   fruit   short   terms   kept   relationship   underneath   presence   water   looking   fool   sorrow   tree   second   delicate   nearly   happy   line   tall   tried   sad   satisfied   point   feels   falling   purpose   game   lazy   que   amor   agree   known   naught   loss   broke   failed   games   limp   grin   final   spring   act   south   flare   race   sake   car   large   wishes   neck   blink   knife   seeing   idea   steve   company   greens   spread   ship   lo   sally   sum   drowned   december   weep   sting   smiles   lessons   promises   successful   whistled   drowns   perfectly   pleasing   failure   brothers   cliche   harder   thirteen   ale   signs   limit   serenity   mundane   origin   chat   sapphires   handshakes   skinny   contagious   succeeding   super   refer   maturity   destination   civil   uncomfortable   collects   clack   liz   beatles   vez   attract   accomplishment   backside   throes   flaccid   audi   oneself   beastie   applesauce   naivete   bungalow   outie   there's   couldn't   isn't   they're   let's   'n   primos   primas   cantuta   fronton   redd's   mott's   innie   phallicly   tiny   fight   yo   para   walk   ****   hello   light   flash   silent   stone   does   forth   conversation   polite   green   minutes   ****   clear   flesh   couple   wake   anger   throw   torn   tangle   play   shattered   soldier   land   victim   carry   battlefield   came   darkest   blood   battle   warm   shine   reminds   lose   eye   dismay   hide   impossible   fast   earth   grab   stand   die   worse   year   people   white   story   hit   god   anxiety   realize   fall   asleep   dark   course   apart   morning   remain   beauty   ****   slowly   start   happen   remember   pray   past   easily   straight   mean   hand   driving   instant   thunder   messages   friends   old   coming   pen   seeds   shape   wasted   word   living   tore   shadows   knowing   bad   class   joy   trust   leaves   path   sun   ways   leave   meet   broken   head   weight   means   mountain   boys   true   stars   learn   sliced   naive   decided   player   actually   reality   ease   music   hood   desperate   promise   wishing   begin   miss   caressing   moan   thighs   heard   pretty   emotion   figure   floor   exotic   sand   hits   angel   awake   dreaming   probably   wins   seek   stretch   loved   tears   heartbreak   punk   walking   piece   furniture   unreachable   roots   near   deserve   simple   cats   tail   precious   lovers   loves   mother   tongues   clueless   share   taken   yesterday   faith   freedom   ripe   cursed   running   yes   unknown   feeling   going   stairs   opposite   wonder   afloat   packed   bones   acting   playing   wind   passions   dismissed   hourglass   reached   stares   mouths   singing   shaped   trapped   toll   dies   rock   trunk   discovered   especially   dull   choice   awful   patient   great   indoors   attached   thread   shoulders   warms   bright   bring   ending   drowning   sadness   winter   baby   looked   cute   beating   tight   kids   crying   ran   intoxicating   growing   saying   opposites   melancholy   gives   follow   clearly   dove   tu   soon   entwined   juicy   drown   laid   took   moved   bear   anyways   shirt   negative   clean   guide   sore   location   faux   nodded   glance   caught   chances   week   started   today   obvious   sweat   ***   quiet   laughed   worry   round   ladies   mama   smack   goodbye   rising   sides   wished   beds   infinite   positive   scared   admittedly   mistakes   meal   common   rises   toes   bullets   bound   suited   birth   clothes   belt   pounds   ground   barren   sitting   table   woe   swimming   stick   deepest   motion   cleared   sing   angry   action   sons   smiled   bedroom   wall   wiped   grins   mad   july   store   road   snow   pulse   important   adventure   exactly   foundation   trap   colors   floors   neon   outside   language   summer   north   fifty   served   wavy   kick   raw   thirty   row   changed   hanging   lied   drenched   companion   begins   strength   flies   direction   okay   stories   inky   stubborn   cloud   track   described   lover   replaced   pit   packs   circling   honest   wage   dinner   slave   paradox   faking   screamed   lightning   exterior   stopping   complete   deal   rifle   dependent   gifts   dancer   vision   students   horror   punch   anymore   pack   sagging   folk   honestly   tearing   prepared   creatures   listening   rhythm   unique   roar   card   glass   stage   desert   offered   fought   suffer   awoke   master   eating   furnace   glad   choir   graceful   *****   treasure   ships   bark   musical   strand   bee   finished   pink   slink   stronger   disclose   gravity   schedule   march   medicine   hates   weird   brush   laughs   helped   june   pitched   dumped   tense   sin   withdrawn   stem   proved   whispered   anew   amazing   louder   english   knocked   chilly   boots   false   mistake   toffee   whistle   smirk   gas   poised   buttons   bet   necks   elate  vi   bleak   decades   intention   plane   swollen   unseemly   en   sir   creeping   tells   success   doth   ***   balance   ant   fourth   fits   matters   pan   shook   tingle   dusty   reaching   thanked   careers   pile   tempt   ix   xi   xii   xiii   moms   hushed   spears   twinkling   works   fairytale   double   fighter   shocked   barriers   boot   thanks   solitary   lesson   owned   systems   groan   weekend   tomatoes   cider   calculating   drawer   partially   handy   stumpy   album   appealing   pet   unfortunately   jokingly   hotel   teacher   tag   eighteen   leg   dash   peep   betwixt   swear   attempt   inescapable   venues   worker   suit   coughed   remembers   rhyme   listed   chatter   stuff   assist   blocks   sheen   stanzas   jobs   cleaned   handshake   natural   moi   fantasy   cheers   smaller   curl   nay   leaning   frequent   eggs   cuando   el   desayuno   tus   beige   imperfections   difficult   darlings   overcome   oranges   keys   newfound   fairly   occasions   stats   ponder   pools   ablaze   rushes   fret   quell   breads   progress   comfortable   settling   desks   tile   trails   rainy   homemade   stunned   cemetery   plus   ideas   avocados   bananas   apply   latch   rocky   digress   experiences   vacation   sanctuary   earlier   rocket   precise   various   author   pie   explosions   *******   lighter   matched   plunged   isaac   jefferson   abe   measured   saturday   claw   welcoming   gear   trained   suffocation   leapt   gap   lee   disturbed   es   thrill   alarming   grill   frankly   importantly   una   fray   candied   amalgamation   nasty   american   optimism   guns   craters   contracted   rampant   unattainable   spilled   courts   carrots   shuffled   combined   blonde   forgave   artillery   sandwich   comfier   limitation   personalities   friday   strongly   crude   banana   tennis   limits   quaking   recesses   loot   andromeda   shells   playful   luckily   area   upwards   flail   largest   sappy   freckles   biology   fruition   cases   overtook   pinks   instruments   brownies   birthmark   reinforce   laptop   pirates   blinks   frontier   forwards   resonate   capacity   mumbled   marched   scraping   prompts   multiply   haiku   football   como   function   unfeeling   eighty   backsides   prompt   raced   blare   likewise   pro   chrome   gran   pears   puede   corazon   elated   indecisive   basketball   burgundy   synonyms   braced   effeminate   mutually   duties   companies   honeymoon   flailing   patted   mayo   headon   pero   misma   marveled   aforementioned   abhors   forefront   hesitating   identical   creepy   possessive   screeched   gotcha   infidelity   friction   barrage   nonetheless   disparate   itchy   apex   gettysburg   lunchtime   pickup   muchas   then   and   trading   distinguishable   pitches   bunk   ven   ladylike   encompasses   diagrams   underlying   spaghetti   soccer   trashcan   papa   disarming   finalmente   clashed   rosie   smirks   snapshot   pug   songbird   spitfire   yanks   thankfully   mesa   flexing   virginia   effectively   variations   eclipses   tambien   outrun   incident   vitamin   willpower   underdog   hardboiled   miniscule   checkerboard   entrust   siento   heavyweight   davis   thyroid   foreshadowing   frances   heresy   starburst   deficiency   sawing   peruvian   leche   antithesis   villanelle   alliteration   hora   vivir   clacking   droopy   whizzed   britney   futbol   parameters   disney   mangos   disproportionate   orbiting   tanka   stubby   intro   listo   goldilocks   teamwork   pbj   exemplifies   rey   retainer   tenia   triples   espanol   estuvo   castillo   ferrying   suficiente   racecar   dorky   garganta   veo   julio   peripherals   labios   rojos   foreseeable   frito   groggily   venn   macbook   inanely   hubo   goofball   you've   she's   weren't   wasn't   we're   others'   you'll   should've   haven't   what's   you'd   they'd   man's   boys'   god's   woman's   fruit's   orion's   newton's   lincoln's   adam's   momma's   ******   jackson's   audis   dulces   disproportionately   charon's   deseos   avocadoes   hailey   eran   beatles'   ingles   he   she   it   rackets   --   hashtag   sixty-three   duct-tape   joysticks   sherman's   15   6th   32   500   7th   2013   extraño   barenaked   tamales   6-year-old   tierras   derpy   ewell   rom-com   themit's   adan   mudpits   puddlepits   war--hell   culp's   shitpits   completaron   chocolatada   levantanse   duraznos   n'sync   huevo   cholitos   levantaron   manzanas   endurece   wozniak's   dispara   nuez   open-endedness   innies   cankles   dunder-mifflin   tunks   buck-toothed   outies   grief-blown   a-gawking
I uploaded all of my past work onto the site already, so everything from here on out will be new and original. This is sort of an experimental idea of mine: take all the words hellopoetry has tracked for me, put it down as if it were a poem, and see how it flows. It actually kind of works sometimes, but I'm not sure. I'm sure it's mostly terrible, but I wanted to try it. Let me know what you think in the comments below!
Continue reading...
cmy Oct 2014
There is no one in this world like my papa
---
There is no one in this world who could be like my papa
He is patient, kind and loving
He knows my worries and my fears
the cares of my world
my needs, my aims, my wants
He keeps me safe when darkness comes
At nights when I could not sleep
He is my hero, he is there
to hold and soothe me
Big, strong and brave
He is there
In the eyes of a little girl...I love you, papa...thank you for everything..God bless you everyday and always...=)))
---
#love #father #papa
Continue reading...
The Silent Catastrophe Feb 2018
Papa
Papa just let me rest

Put my mind at ease
For the shards you use
To tear through my skin
Make me bleed

Oh it hurts so much papa

When your bullets plunder my heart
It beats feverently; an ill tuned symphony
Trying to mend itself again
A picture of flimsy patchwork

Papa clear the ground in front of me

The shards and thorns are making me weak
My feet can't take in your piercing anymore
They've gone from tan to scarlet
A fresh coat to paint over the marks I'm too ashamed to see

I beseech you one last time papa

Make the voices go away
The ones gnawing at my head
Telling me I'm not who you want me to be
Before I give myself to the demons who love me
The ones who claim to be the closest to you end up being the ones responsible for your destruction
Continue reading...
Aayasha khan Aug 2018
saviour dad
Papa
The one who held on to us
In times good and rough
Placed all our needs on his shoulders
Made us into tough little soldiers

Papa
Never tired is he
Nor sleep does prevail him
Kills all his days to make ours bright
Our eternal light

Papa
The epitome of love
A blessing from above
Leaves behind all his desires for ours
His sacrifices can't be told in mere words

Papa
Someday I will be like you
Loving everyone true
Binding through trust and care
A family we will all bear
Love  you dad
#nmpinspire #love #papa #dad #family #trust #care #bear #sacrifice #epitome
Continue reading...
AD Snail Mar 2017
Papa doesn't Understand
Papa you don't seem to understand,
You no longer believe I am still that little boy you grew up,
Your own little man.

You think I have betrayed you,
You do not understand how I became the way I am,
So you lash out and blame everyone else but yourself.

I stand so brave when you through your abuse my way,
I still behave the same way,
But you let lies and rumors consume, never given a second thought.

Papa you no longer treat me the same,
No longer show me the love that came so naturally.

I cannot save you papa,
I am not going to be your mind controlled slave,
So be prepared to wave goodbye.

Papa remember that I will always love you,
And I hope you finally come to realize,
That I was not the one to betray you, that was all you.
#lies #betrayal #forgotten #unloved #parent #tricks #pape #shatteredrealationship
Continue reading...
Dorothy A Jul 2010
Goldilocks, Rewritten
There once was a girl called Goldilocks
Who lived in a forest filled with phlox
She did not to have a soul to play with
And in the forest she would often drift

She once became lost, the lonely, little girl
The one with the head full of golden curls
Panicked and scared, she came upon a house
But it appeared that everyone there was out

She helped herself to the food, cold and hot
She tried the chairs until one hit the spot
Too tired to try to make her way back
She hit the sheets to take a nap

Very picky was this lost, lonely tot
Some porridge was too cold, some too hot
Beds too soft or too hard to sleep tight
Only one she found that felt just right

Mama, Papa, and Baby Bear were soon back on arrival
After a long day of fishing for their survival
What? Who had their nose in each of their bowls?
Gone was one porridge that to the brim was full

And who had sat in and broke one of the chairs?
It looked like a human by some strands of golden hair!
Hunters? Oh, no! Could they be on the prowl?
The bears sniffed around and started to growl

Baby Bear was the first to see
The little girl catching some Z's
"Oh, cool!" exclaimed little Baby Bear
"Can we keep her? Can she stay here?"

They all came upon Goldilocks all snug in bed
Papa Bear was now furious and began to see red
"And you call us animals!" he yelled loudly at her
"Who gives you the right?! Where are your manners?!"

Goldilocks woke up with an ear piercing shriek
Facing three hairy bears, she could not speak
Out the house she ran, far enough to see her home near
And that was the last that Goldilocks saw of those bears!

"She was just a scared, little girl", Mama Bear said to her spouse
"We could have stopped her and let her stay in our house!"
Papa Bear, disagreeing with her foolish trust,  swore
"**** it! I told you the last one out locks the door!!!"

"You begin feeding them...they are so clever
You'll never get rid of them. They stick around forever!"
Mama Bear refused to fight, for Papa Bear refused to bend
And that is all there is to the story. THE END!
Continue reading...
Baby Dianah' Rose Richard Aug 2019
Papa
I saw papa chase the rain, he stained as he bathed his agony.  he soaked bitterly , in the midst of willingness.

I saw papa weep with despair , his demons were weary , so he sunken in worries.
His clarity , his dignity for once would be restore. with pale bare foot , as he danced its a slithery odd night  .

Papa yelled In tears , as he scorned his honor , as  tapped in mounts out of  worries, as it  drizzled out the  rain, he cried!  “ sing me my little dance my little spate  ,as this wise-less age,  Send me a glory , pray me for truce.

I saw papa chase the rain.
Continue reading...
Martin Aug 2017
I love you papa
"I love you papa"
By:martin

I thought it was a nightmare
Until i see you lying in a coffin
My tears can't stop from falling
Like a rain drop from the skies

I may don't have a final glimpse
When your still alive
But our memories
Always be alive in my life
The lessons that you taught
Forever be treasured

One week before your final goodbye
I make a call
I am happy to hear your voice
Saying "you will going to survive"
And wait for me till i come home

I am sorry papa
I know its really hurt so much
And you try to strive
To extend your life
But GOD has better plan for you

Whenever you are right now
Just continue your journey
Don't worry
I will take care for mama
To inday and dodong also

I have so many regrets
I don't have a chance
To tell you this
When you're still strong and alive
Until your gone now
But it's better late than never
I LOVE YOU SO MUCH PAPA
I will miss you

Your one of the foundation
In every success i have in my life
Until we meet again
I LOVE YOU PAPA BOY
Papa i love you always and i will miss you
#telleverydayiloveyoutoyourparents
Continue reading...
Melissa Koe Nov 2014
fisherman (short story)
The wind blew strongly. Out at sea, the fisherman’s small boat swayed in rhythm with the waves. He stood up and adjusted the sail, in case the wind blew it off. After so many years of earning a living as a fisherman, he has made peace with the sea – he no longer feels sea sick. Oh, but he feels a certain kind of sickness…… a different kind. His eyes filled with tears as he shifted his gaze from his worn out canvas sails to the horizon where the sun is just about to set. The sky above him is slightly orange – but is dulled by the gray of the storm clouds shifting in.

                He thanked the gods for the sky above and the sea below him, albeit the upcoming storm. He has recently lost his daughter, Fatema to the sea. His grief is still fresh, it still cuts deep. He lost his daughter to the tsunami that destroyed the fishing village. He has lost all his belongings – but nothing belonging to him will ever be as valuable as Fatema. Yes, grief makes him sick – and he has a good reason for that. When they found her, her body was trapped between five pieces of driftwood – it was a gruesome sight. How ironic is it? The arms of Neptune have always supported him throughout his life – making sure he earned a living and yet, the same menacing arms betrayed him and took Fatema away.

                For that, he was angry with the gods. How could they take away a life as easily as they gave it? He snapped out of his thoughts and raised the back of his hand to his eyes to wipe away the tears. His musings aren’t going to help. He has to begin sailing to find a shelter from the storm that is rolling in or else he won’t make it through the night. For the past week or so, he has been living in his small boat, making sure his stomach is full by fishing for small fish and crustaceans. He fixed his sail and began to sail in the direction of a small cove he is familiar with which will provide adequate shelter for tonight.

                As he sailed, he started to feel lonely. He reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out a locket with Fatema’s picture in it. He brought it to his face and gently kissed it, gripping it in his hand. As he sailed nearer the cove, moonlight began to illuminate the prow of his boat. When he is near enough to the shore, he skillfully measured the depth with sight alone, and lowered the anchor to make sure his boat remained in that position till dawn.
                As he descended from his boat, he waded through the water. Both of his arms are full of dried driftwood for him to start a fire tonight. He heard the distant sound of crickets and an owl. He walked toward the beach, heading towards a small cave and entered it. He checked the ground to make sure it was dry before he started a fire using the driftwood. The crackling of fire accompanied by the distant rumbling of thunder brought comfort to his ears. The flames that rose and vanished combined with the smell of the smoke left a silage – a lingering presence that soothed him. They reminded him of how he used to read stories of beasts and princesses alike to Fatema when she was a young girl until she fell asleep in his arms. Those days are long gone now. He stood up and headed back to his boat to set up the fishing nets for his meal later on tonight. He fixed the nets close to the shore before walking back to the cave to the warmth of the fire. He did not know what to do. He was supposed to sail back to the mainland by next week but the storm has been slowing him down. He listened to the rhythm of the waves crashing against his boat and drifted off to sleep……

                He opened his eyes. He did not hear any crackling from the fire nor feel the warmth from it. When he looked down, the fire has been extinguished. The moon was so high and bright now he only needed the fire for warmth. Just as he was about to stand up to fetch more wood from the boat, he heard a sound. Yes, there was a slight drizzle but it wasn’t the sound of rain hitting the sand. It was a soft, melodious voice which was….singing.
“May you sail fair to the far fields of fortune,
with diamonds and pearls at your head and your feet
and may you need never to banish misfortune,
may you find kindness in all that you meet.”

                It was the lullaby he sang to Fatema as a young girl. He began to feel excited and ignored the voice at the back of his head telling him he was insane. He looked out and saw her – Fatema, sitting on a rock. He called out to her and she looked back at him, saying something he has been yearning to hear from her – “Papa.” He was speechless and could not believe his eyes. She donned the black dress they found her in, but she barely had any scratches on her; she did not even look wounded. Instead of walking towards him, she flashed her sweetest smile and started walking towards the beach. She beckoned for him to follow her. He ran towards her, constantly calling out to her but she did not reply. She held out her hand for him to hold, and he did.

                One more step and she will reach the water now. “Fatema, what are you doing?” “Papa, just come along with me.” With those few words…..he felt like he was in a trance. There were so many questions running through the back of his mind but he ignored all of them. Was he hallucinating? He turned to his left as they waded nearer to the sea – the fishing net that he placed near his boat had a small crab in it. The moonlight that shone onto the sea reflected on her beautiful features – her curly, black hair and light brown eyes. With every step he took, he felt more nervous, confused, and excited at the same time.

                The water level is up to their chest now.  On the second day after Fatema died, when he was very much in pain, he made an analogy about grief by comparing it to the nearest thing to him. Grief is like the sea. It drowns you while everyone else is swimming. He felt more familiar towards it….. it did not seem as foreign to him anymore. If so, he is “literally” being consumed by grief as they waded deeper into the sea. He did not mind though – this is the story of a man who desperately wants his daughter back. He did not care if he was hallucinating or if she was a ghost. He does not know where she is taking him, but he wants to follow his daughter to who-knows-where; for to him, that is paradise, be it in the depths of the sea or the height of the skies.

                He can no longer see the moon.
An essay I wrote for English exam.
one hour write-up.
#sad #fisherman #essay
Continue reading...
WendyStarry Eyes Sep 2014
TRUE TRANQUILITY
The time in my youth that taught me about true peace
Was fishing with my Papa on the coast of the East
We'd get up in the morning before sunrise
Papa would wake me with sparkle in his eyes
I'd jump down from the bunk bed
When my feet hit the floor Smells of
Grandma's hickory bacon would rush to my head
She would wrap the bacon up in a biscuit and pack it to go
I'd grab the bag of bread crumbs we'd been saving
for the seagulls, to strew
We'd pile it all in the SUV
The poles clasped firm on the front bumper
Papa's clever bumper holder made of PVC
I can smell the salt air so clear
Papa and Grandma are always with me
Ahh, that is true tranquility!!!
THE GOOD OLE DAYS
PEACE IN MY HEART THAT WILL NEVER DEPART put this on a notch above the daily fluff for Father's day  Love you Papa Angel, to stay!!
#on #my #cover #photo #posted #papas #suv #pic
Continue reading...
M e l l o Jul 2019
Kape Tayo
Simpleng aya lang pero alam ko na kung ano ang naglalaro sa isip mo.

Ano na? Sasama ka ba?
Wag kang mag-alala hindi ako magtatanong kung
"open minded ka ba?"

Kung matagal na tayong magkakilala
alam na alam mo na kung ano ang aking sadya.

Umpisahan natin sa simpleng kamustahan,
madalas pag ako nag-aya malamang matagal tayong hindi nagkita
Saan ba tayo magkakape?
Ayos lang ba sayo
kung d'yan lang sa tabi tabi?
Pero alam kong mas maganda
ang usapan natin sa loob ng magandang café
pero pag wala tayong budget
baka naman pwede na iyong nescafé?
Ano ba mayroon sa pagkakape?
At bakit tila ba napakaimportante?
Ang tanong ano ba ang iyong forté?
Oh natawa ka mali pala ang aking sinabi
Ang ibig sabihin ko ay ano ba
ang gusto mo sa kape?
Malamig o maiinit?
Latté ba o yung frappe ang gusto mo
okay na ko sa brewed o americano
sorry medyo lactose intolerant ako
kaya bahala ka na mamili ng gusto mo
may kwento ako habang ika'y namimili
kwentohan kita tungkol sa mga taong
minsan ko nang inaya o di kaya'y nag-aya sakin na magkape
at sana mabasa niyo din ito
alam niyo na kung sino kayo dito,
wag kayong kabahan sa pagkat
ang inyong mga pangalan ay hindi ko
ipaglalandakan masyado akong concern sa pagkakaibigan natin
baka ako ay inyong biglang iwanan wag naman.


Simulan natin ang kwento sa kaibigan kong mga lalaki,
special 'tong dalawa kasi kakaiba
yung isa ang lakas ng loob niyang ayain ako
nang makapasok kami sa café
akala ko magkakape kami
akala ko lang pala yun
aba'y pagkapasok umorder agad ako ng kape
pero siya'y umorder ng tsokolate
loko 'to na scam ako
habang yung isa well,
ako yung nag-aya medyo matagal na din kaming hindi nagkita
kaya naman ako'y nabigla bagong buhay na daw siya
at umiiwas magkape sabi niya
gusto pa daw niyang matulog
nang mahimbing mamayang gabi
kaya ayun tsokalate din ang pinili
Ano?
Alam mo na yan kung sino ka d'yan.

Kinakabahan ka na ba?
Ikaw na kasunod nito.

May dalawa pa akong kaibigan
na lalaki,
pareho silang pag nag-aaya magkape
kailangan ko pang bumyahe
yung isa mailap at andyan lang
sa makati
at yung isa kailangan ko pang mag mrt kasi nakatira siya sa quezon city
sobrang weird lang ng isa kasi
yung bagong flavor sa menu nang café
tinatry niya parati
banggitin ko yung nasubukan niyang
flavor sa teavana series ng SB
Hibiscus tea with pomegranate
nasabi mo lasang gumamela
at yung matcha & espresso fusion
na nagmadali kang umuwi pagkatapos **** uminom
Hulaan mo kung sino ka rito?


Lipat tayo sa mga kaibigan
kong mga babae
pero bago ko simulan ang kwento,
madami akong kaibigang babae na sobrang mahilig din magkape
pero pasintabi sa mga lalaki
may gusto lamang akong ipabatid
pag kaming mga babae
ang magkakasamang magkape
pag ikaw ang nobyo ng isa dito'y
malamang lovelife ninyo ang topic
wag mabahala kapatid kasi
madami dami din naman kaming
napag-uusapan maliban sa lovelife niyong medyo kinulang
minsan may nangyayari pang retohan
pero lahat yun biro lang baka mapagalitan
pag ang topic na yan ang hantungan
kung ikaw ay nasa tabing mesa lang
malamang mapapailing ka na lang
sa mga topic namin na
punong puno ng kabaliwan
minsan pinaguusapan pa namin
kung sino yung couple
na naghiwalayan kamakailan, inaamin ko
songsong couple kasama sa usapan.

Dalawang grupo 'tong kasunod.

Eto yung mga kaibigan ko na kung kami'y magkape puro deep talks ang nangyayari,
mga bagay sa mundo na hindi mo akalain nakakagulo sa taong akala mo hindi pasan ang mundo.
Mabibigat na usapan na may kasamang konti lang naman na iyakan
sama ng loob, pagkabigo at sobrang pagka stressed sa trabaho.
Ilang mura ang maririnig mo
pag sensitive ka at hindi nagmumura
hindi ka kasama dito.
Eto yung deep talks na walang tulogan
alam mo na yan part ka dito
mga usapan na kung iyong pakikinggan ay
masasabi mo sobrang weird naman
ang mga topic ay everything
under the sun yun nga lang dudugo tenga mo sa technical terms at englishan.

Eto yung grupo ng deep talks yung topic ay puro pangarap, eto yung deep talks na masasabi kong very inspirational at educational. Hindi tulad ng naunang grupo
sa ganitong usapan madami kang malalaman.
Dito lalabas ang mga katagang
"Wag mo kasing masyadong galingan"
at yung "baka hindi mo ginalingan"
Sasakit ang tiyan mo kakatawa at sasakit mata mo sa kakapigil ng iyong luha eto yung genres ng deep talks na may humor, drama, slice of life, at shoujo.
Mga usapang trabaho katulad nang parang naging monotonous at routinary na ang buhay:
Need mo lang ng new environment?
Mag bakasyon ka?
Career growth?
Feeling stagnant?
At
Mga usapang gigil sa ganitong mga tirada:
Ilang taon ka na?
Kelan ka mag-aasawa?
May boyfriend ka na ba?
Nagpapayaman ka ba?
Bakit si ano may ganito na ikaw kelan?
Naka move on ka na ba?

Ano asan kayo d'yan?
Wala ba?

May grupo din na sila laging nag-aayang magkape, mga kaibigan ko na ang usapan lagi ay magkita
sa ganitong oras ay palaging
hindi sumasakto ang dating
Pag eto yung kasama ko puro usapan namin ay mga memories noong elementary
minsan lang magkakasama pero ang samahan solid naman ang lalakas mag kulitan o ano kelan ulit tayo pupunta ng mambukal?
Sino na ang ikakasal?


Sa sobrang dami kong nabanggit
muntik ko nang makalimutan ang dalawang babae na 'to
pag kami nagkikita bakit puro ako yung napupurohan sa asaran
ang layo namin ngayon pero sana
pag-uwi ay magkakape ulit tayong tatlo
sobrang dami ko nang baong kwento malamang yung isa dyan isang maleta ang hila niyan
sagot ko na ang kape pero pakiusap
hayaan niyo muna akong makaganti.


Ang dami ko nang naikwento pero hindi mo ba naitanong
kung saan nanggaling ang pagkahilig
ko sa kape? Walk through kita sa buhay ko, mahilig magkape ang papa ko, mas naunang nakatikim ng kape ang kapatid ko, yung isa hindi mo mapipilit magkape at madalas magsimsim ang mama ko sa kape ko.

May mga tao din akong nakasama magkape, may mga sobrang ganda ng topic. Dali na kwento mo na. May mga taong tatanungin ka din kong ano ba ang hilig mo pati pagsusulat ko kinakamusta ako.
Hindi lahat alam na nagsusulat ako yung iba na may alam, kabahan kana alam **** andito ka.

Salamat sa pagbabasa, ngayon lang ako lumabas para isama ka sa obra na 'to.
Asahan mo na marami pang kasunod na iba,
nakatago lang sa kahon kung saan memoryado ko pa.


Lahat nang naikwento kong tao mahalaga sa buhay ko, yung iba nakilala ko lang nang husto dahil sa simpleng salita na "kape tayo"
Alam mo na kung bakit importante sakin ang pagkakape?
Alam mo na ang aking sadya?
Kung hindi pa baka hindi mo pa ako kilala. Handa akong magpakilala sayo, makinig sa kwento mo. Nag-aalala ka na baka isulat ko?
Sasabihan kita ng diretso kung oo.
Hindi mo pa ba ako nakasama magkape?
Ngayon pa lang inaanyayahan kita, taos puso kitang iniimbitahan.

"Kape tayo"

Sana sumama ka.
Poetry appreciation piece for my family, friends & coffee buddies
#filipino #freestyle #family #friends #coffee #appreciation #love #humor
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
dynamic of aphorisms no. 174 - 178
apologies, but i will not be abstracting people
as mere pronoun users,
i know i should, but i kinda like "painting"
and giving peoeple race, and differences,
i can't really establish what pronoun-bleaching
would do to, oh i don't know,
perhaps i'd be writing this...

back when i still worked as a roofer and was doing
a project in Greenwich,
  nice try, construction industry men don't
go to the gym... what a joy to remember my roots...
anyway...
    what was i saying?
   so i commuted from north east london
this this little village...
and it really has a feel about it that it is a village...
i went into the Greenwich waterstones
bookshop and spotted something interesting...
    a j. k. huysmans trilogy (beginning with la bas)
and ending with *cathedral, or something like that,
if i knew what the internet was saying,
i'd buy all three books...
     but i did the dumb thing of buying
the first book of the trilogy, that's always in print...
anyway, no small loss...
   and there stood sideways joseph roth's
the antichrist...
              i can't compare it to nietzsche work,
even though i should, given roth was jewish...
and i figured: if the concept is not originally
jewish and greek, and anti- is a prefix much
more easily understood these days with
the existence of anti-matter...
            than say... armilus...
    well... so i was commuting day to day,
and over the course of the project probably read
two of three books, roth's was one of them,
alongside nikos kazantzakis' blockbuster...
but something weird happened when i read roth
for the first time...
     sitting in this dockland train heading south
of the thames, a group of muslim "women"
spotted that i was literate,
     they sat, about 10 metres away from me...
but the word antichrist must have prompted them,
one just said out-loud: you're satan's *****...
huh?
   there i am, reading my own book not raving
mad reading it aloud, and there she has the prank
of associating a book to a very mysterious person
who riddles the bible being completed...
      mein gott: two world wars ever since nietzsche
wrote he was the person with the title kept
sorta on a whim for nearly 2000 years...
     and then two days ago my father has a car accident
and this hijab clad woman is driving,
  but she does a Pilate and doesn't take responsibility,
the passenger that's with her jumps out
   and gives my father his details
and the woman is pristine...
     a *******, what do you call it: sacred cow?
most pedestrians in england are treated as such...
  so she phones her son and gives the phone to my father
and her son says to my father: it's against
the law to phone the police, you can't phone them...
well... hey presto! we're in Saudi Arabia!
and this is what's worrying me...
no... nope... this is what pains me...
    i had to take my ego for a walk tonight...
i had to think a lot of ******* out,
how the ego would whimper and whine like a dog...
there's your "janus" / "contronym"...
ego... dog...
   the leash? i'm thinking with it...
and suddenly, clarifty, i can pierce it's *******
narrative and think about it... as any id might...
what i experienced was an ego-dispossesion...
   i lost it, it turned into an automaton,
robotic misery... hardly the angry Frankenstein monster...
i lost the care for an ego-embodiment...
i was dispossessed by it, robbed, thief! thief!
i needed to come back home and read
heidegger's aphorisms 174 through to 178 from
the ponderings (it would help that you read the
ponderings... after reading being & time)...
the pain i felt was very much akin to being British,
even though it's something i assimilated into...
which could mean that's it's the odd bit...
should i, shouldn't i feel some sentiment for my host
culture?
word are flying around the place,
they're calling it cultural marxism...
well... i come from a culture that had stated
marxism, period, i.e. supported by an economic model,
that worked, and would have worked,
had capitalism not done what capitalism does
naturally: compete!
   i'm watching these cultural marxists and, i think,
i'm watching penguins in a zoo...
  i don't know what to make of these marxists,
who aren't even leninists...
            where's the economic model?!
  
that's the problem of going to a catholic school
in england, attempting to stress multi-culturalism,
i even ojected to being confirmed ritually,
with a bishop from Brentwood,
sorry, too much Irish around the place....
i too thought i was about to say something in Gaelic...
outer-east london: a complete ******* jungle
of biodiversity...
     so did i misplace my allegiences?
to the tongue? to faking an ethnicity?
    of course i'm pisssed off, i spent the past 2 hours
walking the most mundane of walks,
bewildered why this woman in a hijab wouldn't
own up to causing a traffic accident...
i helped him will out the police forms,
and there she is, on paper, smug like some ****** mary
because i'm the one that really doesn't think
that Islam got Project Hair wrong,
me? personally? i think that woman's hands ought to
be covered,
     in thinking terms, a woman's hands could
get me more excited than a woman's foot...
but sure... hell... why not hair?!
              the last time i checked, normal people
have an aversion toward hair...
ever see that person almost vomiting when they found
a stranger's hair in their soup?
  that **** that grows on your hair is the only silk
you've got... how about a few toenail clippings
to boot? first thing a sane would think: ****! ****!
oh, we're going to get on... just fine, just fine...
   the next time i think about encouraging
an **** ******* position's worth of prayer
i'll be a ******* cardinal.
   what's wrong with taking responsibility?
why are Islamic women so immune to the tractātus
of law? where's the jurisprudence?
   i'd call it something more than diabolical...
you can really become a vampire when you're told
the lesson: those that thirst for justice...
  lesser leech...
            who gives a **** whether it was: "but a scratch"?
woman! take responsibility!
  pampered little coconut jugglers...
   now to think of it... leave those curtains,
and this one time: she was walking with a buggy
and a small child and she unveiled herself from
a niqab before me...
           the perfect arabian nightmare i could
have ever witnessed...
             i had long hair back then...
what she revealed from under that niqab?
wait... am i writing this in the times
when the French occupied the Holy Land and had
the first thirst / idea of a colony?
  
this is me, imitating punching a brick wall...
this is me... in a boxing ring...
bashing myself...
            this is me thinking about how man
has no capacity to usher in karma,
how man's concept of law is hardly cosmic,
how man is a kniving ******* that
deserves something beyond a heaven and a hell:
rather: a return to his self...
that's what i keep telling myself:
i don't want heaven, i don't want hell...
i, just, want, to, return, to, my, self...
    yes, that's a reflection,
hence the pronoun has no compound, i.e. isn't
a reflexive understanding for the fluidity of language
expressed by the concerning compound: myself.
perhaps that's just the beginning of understanding
the noumenon / thing in itself, or rather to counter
the fluidity of the word itself, since, evidently
it self makes no sense that could ever produce
a concept akin to the noumenon...

why wouldn't this woman care to give an inkling into
her concept of right and wrong...
she's driving the ******* car, she makes a doo doo...
pauper... **** up!
            i still don't know why it was about hair...
you like a stranger's **** in a soup?
   what's with this middle eastern fetish for covering it?
hey! beginning from 1986, am i sorta automatically
involved in a cult that has a vintage of ageing from
a **** of a camel a long time ago?
  no wonder the knighthood ceremony was initiated
by slapping a newly initiated knight across the cheek,
like i said, a woman's hand is more ******
than her hair...
      i'd say: take up ye care to don gloves!
and that, i'm sure, will never happen.

it's probably the most delicate thing a woman can possess...
a hand...
the rest is what darwinism cared to provide us with:
a black widow, a mantis;
and that's talking pure earnest about the matter...

listen, i spent the past two hours having the ordeal of
an ego... which i had to anti-narrate into theory...
yes, the id was helpful, is actually told me, or rather,
interrupted the ego from the narrative
to give me this *******'s worth of profanity
(and yes, with due reason; ever fill out a police form
concerning some accident? do that, then you'll be equipped
to read Tolstoy)...

so it was ego-possessiveness,
      the ego already thinks its eternally subject...
that's one of the implants...
eternity and god are inherent in ego,
   your heart means absolutely nothing when the ego
has been given certainity that it can't shake off...
what the ego isn't given is a unit of reason
that sees past it... the id...
in relation to dualism and the much active dichotomy
as alternative to an equilibrium of dualism
i will outrightly exclude the superego
  as nothing but antithesis to the ubermann theory
of overcoming man...
  and on their shoulder they once had
the epitomes of cartoon conscience, an angel and a demon...
but thanks to the superego: they had mama
on their left shoulder, and papa on their right shoulder...

just the mere act of shutting that thing up
was enough, and it was apparent,
that writing fiction could be to blame,
   writing fiction can be rightly guessed at
for levitating a condition of medical proportion
into the realm of mythology,
    we have already depersonalised the unit
of ego to the extent that it has become polarised,
bipolar, e.g., comes from a depersonalised
gravity of ego,
we're no longer in need to write books,
we're in a dire need to write our own psyches...
and it all stems from making the basic human unit,
bound to the privacy of thought,
as needing a system that outweighs the moral
stratum,
           what can a person actually be or become
to even dream about asserting that there is
a da-sein (i.e. something, somethingness)
          "happening"?
i feel that there's something worse than a second
nakedness emerging,
         it's this incapacity to move on,
it's a mental nakedness, i am more easily prone
to dress my body in clothes
than i am able to dress my ego in thoughts,
than can correlate adequately, and peacefully...
toward something akin to a symbiosis
that can reach a = status, rather than an
   ≠ or an ≈ status... ****! Aquarius!
isn't the ≈ symbol the basis for it?
oh hell, back into the zodiac...
              
     i know my ego can be a downer,
but at least that's who i am talking about...
aphorisms no. 174 through to 178?
i do odd experiments with books,
     this is the first of its kind,
i'm actually going to rattle-******* this book out
till it feels like having wanked it 20 times
in a single day... i'll write what i "feel",
funny word, that word feel...
you never get to use it these days,
man is more about hammering in nails than
saying: ooh... that hurts...
and we all know what happened to Jesus'
teaching... forgive strangers...
     make sure your former friends are
crucified up-side down...
                 that really went far...
                      i can just see him...
an oasis of bullet-proof clauses...
              about how to handle people...
give them l.s.d. unconsciously!
         then wait for actual l.s.d. to arrive
and then worry...
when they took to their Swiss bicycles...
and writing poetry... and eating a soft-boiled
egg... given the concern for cholesterol:
a hard concept to fathom: that runny yoke...
     never ate mine with salt, i always like
that idea of legalised abortion...
                and we can be just that...
so imaginative to consolidate being mammal
that we can fathom eating chicken eggs
as easily as abortions... runny yokes have no basis
for a morality, or a compass...
they just are... runny... yummy...
             i call yokes the male version of
a woman's fascination with chocolate...
  i think egg yokes are the equivalent of cholocate
for men as chocolate is for women...
or so the advert said...

aphorism 174: as language...

          aphorism 175:
              philosophy catching up to science,
akin to theology catching up to philosophy,
both condescending extracts
that end up with both of the extreme parties
dressing up funny.

aphorism 176: such that newspapers are
the natural preservers? i.e. the idea of historical
escapism.

      (toilet paper does, much much more,
than a newspaper actually provides,
   press freedom is a bit boring to be honest,
beginning with the need for a moral agent
that's less and less moral, and more prone to
darwinism, i.e. selective, which is also said via:
what's natural, in a more and more techno-savvy culture?)

aphorism 177: only as, a rural thinker unto
a rural thinker... a case of describing a perfume
of those thinking about a day after tomorrow,
   but more precisely:
  the day before yesterday that didn't involve them...
say, on the ethnicity basis,
  the talk of being inheriting from the form
of ancestry... how we cultivate cucumbers,
tomatoes, prejudices...
   which is why i'm a slav happily talking a tongue
that's germanic, an off-shoot saxon,
and hopefuly defending it.

aphorism 178:
         "everything great wavers and wobbles,
stands in a storm. the beautiful is difficult."
   Ezra too, with the last, alas.
     but it's true... what happened in england in the second
part of the 20th century was great,
  and it did indeed wobble past the storm into
a desert of retirement...
            a peaceful coming toward terms of
a natural agreement...
   the generation preceding mine enshrined in their
psyche an england they heard over the radio...
king crimson... all such artistic expressions
found a case to take root...
     how parasites never attack a feeble creature
and only take roost in a strong symbiotic partner...
once it was said england could resemble ancient greece,
and it did, from the second part of the 20th century...
but that ended...
               it's gone, i have inherited a communist
past, a marxism with a concept of money,
and economic policy that wasn't inherently competitive,
but it also wasn't a welfare policy of the Marshall Plan,
and all i get is this freakish counter-movement
known as marxism in culture...
   that's worse than marxism in economy!

it should be heartbreaking to say this,
but coming from a monochromatic society,
watching the death of communism...
     i could say it was perfect... but then i can't
given my grandparents have a secure pension plan
that the state provides... i like that joke,
i just said it, and it makes perfect sense...
there is much more of Pilate in the history
of the peoples than there is of Jesus...
washing my hands clean, the companies said,
meaning self-employment...
     unless you have a really hungry libido
you actually do start worrying about keeping up
the numbers...
  companies don't...
      it's a bit of a bollocking...
i come from what could be imagined as a safety
economics of marxism into a marxism of culture
that i simply can't comprehend...
              well: it did give "us" a sense of pride,
and a will to rebuild warsaw without any american
money...
        the russians just said: where's your pride?
do you want to take their money and have it easy?
and when i ask that question:
i just start thinking about arabs without their oily diapers...
oil diaper... not exactly black gold:
oil diapers...
             Ahmed gonna poo poo?
              &nbsp
Continue reading...
Federico García Lorca
Los pelegrinitos
Hacia Roma caminan
dos pelegrinos,
a que los case el Papa,
mamita,
porque son primos,
niña bonita,
porque son primos,
niña.
Sombrerito de hule
lleva el mozuelo,
y la peregrinita,
mamita,
de terciopelo,
niña bonita,
de terciopelo,
niña.
Al pasar por el puente
de la Victoria,
tropezó la madrina,
mamita,
cayó la novia,
niña bonita,
cayó la novia,
niña.
Han llegado a Palacio,
suben arriba,
y en la sala del Papa
mamita,
los desaniman,
niña bonita,
los desaniman,
niña.
Les ha preguntado el Papa
cómo se llaman.
El le dice que Pedro
mamita,
y ella que Ana,
niña bonita,
y ella que Ana,
niña.
Le ha preguntado el Papa
que qué edad tienen.
Ella dice que quince,
mamita,
y él diecisiete,
niña bonita,
y él diecisiete,
niña.
Le ha preguntado el Papa
de dónde eran.
Ella dice de Cabra,
mamita,
y él de Antequera,
niña bonita,
y él de Antequera,
niña.
Le ha preguntado el Papa
que si han pecado.
El le dice que un beso,
mamita,
que le había dado,
niña bonita,
que le había dado,
niña.
Y la peregrinita,
que es vergonzosa,
se le ha puesto la cara,
mamita,
como una rosa,
niña bonita,
como una rosa,
niña.
Y ha respondido el Papa
desde su cuarto:
¡Quién fuera pelegrino,
mamita,
para otro tanto,
niña bonita,
para otro tanto,
niña!
Las campanas de Roma
ya repicaron
porque los pelegrinos,
mamita,
ya se casaron,
niña bonita,
ya se casaron,
niña.
Continue reading...
Bvaishnavi Jun 2023
Untitled
What is it papa?
Oh That my princess, it's an aeroplane,

Papa, I want one aeroplane, please.
Ooh, do you? Tomorrow you will have one I promise,

Papa, look plane plane, flying flying.
Yes now turn around, look there,
Wow papa, it's a plane plane, is it real,
Yes I just grabbed it from sky for you,
How papa are you a super hero?
Hahaha yes my little doll as long as you believe so,
Woooh, Papa let's fly,
Yess let's fly hohoooo,

Papa this is not real plane,
Yes beta it wasn't,
Why did you lie,I really thought you could fly,
Sorry beta, I wanted to be your superhero at least for some time.

No papa, you are wrong,
I know,
No superhero can be my dad. Now come let's play.
Continue reading...
Curtis C Jun 2017
Beginning of a 1 man show...
Ms. Minerva’s
Helpful Hints and a guide through life



Ms.Minerva…
Born September 1885….died September 1976, 91 years old.  She didn’t marry until she was 45 and had her first child that year.  Getting married at 45 was something that didn’t happen to often for women back then, especially a black woman.  Then low and behold 5 years later: what the doctor called her second tumor, she had her second and last child at 50, a baby girl and her change of life in one shot.
        But her true joy came along 17 years later at 67….only being a mother for 22 years; she was now a grandmother……that’s where I came in!  My mother’s oldest child and Ms Minerva, my grandmother’s baby boy……..Mama!!

    It is important to tell you that from here on, the stories will be in no certain order….they’re as I remember them.  As I found understanding, THE LIGHT, as she called it.
MS. MINERVA’S HELPFUL HINTS…
2
[Song – Higher & Higher]
This song became her theme song for a while:  Love, knowledge taking you higher!!  Ms Minerva (Mama) the first career women I knew.  In 1967, she heard this song and realizes that this song talked about what kept her going…LOVE!  Love took her higher and higher and it was love that she shared………with me!

MM: “Boy, you might not understand what I’m telling you, but remember it remember all you hear, see, taste and feel….. because understanding come with time and when you ready for it!”
Knowledge……. Love………Understanding……Enlightenment take us higher.

How?  How did a black woman in south Louisiana go out, have a career, a family with little education but wise beyond her years.  Oh, when I say career woman I mean a cook, maid, nanny but mama said,

MM: “those jobs keep us going and I was one of the best, always be the best at what you do…greatness comes in all sizes!”


3
Another thing I should say is: some of the stories that I will share have not been documented as fact.  They were hers that she shared with me…..
Like one night watching TV…….

MM: Lord, Lord, Lord…
CC:  What’s the matter Mama?
MM:  Did I ever tell you about when I worked at an all boys’ school in New (N’Orleans) Orleans.  I was the one who stayed with the boys at
night.  Well, there was one lil’ boy that was always
sneaking out of bed going outside playing his horn.
I would take it from him and beat his ****.  The day
they give it back to him, that night he would sneak outside
again.  Beating his **** didn’t help, he just kept sneaking out
no matter how long we kept the horn.
CC: What happen to him mama?
She pointed to the TV and said:
MM:  There he is……


4
Louie Armstrong singing HELLO DOLLY raise in an all boys home in New (N’Orleans) Orleans….was this true……I don’t know.  Did and do I believe it….YES!
This was also one of the times I receive one of ….Ms Minerva’s Helpful Hint:

MM: You can be anything you want if you believe
and have the passion for it! Believe in
your passion because you are your passion
and you must always believe in you….yourself!  
No matter what others say or think….it’s you who
must believe!

Believing, she was a big believer. she believed in people and the good in them.


5
MM:  Always see the positive in people, in everything thing.
No matter how negative someone or something is
there is always an ounce of positive…..go for the positive,
it will always carry you through and shine light

Everywhere, positive light.

I often wonder how someone so positive in my life, who taught me to look up and be strong could be so down on her daughter , my mother.  When I was sent to fly with the eagles she was told to stay on earth.  This was one of my confusions, I knew there was a lot of love there between them but so hard for them to share……Understanding comes with time.

When I was 7 years old I was sent to the kitchen to cook for a family of 5.  It wasn’t what you think.  At 72 years old Ms. Minerva wasn’t seeing things to well. So, instead of saying; Old woman you need to stop, you’re losing it.  She was told; “It’s time for Curtis to start learning how to cook, he needs to know how to take care of himself.”  So, what I thought was a prison

6

sentence became some of the most wonderful and important times of my life……
I was allow to be a child and do the things children do but at 5, maybe 5:30 I went to spend my hour or two with Ms. Minerva, my best friend…..learning the secrets of the kitchen and of life.

MM:  you have got to know how to take care of yourself.
I won’t be here to take care of you but I’ll always
be watching over you, I'll always be with you!

Like a lot of things, I didn’t get it then, but I do now:

One day, I was tormenting my grandfather….Oh I haven’t and won’t say much about him because that is a whole other story, but I’ll share this much with you:
  His name was Tower Jackson Sr. better known as Bud (papa to me).  He was born in December of 1880 and died in 1969, it’s funny but I don’t remember the month or day, it just kinda went a way.  Anyway, I think he
7
was married once before Ms Minerva…that’s what he said.  He had a daughter…Aunt Traci….who was old enough to be my mother’s mother.  Remember THE COLOR PURPLE he was kinda like Mister and Old Mister but not as bad.  But Ms Minerva wasn’t Ms Celia…she was more like Sophia. Papa loved me unconditionally and he was my playmate but I don’t think he realized that point but I had a great time.

Back to one of the days I was tormenting him…he was finish with me and he got up and came after me…he was between 75 or 80.  I starting running and he came after me.  We lived in a house that was once a duplex, I ran out of his room, which was in the middle of the house, took a left and headed for the kitchen and the back door, that was open to freedom.  I got to the kitchen and I could see the back door standing open and waiting for me….  But out the corner of my eye, I see Ms. Minerva washing dishes.  I turn right, then a sharp left and I’m almost to the door…..just then an arm reach out and push the door close…..I can’t stop……I hit the door and fall to the floor.  Just before papa grab me to start the whipen’ and mama looks down at me and say:      

8
MM: Boy, didn’t I tell you to stop running in my house and don’t every run away!”
Well, it was all over.  I got a whipin’…one I would never forget.  Papa felt so guilty he took me for Ice Cream almost everyday for a week.
But later that day…….Ms Minerva’s helpful hint:

MM:  Baby the reason I don’t want you running, especially when
you’re scared, is because you’ll be running for the rest
of your life.  When you run out of fear you’re only
running from yourself.  No matter what people think
or what’s happening stand and face it…Don’t Run!
Believe in yourself and you can beat it.

I didn’t really understand what she was saying, but when I’m scared I hear her voice and I stand (sometime that old confusion comes in with my mother) but most time I stand, face it and deal with it.  Growing, Changing and changing and growing!  Stronger everyday.


9
I remember when I was 12, it was a Sat and a beautiful day and Ms. Minerva called me into the house.  It wasn’t time for cooking and it was Sat but I went:
MM:  I need to talk to you.
CC: Mama can we talk later I’m playing.
MM:   No, I want and need to talk to you NOW!. let’s cook.

I knew that was it.  When she says: “let’s cook” the battle was over, she felt it was important.  We got to the kitchen and started pulling stuff out …
MM: You’re special
CC:  No, no don’t start this again.
MM:  No, no, no you’re special! You’re a *****, a punk, *****…

There were a few other choice colorful names…Then she said:

MM:  Now that someone that loves you, truly loves you have
called you these names they can’t hurt you.  You’re gay
and it’s not something I would chose for you but it’s

10
who you are.  But it makes you more special and wonderful because you are different. You are my special, but it’s only apart of you and your life, not your whole life or the whole you.  You can chose to practice or not.  You are made up of many parts, many yous…..Be Proud of who you are! Never hang your head, You will be a great man…even greater because you know who and what you are.

That day, I knew what love was and what love is.  Unconditional Love.  I was Proud to be who and what I was and who and what I was to become.  Proud of Who I Am and What I Am.

Music was always heard in my house, all kind, mama believed in   experiencing everything in everyway.
MM:  You need to know about it all, don’t let ignorance
be your down fall.  That’s what’s wrong with most folk,
they just don’t know and don’t want to learn.  Education
is freedom; knowledge is light….don’t ever stand
in the dark, you’ll only hurt yourself.

11

There were a few things I didn’t learn or just didn’t remember.  Remember I said; she didn’t like running in her house.  Well, when I was a kid I was a runner, a mover, didn’t want to get caught…so I just kept moving.   Well, one day my mother was going to whip my ****, I don’t even know why this time but she grab my arm and I just started running around her and every time I heard the belt hit…I would yell.  I think I might have gotten hit once or twice but my mother’s legs, oh boy, but she kept going and so did I.
Then I heard the voice…….
MM:  Sister, what are you doing?
Sister, that’s what everyone called my mother, even me.  she sat down in her chair
MM: Bring that boy over here and let me show you
how to do that.

The she put me on my knees and stuck my head between her knees and turn her feet in and locked her knees.  My ears were hurting but not compared to how my **** was going to feel.  Then I heard……

12
MM:  Now, see you got wide-open ****!

Then the whipping began and it was one I’d never forget and the whole time she just kept talking to my mother…..I can hear her and feel the belt now..

MM:  Girl you need to get out of the way and stop making
it so hard.  Just breathe and believe, it’ll come together….
Now, go put something on your legs.

It took me awhile to start breathing but I did and I remembered what she said; “Just breathe and believe.” and when I don’t I just remember that belt on my ****.
Whenever people hear this story, they’re shocked, confuse…well, this was a different time and Ms. Minerva was a different kind of woman.  A wipen' wasn’t something that happen everyday, I never ended up in the hospital and I was shower with love….. a different day – a different time.
              


13
Around that time I remember I went through my Ultra Black stage.  I had some problem at school and I hated all white people and I was very
vocal about it.  Mama, just listen and I went on and on and on….and somewhere in there she hit me and it shocked and stopped me in my tracks.  Then she looked at me and said:
MM:  Who spit on you?  Who’s bus did you sit on the back of?  
Who’s kitchen or yard did you work in?  Nothing, nothing has happen to you that bad to hate…..Don’t hate it takes to much energy.  Remember the positive.  Some white people are ignorance and you have to educate them.  You can’t be just one thing in America you have to know about all……people and things.  There will come a time in America when people will be more than just one race, we have and are mixing it up.  LEARN…we are all connected, we are all one, and we are all God!














  14

One other thing about my grandfather (Bud)…he had a scar over his right eye and I always asked him about it and he would say, “Go ask mama.”  But being a kid I would forget and then ask him again.  Well one day I remembered to ask Mama how he got the scar.  

MM: Who told you to ask me?

CC:  Papa……..

She started laughing and told me to sit down……

MM: One day papa came home and had decided he was going to beat me.  Someone had told him that I would take it because I should feel lucky he married an old woman.  So, he came in and hit me!  I had the broom in my hand (I had just finish sweeping) and I took that broom and started beating him with it until I broke the handle on his head.  But he kept coming and backed me up to the mantle where I had my teacups. (She collected cups and saucer) and I begin throwing them at him and when I realize I was breaking my cups…. I got mad and threw them harder and one hit him over the eye…. He stopped and went down…it was a bad cut.

cc:  What did you do?

MM:  I stepped over him and finishing cooking.  I knew he would live and I saw it didn’t hit him in the eye and it gave him something to remember this moment.  You have to leave a mark on people to remember you by….. hopefully it’s a positive mark but sometime it might have to be an ugly one.  People will treat you the way you let them and there will be time you have to show and leave them something to remember it by.  Don’t go through life getting beat up especially by yourself.

There were a few times I didn’t follow that bit of advice…...but understanding, the light came in time.


15
MM:  You have to open up and let people in --- because a lot of times you see yourself through them and don’t you want them and yourself to see the truth?  THE TRUE YOU!

Early mornings were wonderful for Ms. Minerva:

MM:  Morning is my time to talk to Me and God and get us together for the day.  Some folks don’t know that they are God….your positive energy creates your world and parts of the world of others.  When you create you must be honest, positive, loving……God!  So, my quiet times in the morning is finding honest, positive, loving, creative things and feeling…..finding God in me!!!!!!!!

(Song – Amazing Grace)


One night while watching TV; we watched a lot of TV…..watching TV and cooking…anyway, it was the Mitch Miller Singers and Leslie Uggams was singing:

MM:  That’s a cute little colored girl.
CC:  Mama, we’re not colored anymore, we’re Black.

There was silent and then a sigh….

CC:  What’s the matter mama?
MM:  I’ve been *****, colored and a few other names that I don’t want to talk about and now I’m Black……I wish they would make up their minds what I am!

Then she told me:

MM:  No matter who or what people think you are…You have to know yourself, people will always try to make you into what they want you to be but the final choice is yours. You Must Know Curtis.

Her helpful hints could and would come anytime, anywhere:
MM:  life is a lesson to learn…never, never stop learning!
16

Whenever I talk about Ms. Minerva I realize how much she means to me and how good it makes me feel because I see how good it makes others feel……people showing me…..Me and Ms. Minerva.

The day Ms. Minerva died I was in Shreveport/Bossier, LA in the Air Force, it was September 1976.  I was at work in the printing plant at Barksdale AFB.  My boss told me the commander wanted to see me, he was acting a little strange but at the time I didn’t think much of it.  Walking out to my car my best friend ran out after me and said he was going with me….”they call for me too.”  We got in the car laughing and talking about all the things they coul
Continue reading...
Giuseppi Martino Buonaiuto Jun 2014
"Hemingway Myth in Smithereens"
Stick with me, friend.
I’d like to make a distinction:
I revere writers but do not deify them.
My heroes and role models must be grounded,
Must have so-called feet of clay.
And there’s always something more in my craw,
Whenever I see scribblers carved in marble,
Glorified to the point of divinity and magic.
Because in my heart of hearts,
Reverence for writers,
Is an odyssey of disillusionment and

I fancy myself a man of letters,
Although “Humanoid of Keystrokes,”
Might be more apt; an appellation,
Digitally au courant.
I am a man on verbal fire,
Perhaps, I am of a Lost Generation myself.
And don’t you dare tell me to sit down, to calm down.
You stand up when you tell a story.
Even Hemingway--even when he was sitting down--knew that.
Let us go then you and I.
Moving our moveable feast to Paris,
To France, European Union, Earth, Milky Way Galaxy.
(Stick with me, Babaloo!)
Why not join Papa at a tiny table at Les Deux Magots,
Savoring the portugaises,
Working off the buzz of a good Pouilly-Fuisse
At 10:30 in the morning.
The writing: going fast and well.

Why not join that pompous windbag ******* artist?
As he tries to convince Ava Gardner,
That writers tienen cajones grandes, tambien—
Have big ***** too—just like Bullfighters,
Living their lives all the way up.
That writing requires a torero’s finesse and fearlessness.
That to be a writer is to be a real man.
A GOD MAN!
Papa is self-important at being Ernest,
(**** me: some lines cannot be resisted.)
Ava’s **** is on fire.
She can just make him out,
Can just picture him through her libidinous haze,
Leaping the corrida wall,
Setting her up for photos ops with Luis Miguel Dominguín,
And Antonio Ordóñez, his brother-in-law rival,
During that most dangerous summer of 1959.
Or, her chance to set up a *******,
With Manolete and El Cordobés,
While a really *******,
Completely defeated & destroyed 2,000-pound bull,
Bleeds out on the arena sand.

Although I revere writers,
I refuse to deify them.
A famous writer must be brought down to earth--
Forcibly if necessary--
Chained to a rock in the Caucasus,
Their liver noshed on by an eagle.
In short: the abject humiliation of mortality.
Punished, ridiculed and laughed at.
Laughing himself silly,
******* on one’s self-indulgent, egocentric universe.
If not, what hope do any of us have?

Writing for Ernie may have been a divine gift,
His daily spiritual communion and routine,
A mere sacramental taking of dictation from God,
But for most of us writing is just ******* self-torture.
The Hemingway Hero:
Whatever happened to him on the Italian-Austrian front in 1918
May have been painful but was hardly heroic.
The ******* was an ambulance driver for Christ’s sake.
Distributing chocolate and cigarettes to Italian soldiers,
In the trenches behind the front lines,
A far cry from actual combat.
Besides, he was only on the job for two weeks,
Before he ****** up somehow,
Driving his meat-wagon over a live artillery shell.
That BB-sized shrapnel in his legs,
Turned out to be his million-dollar wound,
A gift that kept on giving,
Putting him in line for a fortunate series of biographic details, to wit:
Time at an Italian convalescent hospital in Milano,
Staffed by ***** English nurses,
Who liked to give the teenage soldiers slurpy BJs,
Delirious ******* in the middle of the night,
Sent to Paris as a Toronto Star reporter,
******* up to that big **** Gertrude Stein,
Sweet-talking Sylvia Beach,
At Shakespeare & Company bookstore,
Hitting her up for small loans,
Manipulating and conning Scott Fitzgerald—
The Hark the Herald Jazz Age Angel—
Exploiting F. Scott’s contacts at Scribners,
To get The Sun Also Rises published.
Fitzgerald acted as his literary agent and advocate,
Even performing some crucial editing on the manuscript.
Hemingway got payback for this friendship years later,
By telling the world in A Moveable Feast,
That Zelda convinced Scott he had a small ****--
Yeah, all of it stems from those bumps & bruises,
Scrapes & scratches he got near Schio,
Along the Piave River on July 8, 1918.
Slap on an Italian Silver Medal of Valor—
An ostentatious decoration of dubious Napoleonic lineage—
40,000 of which were liberally dispensed during WWI—
And Ernie was on his way.

Was there ever a more arrogant, world-class scumbag;
A more graceless-under-pressure,
Sorry excuse of a machismo show-horse?
Look: I think Hemingway was a great writer,
But he was a gigantic gasbag,
A self-indulgent *****,
And a mean-spirited bully—
That bogus facade he put on as this writer/slash/bullfighter,
Kilimanjaro, great white hunter,
Big game Bwana,
Sport fishing, hard drinking,
Swinging-****, womanizing,
*** I-******-Ava-Gardner bragging rights—all of it—
Just made him a bigger, poorer excuse for a human being,
When the chips were finally down,
When the truth finally caught up with him,
In the early morning hours,
Of July 2, 1961, in Ketchum, Idaho.
I can’t think of a more pathetic writer’s life than
Hemingway’s last few years.
Sixty electric shock treatments,
And the ******* still killed himself.

NRA www.nra.org/ The National Rifle Association: America's foremost defender of Second Amendment rights since 1871. NRA Home Page, Programs, Members-Only Discounts and Services - Login Get $7K Worth of Insurance & Gifts! Search Results NRAwww.nra.org/

Suicide Prevention Hotline Need help?
In the U.S., call:  1-800-273-8255  

At the end of your rope?  Be an ***** Donor!  
      
Organdonor. gov | Becoming a Donor, organdonor.gov | Become a Donor, www.organdonor.gov/become.asp There are many reasons why people suffer end-stage ***** failure & need an ***** transplant & why others are not accepted as ***** donors.

Phone:   804-782-4920,  

So why am I still mesmerized by,
The whole Hemingway hero thing?
That stoicism, the grace under pressure,
That real men don’t eat quiche,
A la Norman Mailer crap?
I guess I can relate to both Hemingway the Matador,
And Hemingway the Pompous *******,
Not to mention Mailer who stabbed his second of six wives,
And threw his fourth out of a third-floor window.
One thing’s for sure: I’m living life all the way up,
Thanks to a steady supply of medical cannabis,
And some freaky chocolate chip cookies
From the Area 51--Our Products are Out of this World—Bakery
(“In compliance with CA prop 215 SE 420, Section 11362.5,
And 11362.7 of CA H.S.C. Do not drive,
Or operate heavy equipment,
While under the influence.
Keep out of reach of children,
And comedian Aziz Ansari.”)

So getting back to Hemingway,
I return to Cuba to work on my book.
During the day--usually in the early morning hours--
When “the characters drive me up there,”
I climb to my tower room,
Stand up at my typewriter in the upstairs alcove.
I stand up to tell my story because last night,
Everyone got drunk and threw all the ******* furniture in the pool.
By the way, I’m putting together my Nobel Prize acceptance speech.
I can’t decide between:
“I may be defeated but I’ll never be destroyed,” or
“You can destroy me but you’ll never defeat me.”
The kind of artistic doublespeak they love in Sweden.
Maybe: “Night falls and day breaks, but no one gets hurt.”
God help me.
I need to come up with a bunch of real pithy crap soon.
Maybe I’ll just smoke a joint before the speech and,
Start riffing off the cuff about literary good taste:

“In my novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls, for example, I had Maria tell Pilar that the earth moved, but left out the parts about Robert Jordan’s ******* and the tube of Astroglide.”

Stockholm’s only a month away,
So I’m under a lot of pressure.
Where’s Princess Grace under Pressure when I need her?
I used to work for the Kansas City Star,
Working with newspaper people who advocated:
Short sentences.
Short paragraphs.
Active verbs.
Authenticity.
Compression.
Clarity.
Immediacy.
Those were the only rules I ever learned,
For the business of writing,
But my prose tended to be a bit clipped, to wit:
A simple series,
Of simple declarative sentences,
For simpletons.
I’m told my stuff is real popular with Special-Ed kids,
And those ******* that run
The International Imitation Hemingway Competition,
AKA: The Bad Hemingway Contest.
The truth is: I always wanted to get a bit more flowery,
Especially after I found out I got paid by the word.
That’s when the *** and **** proved mighty useful.
        
I live at La Finca Vigia:
My house in San Francisco de Paula,
A Havana suburb.
My other place is in town,
Room #511 at the Hotel Ambos Mundos,
Where on a regular basis I _
(Insert simple declarative Anglo-Saxon expletive)
My guantanmera on a regular basis.
But La Finca’s the real party pad.
Fidel and Che and the rest of the Granma (aka “The Minnow”) crew
Come down from the mountains,
To use my shower and refresh themselves,
On an irregular basis.
At night we drink mojitos, daiquiris or,
The *** & coke some people call Cuba Libre.
We drink the *** and plan strategy,
Make plans for taking out Fulgencio Batista,
And his Mafia cronies,
Using the small arms and hand grenades,
We got from Allen Dulles.

Of course, after the Bay of Pigs debacle,
You had to go, Ernesto.
Kennedy had the CIA stage your suicide,
And that was all she wrote.
And all you wrote.
Never having had a chance,
To tell the 1960s Baby Boomers about class warfare in America.
Poor pathetic Papa Hemingway.
Lenin and Stalin may have ruined Marxism,
But Marx was no dummy.
Not in your book.
Or mine.
Continue reading...
Mercurychyld Aug 2014
PAPA...CAN YOU HEAR ME?
Many decades ago you chose
to walk away.
And even as I wished and
prayed for otherwise,
I knew...you would not stay.

Too many times as I endured
my hardships and cried
lonely tears,
I swore in my heart, if Papa
were here, for sure, he'd
chase away my fears.

But you were never there to
swathe or console me,
as the painful, sordid events
in this life stood to chain
and control me.

Mama's 'men' came and went,
but not before each cut deep
scars into the bark of my soul.
Deadly, wild parties were had,
no fairy tales here to extol.

What I truly wanted...needed
from You, Papa, would have
cost not one dime;
all I ever really wanted...needed
from You, Papa, was nothing
less, nothing more than...
your TIME.

There is just SO much more
this torn heart wants to say,
but alas, my spirit, so tired,
so frayed, chooses instead
to tuck away the words...
for another day.



-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Ode to my (deadbeat) dad, but I hold no hatred or grudges...anymore. I even kinda love the man...go figure.
Continue reading...
sabrine Nov 2013
Where's Papa?
I asked my mom where Papa was
She said he got a new job
And it's better than the old one

He's wanted it for 3 years
Because his old one didn't give him money
And his new one passed it out like candy

He had two jobs for a while
With his first he got a promotion
But it was too much work

So he was always late to his first
Because his second was more fun
And eventually he got a promotion

He quit his first job without warning
He left his office supplies too
His old boss burned them because he quit

I miss Papa I tell my mom
I miss him too my mom tells me
But the good in him died

Is he an evil man
He is not an evil man
But the good in him died

When will he come home
He will not come home
Because the good in him died
Continue reading...

— The End —