"passable" poems
There's an item that's truly essential
Of a roughly cylindrical frame
It's a marvel of modern invention
And a legend it duly became
It surpasses the birth of electric
And eclipses the slicing of bread
If it wasn't for this innovation
Then I think I would surely be dead
Oh, Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Stick with me
Fix my wardrobe
Effortlessly
Hold up the curtains
Wax my thighs
Gaffer-tape Gaffer-tape
Improvise
It's useful for picking up hamsters
And it serves as a passable tie
As a gag for a amateur gangster
Or the crust of a blueberry pie
For a mite of podiatry pleasure
You can use it for mending your socks
If Pandora had come up against it
Then she'd never have opened her box
Oh, Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Holding fast
Adhesive savior
Unsurpassed
Smooth as mirror glass
Diamond tough
Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Marvelous stuff
It's bringing our nations together
And it's holding them firmly in place
You can use it to pull back your wrinkles
For a genuine Hollywood face
It'd surely have saved the Titanic
And they took seven rolls to the moon
Keep it near and be calm in a crisis
And predicaments inopportune
Oh, Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Mending sails
If you're tired
Of hammering nails
Buy some now
It's a thing to behold
Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Solid gold
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
Mangled skirmish, of bespeckled olive-green
serpents.
Their sinuous anarchy runs cold upon her
skull.
Caravaggio, you immortalized the *****
immured her, hermetically sealed her within
that shield.
Her reflection was at once the face she
never saw...stoned, she...then beheaded.
I notice you've even painted the shield the
color of her serpentine locks.
Serpents registering her ontological shock--
retentive, entwining, dangling in an odd
curl here and there.
Blood spurting from her almost indiscernible
neck, as if to draw a passable neck of blood,
almost like rays of blood, Christ's pierced side.
Her eyes seem so determined to chisel their
way out of stone, reconnect her head to her
body.
Her face is stunning, an excruciating ferocity
bulking stiff, slightly opened mouth about to...
explode out of her eyes.
Eyes hissing downward, sideways--there in the
pitch black glint of them...a primordial drama
to be continued.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
Perch on their water perch hung in the clear Bann River
Near the clay bank in alder dapple and waver,
Perch they called ‘grunts’, little flood-slubs, runty and ready,
I saw and I see in the river’s glorified body
That is passable through, but they’re bluntly holding the
pass,
Under the water-roof, over the bottom, adoze
On the current, against it, all muscle and slur
In the finland of perch, the fenland of alder, on air
That is water, on carpets of Bann stream, on hold
In the everything flows and steady go of the world.
4.4k
If you're gonna be lonely,
maybe learn how to cook.
Parade the smoke to the rafters
after doubting the book.
Alert the parents in vowing the earnest
salt in the brook.
A fervent effort relays to bacon kisses you took.
Brine is cheap,
and on days like this
find a Mrs. or friend,
apply the bread crumb crisp.
Buy the egg to allure.
confide that "this might miss."
If not to them to yourself.
Try the odd light whip.
Find a guide or a dozen.
Fire doesn't necessarily deny the pleasant after math.
Passable dishes levy comfort on cold nights,
dying for treasure dancing in the lights,
and forming function digging diamond from plastic wrap.
"I could serve a candied berry
pair it fairly cold below a lighter cream."
See the finer things elaborate below the theme.
Mise en place allowing,
yolk to heat,
folk wreaths are crowning.
Found a leek to brown,
found out what friends to feed can mean
Be the barer
taste your food
silk confections
social fruit
Buck the system
Find connection
tuck the mood in
ginger root
get your list out
pay it forward
take the order
grab a whisk
make an impact
Pleat the border
break the silence
wrap a gift
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 6:56 PM UTC
"Write what you know."
I want to write about
beautiful things,
but I only know
ugly.
Ugly hearts and stone blood.
Fetid loyalty.
I want to write about a love as pure as honey,
but all I know are the poison-tipped thorns of betrayal.
If I could put the right words
in the right order
at the right time
and explain what it means to lose you,
nobody would care.
I'd like to write about
my happy family,
laugh filled birthdays
and joyous gatherings,
but I only know
fractious,
secretive,
********
I want to touch another soul
make a connection with my words
share a part of my self
and help someone in the process,
but all I have been taught is
taking
keeping
lying
hiding
running
ruining.
I would love to write
like Pablo,
of wheat
and bread
and fields that don't weep,
but all I know are
desperate fumblings
in ******
beer soaked bathrooms,
back alley
drunken
********
by black
barely passable trannys,
diseases and
barely consensual bloodstains.
I cannot speak of such things.
It's bad enough I think about them,
even worse I write about them.
I write what I know.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
feets of snow
building
quiet muffled walk
high red rubber boots
sinking deep into
freshly falling snow
wind whips snowflakes
swirling about
stinging bare face
a local police suv
scurries by
sign the road is passable
no other movement
bright lights all about
soft white sky
dark bare trees
sillhouetted
against encroaching
building
white backdrop
bushes bend
heavily under
boughs laden
with many many
little snowflakes
hovering on branches
together
it is a blizzard celebration!
wind dances
swirling and singing
roaring and biting
snowflakes spiraling
and dancing
so so very free
racing across
the sky and the
earth
happy to be out
happy to be free
the dark night
owned by the
ones who
live free & wild
in ever eternal delight!
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 4:54 AM UTC
*peace
please*
private property..
intruder hurtled over
seeking who knows what
screaming obscenities
perfect pitch..
find little solace
but by going within
hide well beneath veneers
possible perfection..
but with one
so very far away
loss near calamitous
pardon presumption..
get over discomfort
pick up sad face
work with it
passable poetry..
may reveal a layer or two
if the inner eye ready
shove preconceived away
puerile pretence..
try to prove points
only to efface the truth
lose bits of the light
petty prisons..
all just deadly excuses against living
get locked in by the self
unlock the cell, throw key away
*please..
peace*
S T, 12 June 2013
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC
The apartment is messy again.
A never-ending pile of clean underwear,
stained laundry,
and in-between pieces
toeing the line
between passable and gross.
it's not that it's bad,
it's fine.
it's enough to get by.
like wheat-based cereal
and watery coffee.
I guess this is our life together
jumbled and messy,
with piles of good intentions
and tomorrow projects
but that never quite find
their way
into a proper time
or place.
I look out the open window
for an answer,
a sign,
some kind of assurance
that this time is different
and this place is where
I'm finally supposed to be.
But all I see is grey.
No thunderclaps
or burst of lightening
or enlightenment
come to me.
You blow out
the lit candle
on the coffee table,
its smoke
curling itself
into question marks
that dissipate
as quickly as the rain.
Maybe tomorrow
will hold more answers
or more sunlight
I can use to see
our path forward.
But for now,
we'll go to bed
in crinkled sheets
and warm promises
for the day yet to come.
Jun 1, 2023
Jun 1, 2023 at 1:49 PM UTC
The sun, a blazing circle of celestial fire
Hangs low upon the horizon,
Its fiery glory reflecting orangely
On the wind-whipped, blue-green sea.
The late afternoon sees my love and I,
Arms and legs entwined, ******* naked on the beach,
Rapt in appreciation of that blest moment
When sun and sea join in mystic communion.
And yet, all is not golden:
When one mentions the word "legs"
Once is certainly grammatically correct, yet
One does not convey the true situation to the reader.
You see, my lover is the sad possessor
Of a fifty percent deficit in the podial department,
Whilst I have a full double complement.
And thus to so-called act of generation
(Most times mis-named, for which I thank the gods)
Is a feat requiring great dexterous equilibrium.
However, my love's club foot (speaking candidly,
An admitted visual defect most times)
Now comes to the rescue of Eros' urgent needs,
With the aid of a little mutual ingenuity.
Balancing carefully on my dear one's abbreviated podex,
Supported carefully by the discarded surgical boot,
A passable **** can usually be achieved.
Only the halitosis appears irremediable.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
***I heard your life's been hard,
you're counting the welts on your soul.
You've played all your cards,
working towards no specific goal.
You're texting for hours on your phone,
Yet you still feel so alone.
You can eat at work or school,
But you're never really full.***
Well, guess what?
Inspiration's knocking
So don't be door-locking
Here's some light to keep at bay,
the demons that chase you night and day
Let's start.
I believe everything turns out well in the end.
If it's still sour, then it isn't the end.
The sky is never the limit, you will reach your dream soon.
If the sky was the limit, why are there footprints on the moon?
There's always a way to stand out, and not to be just "passable"
Remember, every great achievement was once known as impossible.
There will come a day when you can't open up your eyes,
But what matters is what you do until that day arrives.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
ONE:
It's like sitting there and explaining how to you everything works
painting this picture in reverse I have to rehearse
and practice and rehearse and practice
TWO:
imperfections affections towards perfection
in the one thing, reason, I can't sing freely
Just let me be. I have to practice
because that's, that is, what is, what's make perfection
stabilization.
THREE:
I know you know he knows they know
just know that knowing is knowledge
passable shareable keepable loseable
be responsible
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
The plaintive surround can rinse
the deep space crush of Hubble's
score.
A fast-paced bandit's sable cloth
homing the absurdum of a priceless
presentation...eyes unawares wending
brilliant ways abruptly announced.
The common Light is not passable--
but is in love with eyes...the holy of
holies--rarefied districts commencing
willful overexposure.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 3:16 AM UTC
ANTLIKE STRENGTHS
A poem by Tricia Hague-Barrett 1993
An ant carries its large load across the cracks
in the path on its way homeward
Nothing gets in its way
Nothing prevents him from succeeding,
If only I could have seen the end in the beginning
where struggles are frequent but passable,
testing but not breaking my resolve to give in
to the desparate feelings of loneliness, tiredness.
Ant-like, I too have to learn to carry the heavy load,
The Teaching load, the Administrative load,
carry it across potholes, ditches, mountains
and through distant valleys of calmness.
Turbulent tests, stumbling stones,
each there to guide me along the way
Like guardian angels, each one
Heralding the Dawn of a New Day.
Ends.
(C) 1993
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 4:45 PM UTC
I need a sedative.
Desperation never looked good on anyone.
But when I show a little skin and do my make-up just right,
I can make it more than passable.
I can make them fall in love with the way my body becomes music, and my hollow gaze, and my photo-shopped smile...
All before they even know my name.
Not that they will ever care to know it.
My emptiness is unbearable.
And my heart is running away with my mind,
So they can live in train cars
Or abandoned warehouses
Or maybe a nice treehouse somewhere.
If they're smart, they'll see the world before settling down.
Meanwhile,
What's left behind is walking along the streets in quiet neighborhoods,
Humming sad songs that sound like hallelujah and empty orchestras,
While the rain melts me into the cracks in the sidewalk.
I'll be nothing at all by morning.
I'm not a real girl anyways.
I'm a memory box.
Keep your best of times tucked away in me.
I'll gather dust in the garage, or the attic, or the basement.
Or maybe, if I'm really lucky, a shelf in your room,
Where, at least occasionally, you'll glance at me and smile.
But even that is aiming pretty high.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 10:07 PM UTC
She sits on her bed
brushing her long brown hair
with the brush
her mother gave her.
She has had a bath,
needed after being
with him,
the way he was,
and for so long.
The bath so relaxing,
the water just right,
being able to lay there,
water over her,
suds from the borrowed
bath stuff( Gabrielle
need never know),
she feeling the water
fondling about her *******
washing him off,
dissolving him
in the suds.
She brushes him out
of her hair,
each long stroke
and a bit more of him
is gone.
She stops and thinks.
Mid air the brush
and hand stay.
Was it always that way?
No, there was a time
when seeing him
was a pleasure,
she actually used to get
excited when he
was to come,
actually looked forward
to his presence,
his love making,
the things he used to do,
the way he did them.
Now, she dreads him
being there,
making love to her,
his fingers in her hair.
She brushes again,
downward strokes,
takes out the knots
that gather at the ends.
Was it ever love?
Was it other than physical?
Just a game of the ******
She puts down the brush
and gazes at herself
in the old fashion mirror.
Still passable,
still presentable,
still has it in bucketfuls
as he used to say.
But, no,
she supposes not,
never really got to her heart,
never quite made it that far.
Liar, she tells herself,
you loved him more
than any other,
used to lay awake
at night thinking of him
and his next call,
it wasn't just *** after all.
No, I suppose not,
there was that strong
element of love,
that other than just
the physical,
other than the ******
But that makes it worse
not better,
the fact I loved him once,
she tells herself,
takes it deeper,
takes it to the core
of the heart,
that place where each
string of nerve,
each particle of being
is torn open
like a ripe fruit
and ****** dry.
She's just had ***
with him,
just the physical,
just the lying down
and taking it bit.
Now, she loves him not,
the lying, cheating ****
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
Aggressively inverse algorithms
Unpleasantly traverse towns
within them
(Sideways symbology stains soulless surroundings)
An uninheritable playground
Dangles in sustaining silence
Passable problems pretending that perhaps a passer by plans on picking the winner
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
I wanted the perfect cake.
With the perfect layers.
With the perfect coating.
But all I got was a stack of it.
A stack of rejects.
Desperately coated to its most presentable.
At its most passable.
It began with the first layer.
After all, I was careful.
Less mistakes.
Less complications.
Less lies.
Braver, bolder,
I crafted the second layer.
More mistakes.
More complications.
More lies.
Annoyed,
I began the third layer.
More and more mistakes.
More and more complications.
More and more lies.
Desperate,
Came the fourth layer.
More and more and more mistakes.
More and more and more complications.
More and more and more lies.
The more I go forth.
The more frustrated I become.
The more layers.
The more lies.
What comes after the layer of cake?
Another layer.
What comes after a lie?
Another version of that same lie.
In the end,
All I'm left with is lost time.
And the gradual worsening of my problem.
Eventually,
I'll find this cake collapsing.
Reminding me that there are limits.
To the amount of tries.
To the amount of layers,
That I can make.
So,
I find myself getting rid of the cake.
In a dramatic scene I form in my head.
You know me,
I won't just get rid of the cake.
I'd get rid of the whole occasion.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
Second rate Dame
run of the mill lame
too late in life
to ever make a good wife
Common fool
Pretending she's cool
if I had been seventeen
instead of ordinary thirty something
so-so I'm told
fair lady living in a dream
indifferently abled queen
Passable, yet straining to hide
I worship you" she lied
Alone in this medium world
I wonder "what if I had been a girl?"
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 2:38 PM UTC
On the verge of tumbling,
I suddenly remembered how I disliked the act on fumbling.
Would I break my face?
Or would I get up again, always wary of when the next fall would take place?
Aug 25, 2011
Aug 25, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
Struck at form you reign--
days orchestrated a destiny...
the image-less precognition
of light and dark.
A self-generated whole, an
energetic rogue...of what
shall have dominion.
All will remain passable,
imbibe what's to be expected
of momentum--the obscuring
verisimilitude has made the
mind's acquaintance.
Twilight Zones are as strangers
to the mind, filtered out with
unblinking exactitude--to regard
them is to engage the borderline
whence they came.
Days come whence they came--
yet, we must not think so.
Struck at form you reign--
over destiny...only when its
shadow be withdrawn to its
selfsame form.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
On the verge of tumbling,
I suddenly remembered how I disliked the act on fumbling.
Would I break my face?
Or would I get up again, always wary of when the next fall would take place?
Aug 25, 2011
Aug 25, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
so the door slams and the windows open
air rushes in full of lustful wonder
this is singular thinking in a fog of sweet adolescence
i come from devils' fur
un-washed and smelling of sulfur
i reep your evil sews
we blink at each other
unwilling to file for glory papers
unchecked harshness towards the self
an oblivious and romantic way of being
the shadows cast behind zoo walls will follow their own mist
i speak like a broken muffler now
if i can speak at all
and the singing
only the last gulps of saltwater
churning up in the esophagus of a man lost at sea
breathing in the doom
it is only nourishment
the abyss seems at a low tide
it is passable and inviting
death is laid upon a lattice work
and they all wonder what you're really up to
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
1) - My Life as a Disabled Gay Black Woman
I choose my food
based on personal preference.
I enjoy preparing
and eating it.
I set my home up
in a manner I find agreeable.
I find my partner
rapturous and infuriating
in almost equal measure.
I would lay down my life
for my children
and I fear the world
on their behalf.
I endure
and enjoy
a particular set of experiences
which will never be repeated
but can be broadly understood
by anyone
with a passable degree of empathy.
I speak for no-one
but myself.
I am more involved
with the here and now
than I am
with centuries
of cultural history.
I modify my behaviour
based on the company I am in
and there are aspects of my life
which are no-one's business
but my own.
2) My Life as an Able-Bodied Heterosexual White Man
See above.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 8:10 AM UTC
There's a storm coming and the tide is rising, I hike up my dress and wade into the water
I want to disrobe you in this wet wilderness of pounding heart and throbbing pulse
Did I tell you that to date I have discovered one thousand and nine ways to love you
And I am still counting
So make passable the impassable! Be brave and open up your Heaven to me!
Flood my soul for forty days and forty nights and let me feed you my wild honey and manna
And cradled within waves and winds, a new covenant with new stories will be born
And lovers will still be counting
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
Tequila, te **** me.
Run through my veins and my mind.
Intoxicate me until I can’t feel my mine.
Give me something close to the real,
But maybe more as a trill.
Passable, relatable,
That feeling everyone’s killing to feel.
Tequila, te **** me.
Take me over and take me down.
Make me lose control til I can’t hear sounds.
Get my head spinnin spinnin,
Make that music loud.
Get my hips thrillin thrillin,
Have me standin out in the crowd.
Tequila, te **** me.
One more time.
Baby please baby please,
Give me one last whine.
Till I loosen your width,
Till I’m making you grip,
Till you gotten me whipped,
Make this good fruity drip.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC