"pasting" poems
Heard a beeping sound
Followed by A very old Frank Sinatra’s song
My classmates’ heads turned
Who’s phone? who’s phone?
Less chaotic when the teacher glared
Everybody put their heads down
And checked their sophisticated mobile phones
Once again...
When the teacher wasn’t looking..
Mobile phones roamed in a dull classroom
Updating facebook status,
Uploading candid photos of a snoring friend
Copy pasting assignment
Text messaging and gossiping about their stern looking teacher
In the name of advanced technology
Mobile smartphones create the impossibles...
Beyond the blackboard and the four walls of the classroom
O o Frank Sinatra’s song again...
And everybody started looking...
The teacher grabbed her mobile phone
Tried to switch it off....
When students could own smartphones..
Who needs NOKIA from the old time zone....?
~ Sharina~
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
Consider Icarus, pasting those sticky wings on,
testing that strange little tug at his shoulder blade,
and think of that first flawless moment over the lawn
of the labyrinth. Think of the difference it made!
There below are the trees, as awkward as camels;
and here are the shocked starlings pumping past
and think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well.
Larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast
of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
Feel the fire at his neck and see how casually
he glances up and is caught, wondrously tunneling
into that hot eye. Who cares that he fell back to the sea?
See him acclaiming the sun and come plunging down
while his sensible daddy goes straight into town.
13.3k
A sip of coffee
Disclosing my story
Pasting in this scrapbook,
All the photos of us
I took
Writing the captions,
I tear up with emotions
Eternity is a gentle caress
And I recognize
In the end,
There is nothing more
Real in life
Than
Momentary happiness.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
I want to write a poem.
No, like I really really really wanna write a poem.
Problem, stick it to me.
Pause
Poems have to be good.
Okay, so a poem doesn't have to be good
However, the point of the art is to have someone read
Those flippy little words that you pulled out
Of some intangible existence and pasted on
The Internet.
The Internet,
So you don't always put it online but,
Other people are "supposed" to read it.
To enjoy it, give you a pat on the back,
Maybe an "I see what you did there".
So poems are supposed to be presentable.
You've got to pay in sweat and ink but,
At least the words themselves are free.
What if I don't wanna have to make a "good" poem?
Okay so I really do want a pat on the back but
Sometimes I really like pasting things from
Intangible existences.
Fancy words right? Let me pat my own back.
Sometimes I just like putting my emotions on paper
While sounding like I read
More dictionaries than Webster.
Ha, ha, sigh.
There's a problem with having to be inspired to write **** down.
Do you think someone pays Taylor Swift's boyfriends
To break up with her
So she can write the
Next big hit?
I wouldn't doubt it.
My guardian angel should make the people around me
Say weird stuff such that I can write about
Walking on waves of shattered glass
Or
Singing of birds in circled flight.
Maybe I'd be better off being hit by a car.
That'd be some pretty touching poetry.
Some people write happy poetry too,
I don't know how they do it.
Sorry but, my world isn't flowers and butterflies
Enough to warrant discussion of
Staying in the fairy meadow of light.
Sorry, I'm just jealous.
Maybe I just like writing stuff down?
What if I just don't want to be forgotten?
Leaving a legacy in my words more indellible
Than a pat on the back.
Doubt it.
I just don't want to forget.
Brain, why don't you get it?
I'm sitting here getting all intimate with an idea and
The next morning Brain's got no clue what their name is.
Like really, even if we invite a friend over and get creative with
Our tongues and mouths,
Brain doesn't remember the moments shared between us.
Paper doesn't think very well but it's got a decent memory bank.
So I save up for a brand new poem.
I thought words were free.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
My Prize for Waiting
~
*tucked in all by myself,
resting dark and quiet
in the thin place^
where the distance between
this world and the next,
is no distance at all,
but a few inches separating,
easily fordable, back and forth-able
my palms, hands down,
come to rest on my *******
and the two thumbs in unison,
begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between,
conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point
passageway to poetic mystical places,
hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping
no hurry to either arrive or depart,
in patient attendance for
rhythms of woven word arrivistes,
coming in no particular order,
asking to be seized, greedy to be
nominated and recognized, immortalized,
as great poetry, prize worthy,
kept for all time inside others poetry chests
but in the thin place,
dream records are not kept,
hazy scraps at best retained,
a recipe for a witnessed totality,
is only a soupy reduction of a
few seconds of hazed video,
that can neither give nor get
no satisfaction
the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct
the body of the meal, the real deal,
alas, there are no prizes either
for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless
poetry scraps
the only evidence of my travels,
a flushing, blushing residual flow,
slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark
of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying,
my blush, a prize for waiting but failing,
“the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^
woe to me when returned in ignominy,
medaled in only base irony,
me and philosopher Pliny,^^^
both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius,
our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash,
but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry
so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged
burnt photographs epistles,
that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle,
insufficient to weave a flax complete
and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now,
to snag another prized piece of meaningless,
my prize for waiting
in the solitude of the thin place*
3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019
~
last nights scrap
***cease your whining,
seize your waiting,
therein is your own paid price
for the prize of inspiration***
inspired by Jean Fisher,
a real prize winning poet
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC
What makes me feel beautiful is makeup and hair dye.
I love to paint my lips a bright pink, but I get upset
When that is all anyone sees.
I work on my physical appearance so much,
pasting my hair down perfectly, making sure my
eyeliner is symmetrical.
I get angry when no one sees what my personality can be
but truthfully, I don't work on that half as much as I work
on my outward appearance.
Maybe my insides aren't beautiful enough to compliment.
Maybe my hair is the best thing about me.
Maybe I'm not worth what I think I am.
Unless you count my "beauty."
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
A picture of your mother
dull colors of a bygone era
a polaroid born faded
a memory bestowed upon you by another
a hearsay tale long lost in time
more far than you can count on fingers
she smiles
a smile reserved for the unburdened
you wonder when this woman is
she looks happy
A finger painting of your mother
all colors watered down
a reminder that you must
prioritize
some things carry more meaning
other need meaning poured onto them
cupped like water in both hands
presented to a lip-cracked child
some water saturate the soul
while keeping others thirsty
some colors are skin deep
Your mother, wrapped in blankets
in an almost vacant bed
her paint, dry and life-bleached
you sit with her
through all these final hours
watching as the outer coating
peels off and settles to the floor
solemnly, you sweep the flakes
an acolyte on hallow ground
choosing the most beautiful
pasting to a piece of paper
crafting the image of a woman
that once could have been
your mom
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
give me 1 shot
1 bullet
click-clack i think i pulled it
not time for talking the cops are now looking
stupid mistake why didnt i have it on safety
god i dont know now my mind is pasting...
back and forth thinking on my decision
is it even a reason
for running and just leaving...
hes heartless with blood to cover him no shield....
hes bleedin now left in the streets
trapped inside caution tape and the ******* police
**** why me.................................
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 5:52 PM UTC
I hope that someday you realize your good enough.
That you’ll finally find a person to love you unconditionally,
To make all the others disappear and be gone into nothingness.
That he’ll be the one to comfort you and buy you pizza and a smoothie on the bad days.
That he’ll care when your upset and be there for you when your down.
To stick by your side through the bad times so the good times are a breeze.
i hope that someday you realize your worth.
That all this time you were better than the person you made yourself out to be.
That you realize you deserve the constant attention and midnight laughs.
You deserve to finally believe him when he tells you, you’re beautiful because they rest never cared to prove it to you.
I hope that someday you feel loved.
And that you stop pasting a smile on your face and calling what you have love
That you don't have to lie to people when you argue that he cares about you.
That you feel loved by someone you can see yourself spending the rest of your life with.
I hope that you find a man one day that will look at you with glaring eyes.
Hopelessly, insanely in love with you enough where he cant take his eyes off you.
That he shows you off and flaunts you around because he feels so lucky.
I wish for you a gushey gewy disgusting love that people roll their eyes over.
I hope you finally love yourself enough to allow him to love you
That he only boosts your confidence.
That he makes you feel like the absolute best version of you.
I hope he motivates you to get things done
that he is the best thing for you.
I hope you can let him in
Allow him to love you.
So you can witness all the beautiful in love.
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 12:49 AM UTC
They huddle in the cold damp darkness
grateful for the sheltering sandstone
shuddering at each echoing blast
a remorseless dull ache
like their meagre rations
eyelids shutting wrinkling between attacks
seeking peace and inner sleepless solace.
'Them docks is taking a pasting.'
'Me Dad works there.'
Another attack, tunnels rumble
evoking century old echoes
of rusty trundling drum-line wagons
bearing sandstone blocks to build the docks
now being blitzed blighting the night sky.
The morning brings a dusty disquiet.
Merseyside emerges curses soldiers on.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
Smile
I'm lost inside of my head
Smile
The clouds have gotten even heavier
Smile
I don't remember how I got in here
Smile
How long has it been since this happened?
Smile
I can barely feel my face anymore
Smile
I can barely hear my thoughts anymore
Smile
I can't even feel my heartbeat anymore
Smile
It hurts
Smile
It hurts
Smile
It hurts so much
Smile
My lips crack blood cascading down my chin
Smile
In rivulets
Smile
It goes down my neck pasting my shirt against my skin
Smile
Boarding up the way out like plaster
Smile
Coppery metal salt
Smile
My teeth start breaking into Glacial shards
Smile
I can feel my muscles screaming in agony
Smile
My fingernails crack
Smile
The bone crowning the split flesh
Smile
Just smile…
It all goes away
Smile…
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 8:10 PM UTC
*You used to paint pictures
with me. You were always smiling
when the brush glides on paper
as the colours spread everywhere.
Patiently, you'd recreate every
bit and impression of reality,
and add a version of your own,
until the picture will be perfect
with magical meanings
only we would have known.
But patience is a virtue
your self never learned.
One day, you were snapping photographs,
capturing moments, developing pictures,
pasting collages -- a panorama of
life you chose.
For weeks and weeks on end,
I went to those places where we used to paint;
Time is such a mystery to have put distance in a memory.
I would trade my whole life just for you
to colour it again. Like old paintings,
bring back its vividness; restore it.
And now, I am on this bus.
In transit.
A gift-wrapped box inside my bag.
I am sending it to you personally.
Take pictures with it and
live a happy life.*
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 4:45 AM UTC
Drawing little tears
I trace around lines
small oval shaped drops
I cut away from your eyes
pasting them in a scrapbook
for the hurting to see
Inviting all to look
how sorrow is set free
tear out the paper
fold into a plane
crease down the corners
and fly away the pain
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 8:22 AM UTC
What's that
on your collar Sutcliffe?
O’Brien said
you got some
amorous sweet girl Eddie?
Danny D said
what is it?
I can't see
Eddie said
lipstick
I said
red stuff
where where?
he said
pulling at his white
shirt collar
with the red lipstick mark
he opened his shirt collar
and pulled it downward
how'd that get there?
he asked
your cousin still
staying with you
is she Eddie?
Danny said smiling
no not her
not that bucktooth *****
Eddie said
it must have been
my mum
she insists on
kissing me
before school
can't bring herself
to kiss your spotty skin
so kisses your collar
Danny said
she must have missed
Eddie said
how do I get it off?
who with?
O’Brien said
I ask that question myself
who's the lucky girl
what you talking about?
Sutcliffe said
how do I get
the lipstick off?
God knows
Danny said
soak it salt maybe
I said
but now
how now?
Eddie said
we walked on
toward school
Eddie rubbing
at his collar
with a greying handkerchief
that's the last time
she's going to kiss me
Eddie said
the red lipstick had smeared
more like a stain
it's worse now
I said
looks like a wound
thanks
he said thanks
you did it
not me
I said
what am I going to do?
can't go to school
like this
go home and change then
O’Brien said
I can't my mum's
gone to work
he looked at us
all tearfully
it's just lipstick Sutcliffe
no one's going to care
Danny said
of course they will
he said
especially Thompson
you know what he's like
he'll have out front
for a right pasting
if he sees me
come back to my place
I said
my Mum'll put it
into soak
and you can wear
one of mine
you'll be late
Danny said
you go on
I said
we'll get a bus
we can make it
if we run
O’Brien looked at me
you're all heart Benny
all heart
so Eddie and I
ran back to my place
and he took off his shirt
which my mother
put in soak
and he wore
one of mine
and off we rushed
to school on the 78 bus
Eddie all wide eyed
and I saw Fay
going to school
with her swaying hips
and blonde hair
and all I could do
was give
a keen eyed stare.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
Breathe in the freshness
of the arduously picked commodity,
That you hold between your lacquered fingers.
Don’t let synthetic ingredients
dissolve your thoughts
and obscure your vision.
The liquid remedy we sip is drenched,
With pain and protracted nurturing
Carefully fostered
through inclement weather
drink in the story that comes with it
That fuels caffeinated conversations.
Refined and defined leaving us blind
to the painted secrets of lives that were once lead
different lives intersect,
different thoughts and opinions interject.
Leaving lipstick kisses on the porcelain skin
Sipping away worries and pain.
Inhaling the smell of impelling advice,
fragments of sugar coated anecdotes melt,
integrating within, interfering
with the raw, strong, sharp taste
that can pierce through.
the rare intense, earthy aftertaste
is tainted with artificial garnishing,
suffocating the fresh natural essence
neatly contained in the teacup
ready to serve and ready to present
taking shape of the porcelain guise
Don’t sprinkle it with processed collaborations
of sugared doubt,
Contaminating your imagination
Manipulated by dainty voices
Resonating in your head
Like the delicate teacup
You anchor with your soft hands
Weighed down by the overly sweetened tea.
No longer holding significance
of the vast fresh fields it sprouted from
Forgotten and drowned
in the voices of someone else’s drum beat.
cloudy vision reflected in the saturated tonic
you sip elegantly, pasting a smile
suppressing your own desires,
under someone else's acceptance.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 12:20 PM UTC
Northern Michigan has got some pretty twisted people but call themselves decent, God faring Christians. Copy pasting two typical posts on rants & raves forum exchanged between two typical Northern Michiganders. Not like them but think they are weirdos and get a good old belly laugh at the ignorance in the good old deep south errrr, I mean northern michigan. We got spared today from reading that Obama was chief ***** head but did get to read his racist post faking being American Indian.
From northern michigan craigslist poster #1
RE; Curious in Fairview (TC)
You sure were quick to figure out what "passes for" debate on this place.
Good Job!
Here's what I do....first, I don't give a hoot what any of them say or do to my posts.
The name calling, and personal bashing are simply humorous to me. Truthfully though, I sometimes egg them on....It simply helps prove that the common IQ level
is somewhat ( ???? ) LOW!
Secondly---"Chief Itchybutt" is the ONLY one worth reading---he tells some
pretty incredible stories....he should probably write a book in my opinion.
As for all the rest of the spew---let it roll off your back like water on a wet
duck...just read it and be glad your not one of "them"...
Advice from:
YBBB--the one, the only!
Craigslist poster #2 with pic of Obama with huge photoshopped lips.
Special for Bob, a deer hunting story (in my woods)
Ugg! How! Chief IIttccheebutt of the Neverwiippee Tribe here to tell all what I see in woods hunting for deer, Ugg! Me go out with boomstick early in morning when turkeys are on roost to sit by deer trail to **** a buck.Very windy out, see no deer, me not even see a tree rat with fuzzy tail. Me wait and wait and wait, still no deer. It get dark now so me go in and try next day. Next day come, same thing,no deer, me think I pick a different spot tomorrow. Tommorrow come and I sit by the edge of a big field with sand holes and short grass with flags in little holes, it very quiet and me hear leaves crunching, me crouch down and get gun ready. Noise get closer and closer then it stop so I look out from behind tree and put gun down and pick up I-phone and snap pic of most stupid looking buck me ever see... then me start big belly laugh, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
Ugg! How!
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
I'm only trying to love myself to make up for me hating me.
I hate the way I hate myself but i just cant escape from me.
Tell myself I'll get it right and I just gotta wait for me,
but me is getting tired, meanwhile I'm just waiting patiently.
Trying to give myself a vision, I'm just trying to make me see,
That happiness is bread and life could really be a bakery.
Got a sweet tooth and negativity is cake to me.
Everybody watching, they just copying and pasting me.
Take the key, I'm trying to lock my thoughts inside a safe with me.
Looking in a mirror just to let myself debate with me.
I just wanna love my life, living, learning gracefully
But how can I uplift myself when all my thoughts are weight to me?
Racing through infinity I'm standing with the Trinity.
Me, Myself, and I, that's a triangle full of enemies.
Me, Myself, and I, in me so tell me where would you hide?
You wanna hear some painful irony? I have to choose sides.
Because I stay fighting myself and hurting me like am I serious?
There ain't enough room in this one body for the three of us.
No we cannot comfort us. Yes it makes us furious.
Screaming to ourselves like, "is anybody hearing us?"
Self inflicted pain. On this shelf I sit in vain.
Telling me about myself cause no one else would think its sane.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
Temptations have left me forsaken
but my will was only shaken
shortly leaving some mistaken
that I would falter to the poison of my generation
I seek salvation
In a place built upon degradation
I pick at the foundation
Wishing for a system malfunction
The gears have given me an allergen
The pushed solution cut with acetaminophen
To numb the blind into oblivion
A wise man seems much like an alien
Corruption rises as the population lays down
Praising kings without a crown
Pasting plastic smiles over the town
This massive break from reality has really paid off
The fruits we'll never see and rich we'll never be
No matter how much cash you receive
Consider your soul far out of reach
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
*grew my hair too long, watched it get cut and
all the snippets
fell to the floor,
decided my hair had not been
long enough
started all over again,
longer longer deeper longer,
pasting the snippets together
hoping the parts are greater than the
hole I am forever filling with
Haagen Daz vanilla buttermilk,
wise choices of words,
the satisfactory completion
of finishing and the joyous anticipatory
of starting all over again
undecided if today will be
a day where I tend my love, or,
need more being attended to
every poem I every writ
is just a
snip snip snip
of instant instances seconds capsulated
that run on into one long sentence my
gorgeous blonde 5th grade teacher, who had a crush on me,
(and vice versa)
would red ink wink critique as a
run on sentence and I could not agree more
snip snip snip
becomes a life
of one run on sentence to living larger and longer,
want a becoming life,
life becoming comely,
only commas and no periods,
period
exhausting the indecision of living
so pasting snippets seems more manageable
but not so much fun, indeed, in deed,
too much **** work, this cutting and pasting,
so gonna give you the rough and tumble of my words
as they pour out and as long as they keep coming back,
I'll keep on pouring and ******* and godpraise
this word well that runs dry never
my poems are not too long -
if you have learned to taste wisely -
how to taste gloriously languorously language
my poems are not too long,
life is too short to leave all these
demoted spaces of empty,
in between the raging and the loving,
the aching, fretting and the heaven sending thrills
of thanking the powers to be for everything
I got blessed with,
even my curses are just the flip side of*
***snip snip snip
so much from just one cup of coffee***
<>
six minutes of Aug 13, 2016 life, something you might call a
snip snip snip
SIP
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 6:43 AM UTC
My skin goosebumps with the breeze
Early July melting silking soft, my vision
Lucy firing metallic spark neurons
Across the liquid night sky
Sulfur edges closer in it's hazing accent
Pool water lapping against the edge
Makes me giggle
******* hard, eyes wide
I take it all in
in awe
The laughter of our captured youth echos
Mountains stand in shadowed silent regard
Cradling our memories, pasting them
against our walls
I lean back in pure joy
Deep sigh of contentment
Overwhelmed by sensation
Sizzle singed, stretched thin, just need a little closer
Inhaling the scents of independence
Cut grass, twilight dew, chlorine
Charcoal takes me back every time
Chemical rearrange pulls spastic front to back
All I can think about is having you here
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
To look carefully.
It begins with a reminder to myself to look oh so carefully
Because this isn't just any time of day,
But the end of day time when the light fades away.
To think, that this happens before every eve and after every noon
Night pulls at the Sun so gently.
From behind the mountains
The anchor of time begins its distortion
Upon the Sun, its stress seems to bless the sky
In those blending hues
And spins clouds into colorful sweetness
As it demands an encore for a set too soon.
The mountains become flat nibbles into space,
Eating at the canvas
Where sky's light knows nothing of us.
It too, flattens buildings at the foothills;
A pasting of pastel flavor, drawn
By the distant gray air of sand and sea.
The glorified glass edifices at my shore watching,
Bleeding, in mocking colors of a time that burns into another
A time that ends in blazing defiant oranges assaulting the falling sky
In quarrelsome pinks and purples
I remember the tender
I must see this so softly
At the sinking light
As the mountains swallow burning sky
One ring at a time,
Lighter than velvet.
Heavier than vivid.
Humility rose, with this setting,
To stand against so many gradients
And recall the faux pas of permanence.
Not until it was gone
With its whims toward time.
Could I see, tenderly.
The width and warmth
Of their embellished embrace
Between day, and night-
Pouring that fragility-
From the last light.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
What was so cool flew out of the window.
It was only left slightly ajar.
The mad dormouse sat in his tea ***
Trying to work out what to wear.
Will today's writing hat feature war or care.
Pasting an image.
Maybe decrying, sensations of caring.
Writes sometimes audaciously daring.
Buzzing around like a wasp in my hair.
Driving me mad with his lunacy.
Decrying love story.
Then love in it's glory.
Says he wants to be free.
Guess what.
Perhaps he should try being me!
In a breath of fresh air.
He'll write a cute muse.
And in the next breath.
Another he'll abuse.
The poetry man with the black and white muse!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
Masking the noise from the Hells below,
leaving me a new chapter to unfold
well my heart is crashing against my window pain
deadly weapons used to mutilate
down for my bloodshot eyes it rains
in my distorted reality
my soul raises up and down rapidly
my future races around the room
pasting through are deadly thoughts and fumes
of distorted people in animal costumes
I scream out for help
but not a woman nor man can hear
no longer I can't bear
the mutilated people I see and hear
I would ignore but they always reappear
right beside me in my ear
my "friends" fluctuate like a hologram
they come swing like wrecking *****
using ancient methods to destroy all
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
We were entranced in gold
gold painted
gray like the
Aircrowns of clouds which
died in the sea and flooded
clocks in time.
In time we see wine-flood drowning your veins.
In the light,
echoes cross your chest
and ride your face
pasting the evening names of
all the alnames
building a pillar of floating memories.
Memories float in wine-blood
like all that’s lost
in the seconds between
blinking, the images
in light are carbonized
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC