"pasadena" poems
The Rhyming Shuffle
Feeling all alone,
life is on postpone.
No one seems to care,
time is now to beware.
Stick me with a fork,
in my *** is a scented cork.
Farts smelling like a rose,
watching bodies decompose.
Climbing up Jacob's ladder,
peeing a lot cause of my bladder.
Calling me an Uncle Tom,
shaving my hairy palm.
Addicted to Candy Crush,
brain turning into mush.
Tired of always snapping,
I deserve some ***** slapping.
Grass is always greener,
with the little old lady from Pasadena.
On board the love boat,
left me with a sore throat.
Saving money is impossible,
spending is just unstoppable.
Writing rhymes is all I know,
all my ducts are in a row.
Going fishing without a pole,
one to many hits from my bowl.
Dying of old age,
took my final bow,
on the center stage.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:12 PM UTC
Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?
The Little Old Lady From Pasadena
My Hot Rod Lincoln...oh
Daddy took my t-bird away
Where did my car songs go?
Way back in the sixties
The car song, it was boss
Where has the music travelled
It's this generations loss
Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?
Hot Rods, and dune buggies
The cars would go go go
Where are the car songs hiding
Does anybody know?
I miss my barracuda
My "Woody" was the bomb
There's nothing out there like it
Where has the car song gone?
The music they are playing
Just puts me fast asleep
I need to hear my car song
No more "Rolling In The Deep"
Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
Your home in White Rocks Marina you sat; always there to greet your crew before a voyage. Your red sails standing out among the rest. Silently awaiting your Skipper, our own George Hay Kain, as you rested in your slip, anxious to get underway. You wouldn’t make a sound as you patiently waited for your crew to load their gear down below. After quick yet thorough engine checks your Yanmar engine would roar to life, never failing to put a smile on your Skipper’s face. Your stern lines would come off. Your excitement would rise but you would remain still waiting to be completely free. Your bow lines would come off. You then would gracefully back out of your slip, ready for yet another adventure. Onto the Bay you’d go, wondering where you’d end up next. No matter the challenges you faced, whether in the open ocean, or in the Chesapeake Bay; you always brought your crew home safely; you always prevailed.
My personal experiences aboard never left the Chesapeake Bay, however, the Bay was all I needed. Each moment I spent on board; each trip I attended; will remain with me always: My First Voyage with our Skipper, Branson, DJ, and Sam; Chestertown; simply preparing you for the winter; Long Cruise; Hurricane Irene; Your Final Voyage.
So faithful you would be for your crew, for your Skipper; harsh conditions or not. You may not be resting in your slip in White Rocks Marina, anxious to get underway, but you will always be in the memories, and the hearts, of Skipper George Hay Kain, and the crew of Sea Scout Ship 25.
May you now sail freely across the horizon, out on the open ocean,
Kuan Yin.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 2:43 AM UTC
It was the rain against the windows
And the moonlight sonata playing
That accompanied my transition
Into melancholy insomnia
In the mid-morning deluge of the overcast sky
The reading of books and Freudian dreams
The watching of movies, Kubrick stare and all
Where emotions are captured and paraphrased
Amidst fight clubs and Fantasia
The Klimt surrealism outreaching from the walls
A lone piano listens, glistens; ripples of time
All dissimilar reinventions
Swirling in the incense smoke rings
Dancing in the flowing spirit air
Free and marvelous among vacant living room eyes
Memories recall the rain of Pasadena
Over rustic-themed modernism for
Eager tourists and the nonchalant few
Whispering words to descend the stairs
From the surface to below where thrusting cocktails reside
Years ago in the same position
But younger than I am now
At another desk with a bleeding pen
Pouring over the torn fickleness and skin I saw
Matchstick men smoking flesh roaches in alleyway shadows
Something hidden underneath the seen frailty
Single mothers courting hairless young men
Cracked anchor teens moving to a beat not of their own
Act of demon from the hand of God
Itching skin and slimy **** for sexes of all;
the men can take a turn in bearing the small.
Tales written from reflection and soul
Those wanderers and solicitors passing over the sick
The dead that laugh and the living that cry
Cold flesh injections stock markets for cattle to imbibe
Like so many humans do
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 7:19 AM UTC
you are a child
opening presents at 6:34 PST on a
Sunny Christmas morn in PASADENA, CA
while her parents look on in
feigned interest
razor scooter abandoned amid
crushed scrunched wrapping paper as you
tear apart a box of Legos
for the plasticky viscera contained therein.
you are a teen,
finding marijuana at 15:34 CST under a
bed in BOULDER, CO
while your parents shout at your brother
feigning sympathy
simply to ****** it back
and you are wrenching open ziplock
to swallow a chunk of his stash
and you find yourself
enamored with the aroma.
you are a woman,
fighting for equality at 10:26 EST wielding
picket sign (paint and sharpie on cardboard) and megaphone in
MANHATTAN, NY
while your parents
turn over in their graves,
uncertain what you are
fighting for.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
What Should I do?
On a Sunday afternoon
Alone in a suburnan home
In a quiet mountain suburb
The homes here are ranch style
First built in the fifties
This is Pasadena
Home of the Rose Parade
I guess I could
Wander out again
With rain clothes
Or wait until it stops
I suppose I'll go up the
Mountain
Or to the park
I'm not sure
No parties to go to
No money to spend
I went to the gym today
Watched a documentary
On Shaolin monks
I don't know
What to do
With myself anymore
I've spent my life
Alone
It was nice to meet
With the therapist
Funny you don't realize
How much you enjoy
Someone's company
Until they leave
Well I'll be somewhere
Out there
Walking around
Searching for what
I do not know
I figure the female friend
Is not coming
I am content to
Walk around for hours
Earth is strange
A great mystery
Sometimes
I dream
I live in a community
With other people
I can spend with
Sometime
Oh
What should I do?
The mountain view is beautiful
Perhaps I'll just go to
The park today
I am a bit tired from working out
Strange
Human life
Incredibly strange
They say no man
Is an island
But I'm close
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
First I went on a hike in the canyon
I made sure that my stone message
Was still in tact
I saw a woman who I often see working out at my gym
A beautiful asian woman and her dog
I bet she would love my companionship
I would love to give her oral pleasure
I made sure that my stone message
Was still in tact
"There are four lights"
A testament to man's ability to reason
Captain Picard was tortured
He was promised a life of ease
And luxury
If he would change his answer
He would rather live as a slave
Then be a non rational being
There are four lights!
Picard, my hero
My stone inscription
Is a testament to your dedication to reason
Man's ability to reason comes from God, the source.
I emerged from the canyon
Walking with my hiking sticks
And went for a relaxing drive
As I am often prone to do
There is something sacred about the evening
I would say it is my favorite time of day
I wound my way up into upper Altadena
I saw a woman walking her dog
I made my way back down and reached Lake
Then headed west of Lake
I saw a woman pulling up to her residence
She emerged from her car
What a beautiful body she had
I hope I find a mistress like her one day
There is something sacred about the Tao
I like to observe
A man on his bike made his way past me
And followed my route back toward Pasadena
I ended up in Best Buy
Still enjoying my podcast
About British colonies during the American Revolution
It is fun to wander
No particular purpose
No rhyme or reason
Just to wander
And listen to my podcast
I very much enjoy the Tao
I enjoy observing everyday life
I got my hiking poles and made my way
Into the neighborhood
Parallel to the Best Buy parking lot
I saw a beautiful woman heading in to her house
As I walked by
And a few other men walking in the neighborhood
My how I love to go walking
Something ancient and beautiful about it
I think about the beauty of walking
Too many Americans waste time
Sitting in front of the television
They should tune in to reality
Tune in to mother earth
The Tao is wise mother
The Tao is just normal everyday consciousness
It is said that a man who understands the Tao
Can die content in the evening
Having observed the course of the day
One day I hope to go walking with a woman
A woman who cares for me
I am such a kind person
It would be a tragedy not to meet someone
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
at the outdoor bar on the beach
And all the golf carts gather around.
Some Elvis and a few more beers
No millennials until sundown.
In that little deuce coupe,
the Beach Boys run around,
Surfer girl's a Pasadena lady,
And surf boards are all aground.
Now I long for yesterday
When oldies were the craze.
There goes the sun and I say,
Hey Jude, here's to better days.
I ride back to the boonies,
thinking when oldies were newsies.
Wake up little Suzie,
we gotta go home
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 2:13 AM UTC
A Peregrine Falcon circled the vast expanse of grounds surrounding the huge manse in Old Pasadena. It soared, looking for a favorable tree to land upon. Rabbit hunting. The bunnies loved to crop the grass growing on the expansive lawns.
The bright wind played windchimes of the leaves of the trees, a lilting, rustling sound barely heard above the birdsong of midmorning in Pasadena. A normal morning in every way. But not for Sir Arthur Barrett. Nor his murderer.
Lord Arthur's heels beat a tattoo on the Persian rug in his library. His hands first scattered the pieces of the puzzle he'd been working on, then grasped at his throat, constricted as it was by the plastic bag stretched across his face and neck. The muffled sound barely heard over the cacophony of birds...
---
The old mansion where Lord Arthur met his violent demise was named Puzzle Tree Mansion, in part by the many Puzzle Trees growing on its property, but that was not the only reason. The entire mansion was a puzzle.
Every room of it. Each had a secret. A false bottom drawer. A secret passageway. You even had to solve a riddle to work the bidets in the bathrooms! In short, it was a puzzle, within a riddle, within a conundrum. Sir Arthur had loved it that way. He had, in his lifetime been a writer of mysteries. The author of arguably the most popular American mystery... The Monkey
Puzzle Box.
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 8:01 PM UTC