"patricia" poems
Kung gustong magpatuloy
Burahin ang nararamdaman
Kung gustong mabuhay
Burahin siya sa iyong isipan
Tamang daan ay alam na alam na
ito na dapat ang ginagawa
pero pinipili pa ring maging masaya
kahit sa dulo alam naman nating talo na
Masaya pa bang ituturing,
Kung ang sakit ay nandoon rin?
Masaya ka bang ituturing,
Kung sa gabi'y mata mo ay lumuluha rin?
Tunay sa ligaya
Di talaga sa materyal na bagay makikita.
Mata ng iyong sinisinta na sa iyo nakatulala
Anong ligaya ang madarama.
Panandaliang ligaya nga naman
Panandalian lang ang lahat
Pang matagalang sakit at poot
Naman ang sa iyo'y idudulot
Hahayaan mo na lang ba na gano'n?
Kung ligaya ay minsang panandalian
Malamang lungkot at paghati ay panandalian lang din.
Ngunit haba ng dulot ng ligaya ay di masusukat
Lungkot na naramdaman ay tiyak malilimot mo na.
Tunay ngang pag-ibig ay magulo
Hindi ko maintindihan
Bakit kapag nasasaktan ka'y ayos lang?
Hindi ko maintindihan
Kapag nama'y masaya ka, babawiin rin lang
Hindi ko maintindihan
Maaari bang madali na lang ang lahat?
Pag-ibig ay talagang magulo
Pagkat kulay nito'y halo-halo.
Mundo ay napapaikot gamit ng pag-ibig na ito,
Sabi nga ng maraming nakaranas na nito
Hindi ka matututo umibig
Kung di ka masasaktan.
Sakit sa pag-ibig ay normal
Pagkat ikaw ay nagmamahal.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
My Blue Eyed Blonde
By Joeysguy
I’m just a man with a broken heart trying to show love
To the woman who I lost and is now in the heaven above
I think back when we met we shared a kiss
Now the days go by I think of my wife who I terribly miss
Life seems so very unfair
I was older but it’s my wife who is not here
All the years we were married I gave her all that I could
I gave her all my love and my heart the way a husband should
When special days and some holidays come near
It hurts more on these days that my wife and I no longer share
I wish I could remember everything from my past
I would burn my wife in my mind so it all would last
Over and over as the days go by
I try to get by with out a cry
Joey was my wife and now she is gone
I am finding my days so very hard to move on
On our wedding day some words I had said
I promised to always love her and with this ring I thee wed
We have two girls Barbara and Patricia are their names
Also their is our son his name is James
My wife was a tall and slender blonde with blue eyes
She loved me and I guess she was very wise
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 8:23 AM UTC
MIST CREEPING SLOWLY
The morning found
only blood & feathers.
The fox leaving
only Death
& its presence
& the gossip of the frightened chickens.
My uncle swearing
‘til the sky was blue
(early morning clouds that the sun shone through) .
An embarrassed ****
like a mad alarm clock
crying like a cartoon “cock-a-doodle-do! ”
My uncle dispatching him
with a quick kick.
“Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ”
I take in the scene of the massacre
& whisper:
“I sure wouldn’t like to be a chicken! ”
* * *
All that next week
my uncle stalked the chicken coup
waiting for the fox
who was clever enough
not to turn up
until the eight day
driven by his hunger & his nature
she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight
& the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight
as both it & the fox(shot through the head)
fell dead
at my uncle’s muddied boot.
My gentle uncle delirious with Death
the frosted air
stained with his breath.
His voice almost transformed
into an animalistic hoot:
“Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I
could shoot! ”
The good side of the fox’s face
seemed to still laugh
at the very idea of Death.
I whimpered:
“I sure wouldn’t like to be a fox! ”
The countryside
brutal & Biblical
demanding
a life for a life
Yet all I could see
was Death...Death.
Priest-like...
I knelt & whispered
a quick act of contrition
to the fox’s carcase.
My uncle probably thought
I was barmy.
That night in celebration
my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck
(the chicken’s name was Patricia)
& I declined the clean
white breast
still haunted
by the chicken & the fox’s
death.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
Barack Obama
Is a fork tongued devil
Who supports abortions
And homosexual marriage
The Lord said
His hand of judgement will come
Against the U.S.
The first devastation will hit
There will be another right on its heels
A series of devastating events
Look to the skies---- (nuke)
Look to the seas---(tsunami)
Look to the earth---(earthquake)
People being killed with guns
Marshall Law
The United States will fall
Because of its wickedness
The U.S. will decrease
And Israel will increase
It will happen
These things will happen before
His return
The sword will be the nuclear war
Drought from no rains
Pestilence new strain of disease
5 year war
Then famine
Fill up storehouses
Landscape of America will change
Waterways will become poisonous
Sun will emit flashes of radiation
His hand is on the weather
(Hand of the Lord)
Ocean will come as far as the Rockies
Geological plates will shift
Russians will attack infrastructure
Of the nation
A nation of lies
Darkness will overcome
A deep darkness will cover
The people
Because they love the lies
The Lord said to her,
"Do not despair my children
Out of the darkness
Comes the glorious light."
There will be
Cities of refuge
For those who know Him
Intimately
There will be a city of refuge
Stay close and He will instruct you
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
She was faster than a rattlesnake
She could split a log in two
She was better than any hand
I think I ever knew
She was famous all throughout the west
But, it really was a shame
She wasn't known for what she did
She was famous for her name
She could rope and shoot and ride
Better 'n any man I know
But laugh at this girl's name
And she'd hog tie you for show
Christened Patricia Bollinger
From Baltimore she came
She didn't like the term cow girl
So, Cow Patty was her name
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 11:57 PM UTC
Taos Pueblo fashion designer Patricia Michaels returns to New York City for “Style Fashion Week NYC”on September 10th to present her latest 30 piece collection at aspecial RSVP eventat Hammerstein Ballroom, 311 West 34th St, Midtown Manhattan.
Michaels was a finalist on season 11 of the Lifetime reality TV show, “Project Runway”, and “Project Runway All-Stars”, gaining thousands of admirers as the media world followed her success along with an excited and proud Indian country.
Michaels will present her trademark PM Waterlily line and her latest collection for Spring/Summer 2017. Known for her use of Native-themed fabrics, hand painted or hand dyed, cut and fabricated at her Taos, New Mexico studio, Michaels says she is inspired by nature walks at Taos Pueblo among the trees, wildflowers and water plants, and “seeds” are important symbols of her designs and concepts.
The following description is from the website, speaking of the “Modern Native” who inspires and wears her designs. “Patricia Michaels...will have a few pieces for colder climates as her woman travels to regions where during the summer the climates tend to be cold. She is a world traveler so one may made need that special look to freshen her palette.”
Those living in or near the New York area that are interested in attending can visit toEventbrite to RSVP for the September 10 event. Seating is limited.
We wish Patricia Michaels and PM Waterlily success in New York City and beyond.
According to their site, Style Fashion Week, producer of globally recognized fashion events, provides top designers a world class platform to showcase their collections. Each year Style Fashion Week presents the season's must see shows, unforgettable performances and exclusive installations. Our expansive Style Marketplace immerses guests in fashion as well as art and design. Guests directly engage with brands throughout the week.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 1:38 AM UTC
Miss Holly,
You would have had
Just the most beautiful smile
And the brightest eyes.
I am sure your laugh
Would have lit up my world
And I know our souls would sing
When we saw each other.
But I also know
We would have hard times,
Maybe more hard times,
And I don’t want to bring you into the world
To struggle, beside me.
Maybe we might have had
Good days and weeks, even months,
But I am coming out of
The hardest chapter in my life
And you are not the closure
This chapter needs.
I don’t know
If I will ever have children
Who live on this side of my mind,
But you will always live
Inside my heart.
May 11, 2022
May 11, 2022 at 11:11 PM UTC
Here is Paulo,
Always on the ball **
He thinks he’s Ronaldo
Playing on Madeiran sand lo.
The Caistor Couple, Patricia and Paul,
They’re at Willy’s to have a ball.
I’m not talking about playing sport,
More about beer and ***** and port.
Paul Butters
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 6:10 AM UTC
I came home late from work today
My wife was hopping mad
She said "we've got to put him somewhere"
"I've had it with your dad"
I asked what was the problem
She said "The second you left home"
"He was out back in the garden"
"Sitting, talking to a gnome"
"I see", I said, that isn't good
"Then the war games in the trees"
"The next time I looked out he was"
"Crawling on his hands and knees'
"I went out to go and get him"
"He threw me down and slapped my ***
He said "you have to get down low dear"
"Or you'll be spotted by the ***
I suggested that we look about
For a nice old country home
He could play his war games in the woods
And I would let him take the gnome
My wife said "Make it happen"
And I heard through the back door
"It better happen quickly"
"Because I can not take much more!"
I called and found a nice spot
Princess Patricia's Old Vets Place
It was cheap and fit our budget
And it sure had lots of space
We went up for a visit
Before we put my dad in there
I mean, if it was not to his liking
Then it would not be quite fair
The head nurse gave us info
About the hours and the fees
And we told her of how Daddy
Liked to play war games in the trees
She said "He's going to love it"
"It sounds like he's a real good sport"
"The vets here have a Navy"
"Out on the tennis court"
"They strap bed pans to their feet"
"And they go skating down the hall"
"Some unhook their catheters"
"And have duels upon the wall"
"They see who shoots the highest"
"Which one can write their name"
"And every time we show a war film"
"It all ends up the same"
"He'll fit right in, no problem"
"I can sign him in today"
My wife just stood and smiled
Pulled out the cheque,with which to pay
Dad, not really caring
Watched the woods for an attack
I don't think that he cared much
If we ever did come back
He's happy at the moment
Giving orders to the gnome
Out deep in the country
At Princess Pat's Old Vets Home
Life is back to normal
All is well for her and me
Although lately I've seen soldiers
Hiding, watching in the trees.....
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.
My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.
Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.
She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.
We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.
Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.
The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.
"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".
"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
She likes fashion and interviews. I like getting lost.
Sometimes she grabs my bulge,
as she drinks from an aluminum flask.
She told me to rhyme something with 'flask'.
I said, "Fine. In your life, you've been wearing a mask.
But I can see. And you can see. They can't see.
That you are a detached, blond doll
and your back is against the wall,
as I kiss your neck until you're dead."
She said to rhyme something with 'dead'.
I said, "Fine. You ********** in my head.
And it's quarrelsome
that they don't see that you're numb.
I'd pull on your lip, with my teeth.
Dig my hand between your legs.
Just to make you feel. Just to make you feel.
And I study your hairbrush
to see that there are too much
strands of memories from melodies
that lay dormant in ballrooms
and scented kisses
that drip of the misses
in your life and mine."
She said **** me with your words.
I refused because I'd rather watch her bloom
in my dreams than the seams of
a fiber noose that rings loose
the bell in your neck
that sounds until birds fly
and we die-
You look at me,
"Home."
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
*One day a girl came across a box,
With secrets she could not unlock,
Which now sits in the perfect spot,
Its not too big, but neither small enough,
So what can it be inside this box ?
Patricia had too much curiosity,
She looks with much generosity,
She was told not to open it up,
All she can do is,
To admire this tiny box.
Do you think it’s a simple box ?
One who can have a red fox,
Or just my ***** red socks,
She is still wondering what's inside that box.
In a box,
Are secrets untold,
Some are new,
And some are old.
To reach inside ,
And read my mind,
The thoughts I've
Not yet left behind.
If material is what you seek,
Then, Honey this place is surely bleak,
Void of gold and shimmering jewels,
Filled only with words and books.
There lies your lonely box,
It has no doors and no locks,
And on the walls, a million clocks,
Who torment you with ceaseless tocks.
Hidden in the depths of my soul,
Locked tightly with codes,
Break the seal and you will see,
How magic just one box can be.
And on her door I lightly knock,
And to her I softly talk;
Honey,it’s time to open your box.
The moment is dazzling in the sky,
And that I won't decline,
The chance to be open,
The chance to be kind.
In words I can't find,
Nor I can describe,
While you still wonder what its inside,
Genuine thought strikes my mind ;
"Lets open it up"*
Stef Devid Alexandru ©
PS : For those who wonders,she really really liked the content of that box. ;)
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
I desperately grasp on to anything,
any morsel of information about her,
who she was then
and who she is now
*I knew she lived during a time when the last of the cattle meant the end of days were near,
and out of fear,
mothers would drown their children,
rather than watch them slowly starve
and cry for the nourishment that cannot be given.*
Everyone loved her but she had no friends,
she would lure people in,
and once they got too close,
she'd push them away again.
I sleep in her bedroom and I live in her house,
and every day I look for something more.
Maybe that's the reason why I feel closer to her now than I ever did,
yet farther away than ever before.
I wish I could speak to her.
I'd ask her "Isn't this what you've always wanted? Aren't you glad?"
But I can't...
I stole the life she once had.
Jul 4, 2011
Jul 4, 2011 at 11:35 PM UTC
Only LOVE can save Earth and all living creations upon it.
But to LOVE, one must first be loved. That is why it is imperative that the embryo must be loved. Then the infant, then the toddler, then the child, then the teenager, and so on.
If you have never been loved, or not enough, you will have problems, serious problems. But it is never too late to be loved.
I was not loved by my mom and dad. They had a terribly miserable marriage for 36 years. Neither was emotionally capable of loving me.
But our maid, Maggie Woods, bless her heart, loved me. Did I care that her skin was black? If you have a garden that is drying up, do you care if it rains?
Maggie loved me. She fixed me two poached eggs, grits (she grew up in southern Texas), and two slices of toasted wholewheat bread buttered every morning for years. She washed my clothes. If I needed a spanking, she spanked me. If I needed a hug, she hugged me. I could feel Maggie's LOVE.
My biological mother never entered my bedroom when I was in it. Maggie did.
I remember one incident in particular. I was a kid. I was sick in bed. I distinctly remember Maggie coming into my room with something to eat and a Squirt to drink. I had never drunk a Squirt before, but apparently Maggie loved it. (Maggie and Floyd, her husband, lived in our house in an apartment on the third floor.) The Squirt unconsciously symbolized her LOVE for me.
In my early 30s, I entered psychotherapy with Dr. Patricia Norris at the famous Menninger Foundation. We used what I was to refer to as "unguided" imagery. (Most refer to this modality as guided imaginary,) I worked with Pat, as I came to call her, a long time.
In short, the way it worked was that as we sat in our chairs, we both closed our eyes and waited for something to come into my mind, which I then would share with Pat. The long story was that Pat became my surrogate mother. We experienced many loving moments in our "unguided" imagery. The LOVE I felt from Pat, though through imagery, was real. I was finally and fully loved, and that made me who I am today.
Hate is not the opposite of love. It is the absence of love. Those who suffer from the paucity of LOVE unconsciously try to compensate for its dearth through becoming wealthy, then mega wealthy; by garnering fame; or by accruing power. None works.
But LOVE works. The more of it you share, the more you have to share.
Earth suffers so greatly from the lack of LOVE that it is dying. But even if one human being feels love, that love can spread like wildfire.
Let's hope the wildfire of LOVE spreads over Earth entirely and soon.
It is utterly plausible that it can happen.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 3:01 PM UTC
"I don't act this way to change the world. I act this way so that the world won't change me."-- Patricia Charbonneau in 'Desert Hearts'
Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
as The Act
is but an act.
Intangible at that.
She may be silent,
but She is strident
in action.
Later,
She is given a voice.
But,
The Lady thespian,
assaulted by
The Gaze,
is subjected
as the objected
by the subjected
and the objected.
Greta Garbo dominates
the Pre-Codes.
Betty Davis hesitates
but follows the new ones.
Miss Monroe,
the ideal ***
erases Her history,
creating a new toxic one:
"Look and touch
as you please,
Mr. President."
Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
"Blame the woman for everything"
say 'Ordinary People'
and the Academy
salutes you.
Look Lady,
shoot to 'Kill Bill'
for a manly thrill
to be
remembered
still...
Still waiting for change...
Legally,
a Blonde has brains, too.
But who knew
that twists
and turns
and changes
can happen
to you?
All from Her:
Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
on the big screen.
You
just
can't
touch
Her.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
Ibykos Fragment 286, circa 564 BCE
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come spring, the grand
apple trees stand
watered by a gushing river
where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver
and the blossoming grape vine swells
in the gathering shadows.
Unfortunately
for me
Eros never rests
but like a Thracian tempest
ablaze with lightning
emanates from Aphrodite;
the results are frightening—
black,
bleak,
astonishing,
violently jolting me from my soles
to my soul.
Preposterous Eros
by Michael R. Burch
“Preposterous Eros” – Patricia Falanga
Preposterous Eros shot me in
the buttocks, with a Devilish grin,
spent all my money in a rush
then left my heart effete pink mush.
Keywords/Tags: Ibykos, fragment, translation, Eros, Aphrodite, Thracian, tempest, lightning, jolt, soul, spring, apple, trees, river, flowers, grape, vine, shadows
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 6:02 AM UTC
How Much Gets Me On A Bus? to the City?
(I live 30 minutes away)
more than this ever will - POETRY
I’ve been writing ‘poems’ ever since I remember
ever since 11 –
reciting these phenomenal words of wisdom
to any and all who would listen
forcing family-members & friends
that’s the thing about poetry,
it makes you feel like it’s important,
makes you think the words you sling together
aren’t really yours
it comes to you, through you, needs to come out of you,
and when its over you’re just as amazed
as they should be.
but they’re not, I mean
they like poetry, admire it,
even enjoy it sometimes,
but they could honestly
give it up in a heartbeat,
live without it.
You know what I mean?
I’m like you
like all the people who come here
I'm part poetry as poetry is me
A Dodge Poetry Attendee many years –
my arm once around Gwendolyn Brooks,
cried in a church with Lucille Clifton
talked Newark to Baraka –
know the honorable Slammer, Patricia Smith!
I’ve sat many years with the Lords of Literature - my professors
who all seemed to know “whose got it”
the intellectuals of American prose who seem to be searching for a rookie,
the next best troubadour college-student that will grace their faculty-doors…
The poetry I read here is incredible
Some of the best stuff on the net,
poignant, painful , honest, raw, sensual, serious – provokingly real
words I read here startle me, stun me at times
so clear in meaning, well-crafted, chosen words
unusually strong
They’re the kind of words the got-it people have,
the poet people (probably all people have)
poetry is just another way of finding an infallible song –
(I still say we should go sing it on the bus!)
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
A fearless soul,
Filled with passion.
A love for her family,
So strong, try to imagine.
It's broader than the galaxy,
Would drive some to insanity,
But not my mom,
As you will see...
She speaks her truth,
Without a doubt.
Never appearing aloof,
Day in and day out.
She is persistent,
"For the squeaky wheel gets the grease"
And also consistent,
"K-I-S-S, Keep It Simple, Stupid"
And as tough as she seems,
Beneath her petite stature,
She is the mother of dreams,
Intentions clean cut, and so pure.
Words can scarcely express
Her fundamental role.
With her, we coalesce,
Making our family a whole.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
Patricia,
Your son and his roommate
do not need permission to
sign the lease on their apartment.
They do not need permission
to show up sweaty and
smiling at Sunday dinner-
some men like to jog.
Your son may dress
nicer than you taught him-
but your son and his roommate
do not need permission to
shop at Banana Republic.
He may have asked permission
to get his first car (a Paseo)
and to join the little league baseball team
but he did not need permission
to buy matching suits at prom.
Patricia, would you have given your son
permission to release himself
if every inch of him loved
every inch of
him?
He does not need permission
to feel loved-
but he would like it.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 12:26 PM UTC
I'm walking down a country road just west
of Silver Lake with my dog, Cinder. Just east
is the Kansas River, woods between it and me.
I'm not alone exactly. With me are Sherry,
Stephani, Kathleen, Susan, Cara, Anne, Cynthia,
Nancy, Kristin, and Patricia--at least in memory.
As I amble, I'm in a trance. Moments of laughter.
Afternoons of picnics--hotdogs, potato salad,
lemonade. Trips to the Rockies. Steamboat Springs
was my favorite destination. When you got high
enough in the mountains, not only could you see
their majesty, but even better, you could smell
the fragrance of the evergreens, the ultimate high.
Rafting down the Arkansas River sometimes,
down the Colorado other times. A melange of
memories. Decades of intimacy, nights of passion.
Some tears, but more kisses than tears. Cinder
kept up with me as I would occasionally kick up
dust as I continued my country walk. If was as if
I were walking through my past. I guess that's
exactly what I was doing, remembering the mountain
air, the tender touches, the silence lying side by side.
I was taking a walk down a country road with Cinder,
but we were not alone.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
May 5, 2023
May 5, 2023 at 7:21 AM UTC
Joe and Rose’s Children
Joseph’s plane was shot down near England during WWII
John was assassinated in 1963 of November Twenty-Two
Rose Marie Mary had a lobotomy because she was acting aggressively
Kathleen, wed Wm J Robt Cavendish and she later died unexpectedly
Eunice married a great man, Lieutenant Robert S. Shriver
Patricia wed actor Peter Lawford, their marriage wasn't forever
Robert wed Ethel Skakel, he was another that was assassinated
Jacqueline Bovier felt sure that the Kennedy’s might be hated
Married to Stephen Edward Smith
Jean was wed to him until his death
Edward (Ted) late one night drove off a bridge at Chappaquiddick
Reporting the next day about Mary Jo Kopechne was quite horrific
Ted was married twice, first to Virginia Joan Bennett 1958–1982
And then next until his death Victoria Anne "Vicki" Reggie too
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
“Be careful walking home,” stout Patricia
told us through a mouthful of affogato.
“The wild boar aren’t out much this time of year but
watch for the porcospini,” she snickered
wickedly,
“the porcupines’ll smell the grappa on your lips.”
my head spun in the moonrise,
the Dutch husband having poured glass
after glass after glass after
at first we were consp—hic
conspiring to cover the taste of the mushroom soup
hic—
don’t stand up just yet
eighteen year old legs for ages and a sweet
American peregrina sundress stupor
dizzy for the first time and feeling the
Tuscan drought on my lingua and in my mani
when I tell the story I remember there being
two dogs asleep under the table
but when they tell the story they
insist there was
only one
e noi non siamo di qui
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
Since I was old enough to speak,
i promised to love you till the end of time;
and now i'm praying for the end of time to come quickly,
so i can stop loving you.
Why?
because i dont break my promises.
Some part of me got lost in your apron;
Where you hid your cigarettes.
No I’ll never forget, cigarettes lit,
pots blackened by the thick smoke from the stoves.
Your majestic pose over the cans as you churned your latest recipes to life.
I just wanted to be like you.
Now you're there,
as fragile as a worm in a brine pool.
Laying in that hospital bed,
the white sheets stained by your spews of black blood.
The doctor said your lungs have given way,
I still cant believe that you're leaving me.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
Today, December 23rd, another Christmas nears.
I try to keep tradition up while holding back my tears.
I know I have been blessed for all the many years
of love and joy and family and times we had to share.
The presents wrapped, the tree is lit, the wreath upon the door,
but pondering all the Christmases past and tears begin to fall.
This Christmas will be different,
for some very special loved ones have received God's final call.
Then I dry my tears and say a special prayer.
Dear God, my gift to you is that soul I loved so dear.
I thank you for their life and love
I was so blessed to share.
Now all that I can ask of you is to keep them in your care!
I also want to offer you my each and every tear.
Now I promise to make Christmas joy for those I still have here
and put a smile upon their face while we have time to share.
Amen
Patricia L. Cisco. 12/23/2016.
Source: http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/december-23rd
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
Ibykos Fragment 286, circa 564 BCE
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come spring, the grand
apple trees stand
watered by a gushing river
where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver
and the blossoming grape vine swells
in the gathering shadows.
Unfortunately
for me
Eros never rests
but like a Thracian tempest
ablaze with lightning
emanates from Aphrodite;
the results are frightening—
black,
bleak,
astonishing,
violently jolting me from my soles
to my soul.
Keywords/Tags: Ibykos, fragment, translation, Eros, Aphrodite, Thracian, tempest, lightning, jolt, soul, spring, apple, trees, river, flowers, grape, vine, shadows
Preposterous Eros
by Michael R. Burch
“Preposterous Eros” – Patricia Falanga
Preposterous Eros shot me in
the buttocks, with a Devilish grin,
spent all my money in a rush
then left my heart effete pink mush.
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 3:39 AM UTC