"patting" poems
extra long vintage convertible car.
notice my big shoe size,
do I know what that really means?
extra little lies on top of giant whoppers.
the number of figures on their W-2,
and my measurements and cup-size, please.
please treasure
their perspicacious needs.
what’s with the obsession with size?
won’t sleep with them on the first date,
they are shocked, just shocked,
when informed on the dotted line
that a hundred dinners won’t turn me into their
personal come-when-called *****
at nineteen, by now,
I should know better,
do as I’m told
what’s this obsession with hurry up, immediate satisfaction?
and patting my head like i’m their favorite pet,
mansplaining me how the world works,
cause at nineteen I don’t know ****
just listen to the know-not-a-damn thing
arrogance of knowing it all impress themselves
what’s this need to be superior but a huge (size) coverup?
yeah yeah, get me a better class of men,
like my literate professors who will improve my grade
for use of the insights of my mouth on their poetic gestures.
I can wait, till I find a right sized human being,
in every which way,
especially
if he shows me the true love poems writ
for other girls,
then I may even trust him,
sooner
than never
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 4:30 PM UTC
Wet nose, four paws, and a wagging tail
follow right beside me on an uncharted trail.
We're exploring, but just what for?
National treasure or maybe folklore?
He doesn't know and neither do I.
On a day like this we don't need to ask why.
I stop for a break and he looks right at me.
"C'mon Dev. Let's make it snappy."
I can't disappoint those big brown eyes.
He never complains, frowns, or tells lies.
His only intention is to insure I'm happy.
So I stand back up and give him a patting.
We march on in search of who knows.
Through the highest highs and the lowest lows,
There is always an adventure just around the bend.
He's not only a puppy - he's my hairy best friend.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 2:41 AM UTC
I was asked today "what
are you really into?"
while I was walking to film
class.
He had changed direction
with a flair of drama
and was walking along,
interrogating me.
I had to think.
I wondered how
I would answer his
question, were it posed
by someone I was interested in.
"I like the smell of hormones
colliding, omnipotent in their
decision to do so and in doing
it."
Could I say that?
"I like to feel like a hormone,"
or
"I like being a hormone."
Were these answers?
"I like patting my contracted
******* against the *****
majora of my partner."
"I like sewing," I might say.
That is, the idea
that if I push
and she opens
both testicles
and ******** may pop inside.
Like a **** needle pulling
a ***** thread
through a tight weave.
I laugh, imagining what the little man
would say, but
he doesn't know why.
"Stitch her up, Doctor!"
I'm
laughing.
He just says "you know, I'm into
chemistry, biology. Just tell me what
you're into."
I've been silent.
Is he still walking with me?
All I think to say is
"music" pointing to the earbuds
dangling over my chest, song
interrupted
by his pedantry.
He says "you've always liked music"
as if we've had this conversation before.
As if we know each other.
And it seems like he will follow me
to class.
And sit by me.
And talk about chemistry
and biology
while we discuss Singin' in the Rain.
Hormones, sewing and music.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
We sat at the table, waiting for our number to be called.
Their pepperoni pizza, was our most favorite one of all.
Our number is announced, George is carrying the pizza back.
When close, he decides to act, as though he trips in his tracks.
In slow motion, that pizza, slid so smoothly out of the pan.
George's eyes got big as saucers, he saw the folly of his plan.
There I was in my new outfit, that cost half of my paycheck.
With pizza, upside down on my lap and sauce splashed on my neck.
Amazingly calm, George scooped the pizza up in his hands.
Melted cheese, stretching and stringing, from my pants in gooey strands.
He stood there patting and pressing the pizza back into shape.
That poor pizza looked just like a badly, bulldozered landscape.
It lay there sort of twisted, pepperoni all to one side.
Crust pieces stinking out of it, like a saucy red mudslide.
Then he sat down across from me, silently as if waiting.
I must have looked like a blonde fish, sitting there, just gapping.
Then a chuckle escaped my lips, as his eyes raised to meet mine.
He looked just like a little boy, who just got caught in a crime.
I'm surprised we didn't get kicked out for making such a fuss.
'Cause, next thing you know, the whole place is laughing along with us.
We couldn't stop, there was no way we'd been able.
Not while upsidedown-lap pizza, stared at us from the table
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 7:04 PM UTC
I don't know what to think
when i'm staring in your eyes
more akin to speak
in blind lullabies.
than logistify
my heightened
surmise
in flight
to somewhere nice
if only for tonight
come with me this night
ignite
the cindered fires
of our desires
and incite
the throws of light
in **** obscurity
moaning through the sincerity
of our oddities
gleaming in the rarity
of our academy of lust
all or bust
entrust the accounting
of blaspheme
to the enemies
of poverty
and shove me
all the way down your throat
fill you
instill you
with the hope
of a million
grinning in **********
of the tangled mental merchants
of pretty lights and custom curtains
drawn at first light
dispersing
amongst cursing pedestrians
prior to ***********
of forceful ************
with an another human
lightened strikes the truant
in 9 months of fluent
agony
just imagining little Timmy
has me scavenging for a shimmy
to escape
its social ****
to a blind ape
still patting his head
don't be mislead
by ***** carriers
pack your own barriers
and prepare for the scarier
side of a mans mind
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
The sunset is beautiful
I only wish you were here
to complete the evening
If you were
what would we do?
Where would we go?
Perhaps we'd just stay here
sitting on the steps
standing over the water
leaning on the buildings by the docks
simply talking
about how life has been
individually, several miles apart
Familiar our exchanges might be,
no small thanks to
our fancy flatscreen devices,
I'd still want to hear each word
while we do whatever we desire
because you'd be here
and we'd be together
at last in person again
laughing, smiling, jesting
holding and stroking each other
poking and patting in this place and that
all while looking out at the sunset
although I wouldn't want
to look away even if I could
from those deep brown eyes
flowing with the tone of your soft skin
and the groomed lines of your elegant hair;
perfect as a pristine painting
whether afar or in the details.
I only wish
that you were here
beside me.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
*Between the night and daylight,
As twilight begins to shower,
Comes a lull in the day's preparations,
Cherished as the Kittys' Hour.
I hear in the kitchen beside me,
The patter of tiny feet,
Rumbles of varying motors
With "meow's" gentle and sweet.
Leaping from counter with agile grace
On my shoulder with a purr;
Sail grave Thomas and sweet Lady Jane,
And Susan of golden fur.
A "meow," and then a long silence,
I know by mischievous eyes,
They are scheming and musing together,
To vanquish my weary sighs.
With sudden dash from the hallway,
Tortie bounds into my arms!
Felines of all colours sit starring,
Delighting me with their charms.
Frolicking with skillful ease,
Tossing and batting their catnip-mouse;
If I run to escape, they surround me,
They appear to overflow the house.
Suffocating me with their kisses,
Furry paws patting my face;
And though they have torn the kitchen blinds,
They dazzle me with their grace.
I hug you all close in loving arms,
And will n'er let you depart,
Nor ****** you dears out to coyotes,
For you each have won my heart.
And here shall you dwell forever,
Cherished more each golden day;
Till this glad house fall into ruin,
And I in dust shall decay.*
~Hilda~
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC
Walking in dim thoughts
with the sound of rain outside.
The dripping pattern takes
me on a pitter-patting journey.
I'm neither here, nor there,
and yet somewhere
I must be.
Craving to be healthy,
in mind, body and soul.
Content perhaps?
Aware of who I am
and who I will
always be.
Is anyone like this?
Really?
Or are we a collected
mass of android
arms reaching
lamely for
robot parts?
Artificial emotions that
fester out like
***** mud shoes left
in the hallway.
We yawn internally
to avoid the truth
that we are bored
with one another.
Raindrops continue, as
does my doubting heart
as it wraps around
the possibility of
funerals and
Requiem Masses.
Long faces and
sighing masking
the indifference
of striving.
Together in mood
but far apart
in disposition.
Carry on, rain,
carry on. Slip
your wetness
against the dry spell
of my perception.
I can see. Or, I can
close my eyes to
imagine that the
tomorrow of thought
becomes the infested
reality I will be living.
I spend too many
careless storms wishing
for other days to arrive.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
Helen passes me
her doll
Battered Betty
hold her
for a minute
she says
I hold the doll
between hands
away from me
in case she may
wet on me
as my old man
used to do
when my kid brother
was a babe
and he didn't want
the kid's ***
on his new suit
what's wrong with her?
I ask
she's got a temperature
Helen says
I look at the doll
who looks white
and cold and I smile
ok
I say
well take off
these clothes
and woollen jumper
no wonder she's hot
and got a temperature
we are walking along
Meadow Row
towards the fish
and chips shop
over the crossing
to get my mother's order
do you think
she's got a temperature?
Helen asks
I feel the doll's forehead
no it seems fine to me
I say
ok
she says
and take the doll back
and holds her
against her chest
rocking the doll
side to side
and patting
the doll's back
it's just she seemed
hot this morning
Helen says
when I got her
out of bed
whose bed?
I ask
mine
she says
the one I share
with my sister
with Betty between us
next to Teddy
I see
I say
seeing her rock
the doll side to side
like a good
little mother
she's lucky
I say
I sleep
with my little brother.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
1.
Lovingly patting my hands
she sows goosebumps enough for two;
a rich harvest awaits our hearts.
2.
Corners of her dark eyes
doodle on my heart's canvas;
an art therapy apt, for the lovesick.
3.
Pretend, I am invisible,
ask him out, make me jealous,
frantic antics, just reversed, I understand.
4.
Movie runs on the screen,
your eyes on mine, see within,
what exquisite twists and turns
in the storyline of our secret love!
5.
Your short floral dress
loves to tango with the wind,
would I ever complain?
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
If you drive down route 235,
the lonely parallel line of route 5,
running through St. Mary's County, Maryland,
between the intersection of Old Three Notch road
and St. Andrew's Church road,
and the liquor store at the corner of Mattapany--
you must do so with a fat wallet,
and a growling stomach,
who barks at the flashing signs
of the sparkling chain restaurants--
wafting their familiar scents out the windows
and onto the busy street.
Utterly beleaguered every which way by these olfactory factories,
your mouth waters and your wallet lightens
as the tantalizing sensations
permeate your vehicle.
So you cave;
another lost soul vacates the street at Restaurant Alley,
under the prowling searchlights
and the intoxicating smells lingering like a dense fog;
You linger in your purgatory with glee.
You exit satisfied, patting your abdominous belly
and lifting your smiling face to the sky
in thanks to the gluttonous gods
who rain down these chain restaurants
from the heavens.
A satisfied sigh seeps out of loose lips,
barely hanging on to your fleshy face,
so ruddy and fat.
You act like your stop was something novel,
like it wasn't routine to acquiesce to these temptations;
you return to your car to continue your roamings
down restaurant alley.
Sadly, a full stomach won't stifle a querying nose,
and your senses are soon at it again;
just as the waiters and waitresses,
cooks and busboys--
are back at the window, leaning outside
with their clamorings and bustlings and cookings--
You pretend to entertain willpower as your copilot,
but even if that were so,
your senses would still be at the wheel,
with your mind bound and gagged in the trunk.
Restaurant Alley goes on for miles and miles and miles,
seemingly endless in the permeating fog of
burgers and pancakes and pasta and chicken and fries and burgers and soda and ice cream and beer and pasta and wine and America and pancakes and steak and appetizers and desserts and entrees and specials and kids menus and burgers and chicken and pasta and fries and burgers and ice cream and salad and burgers and soda and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat!
There's nothing to eat;
there's nothing to do but eat in Restaurant Alley,
on route 235 in St. Mary's County, Maryland.
So fasten your seat belt,
and loosen your waist belt,
and take a doomed trip down the endless roadway--
where you are dragged, shackled to food chains
that haul you from the perdition that is the lobby's waiting room
to be seated with loved ones at the mercy seat of Ambrosia.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
How many millions have you got
I expect you lost count
It's a hellava lot
Not forgetting the splendid yacht
An artist scans a landscape
A comic distills a joke
A shopper looks for a parking space
An addict drags on a smoke
I do what I want one thing at a time
Cumulus nimbus are flying high
Follow my nose with a healthy dose
Of common sense and instinct combined
A vicar rehearses a favourite prayer
A sailor waits on a breeze
A writer sees a story there
A woodsman searches the trees
A rich man still believes he is poor
A lost and lonely is thinking if only
Patting the chair and tapping the floor
We all go chasing a bit of fun
Fulfilment comes in different ways
Like writing a poem every day
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
Under the gazebo,
you sang in silly cadence
while patting along on your lap
you smiled so happily.
You made my heart beat rapidly
and you still do, so easily
even now just remembering
my heart pounds without warning.
It yearns for the memories to repeat.
So often, I'll lay and reminisce,
even so my heart begs me to rewind,
I feel it crying for what's inside.
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 7:31 AM UTC
Corporations **** the core
Cuts the soul to ribbons
Takes all the labor
And pays back in paltry paychecks
That barely covers our debts
Whilst doling out pain and exhaustion
But the people are good
Hardworking and smiling
Straining to maintain
That spark of heart
That remains
While paying their bills
And feeding their family
The shift starts
And tired bodies
Stumble in
Factory already
Rumbling
Like last night’s thunder
People laughing and chatting
Lebanese dude calls me Habibie
Grinning and patting me on the back
Brown brother give me a knuckle bust
As he passes by with a playful gleam in his eyes
One guy doesn’t high five but bumps elbows
The Congo girls speak another language
Beautiful flowing and musically rhythmical
The Janitor sings Motown
In this factory town these are good people
The generators hum
The machine sings
Doing their thing
Hoses circulate water
Like life’s blood
Taking in the heat
And sending it away
Bringing back more cool water
That does the same
Cooling the loud and hot equipment
While the employees are stressed and sweating
Wearing muscle fatigue and sleep deprivation
Like it’s their second skin
The machines drums ch, ch, crack
Ch, ch crack like a musical number
While the workers hustle
A smoke break and a popsicle
Then back to work
A lunch break and a conversation
Then back to work
Last smoke break and a phone call
Then back to work
Leaving the factory body hurting
But still coming off
The assembly line a good person
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
wednesday ..
is faded black jeans/old white tank (too big) (hole from belt buckle centre front)
glass of water stuck into the rings left by past week's mugs of beer
sitting by the ashtray. and you are better than a nip of rye in the truck cab heading to work.
the dust in my lungs (wide open saskatchewan fields)
is not as important as watching the clouds stain purple with the sunrise
patting two gorgeous farm dogs who run over from behind a silo turned to bronze in the light
(there is an angel laying naked in the wheat grain)
to nip playfully at my calves while i unchain the derrick,
somewhere in my mind's recess it feels like i am loosing atlas from his *******
tho i do not register the thought until later upon waking from a nap.
saturday // 1:15:44 pm
i am in only briefs now working on a song/i clocked 4
hrs greasing truck 1117 this morning and
hauling pallets.
daylene from dispatch brought in donuts.
i'll spend the afternoon listening to kanye and talking to women online.
—there are no girls in estevan. i have (kind of) looked.
sometimes i believe this to be pathetic but then i think further ahead
and it's not so bad.
you do really meet some nice girls. phone is replete with their numbers &
they keep me company on long rides to and from leases,
asking about work. hoping that i am well.
(once back home by christmas account will be deleted and i can
take them out at my leisure. you'll understand i hope that i am not
a desperate man. but one has to work with that which he has.
would you rather i go lonely? make my home in the mud to croon hank williams to crows?)
(temporality.)
15/10/2012
there are now three beer cans on the carpet & one on the washing machine by the
bathroom door which i will drink in the shower.
it was sort of a long day.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
When she was seven, my grandmother suffered from fever and swollen glands. The doctors believed her tonsils were inflamed, that she needed surgery. Instead, she went to a curandera. The curandera divined that a jealous relative had cast a curse on her and, now, her language of kindness was bound to her throat, the unspoken swelling her glands.
As a child my grandmother spoke to santitos with a voice like a chestnut: ruddy and warm, seeds dropping from her mouth. The santitos would take her words into themselves, her voice growing within them like grapevines.
During the tonsillitis, when the words no longer fell like seeds from her lips, the santito's vineyards of accent and voice grew vapid, dry as a parched mouth. They went to her tongue and asked why silence imprisoned the words of the child, why lumps were present under her chin, why tears drew channels down her cheeks.
I asked my grandmother how her tongue replied. After touching my cheek, she told me she had a dream that night: She was within her lungs and she rose like breath through the moist of her throat. She remembered her tonsils swinging before her like fleshy apples, then a hand taking them into a fist, harvesting their sound. She told me her throat opened in two spots like insect eyes and the names of her children came flying through her wounds like peacocks.
Patting my thigh, she said, "That is why the name of your mother is Maria, because she is a prayer, a song of praise to the Holy Mother."
She told me this, then showed me two scars on her throat—tiny scars, like two eyelids stitched closed.
st - 20 mar 14
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
softly step through the fields of heaven,
biting through your frozen fingers,
tired toes devouring flesh,
of first born hands handicapped,
patting pants in hopes of change,
the eternal deathly doldrums,
commonplace complacence,
with cheap creeped fast food,
eternally eching for the source,
for majorities soaring sorrow.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
"I got down on my knees because he said I would
if I loved him.
And what did I know then?
when I first betrayed my body.
Sold it for a kiss and a smile,
thought to please at any cause,
left to fight for independence in the backseat of cars.
On stained leather interior dank with the smell of expectations
I traded integrity for security and called it love, leaving pieces of an empty shell falling behind my mother patting my head and saying
“What happened to that nice boy you were dating? ”.
Well, I pushed memories farther down
buried beneath piercing sunlight,
dreams my night would come to save
and prayed
scraping already skinned knees
while I cried myself to sleep.
So I bit the apple in confusion,
abandoned my innocence
beneath the tree of knowledge
and became as bitter as the fruit
I couldn’t refuse.
Time and again,
giving in,
giving up,
waiting,
always wanting something more than pick-up lines,
promising more than promiscuity,
clothing myself in false hopes,
enclosing my weariness in frail arms for years… Cars turning into bars with one lamp,
and piles of discarded clothing,
and I heard myself say “no” over and over.
But he didn’t hear me,
wouldn’t listen when he called me a ***** bringing me down and took the only innocence I had left.
And I was searching still for purity,
lurking in hidden corners,
hips swinging, lips pouting,
trading and shattered innocence
for bared and braised and offerings
I learned how to control
and three years of vengeance passed
while I was that woman despised.
Well, they begged for plastic perfection
found in the temptation inches from their faces and I could feel the longing,
the lies when they said “You’re so beautiful”
And it wasn’t enough
And so he loved music more than me,
loved work more than me,
loved money more than me,
loved her more than me.
And I loved him more than me.
And I gave in
to where I thought love hid;
to the times I thought it was real.
We give in to what men want,
we paint ourselves with what we think are the colors of the rainbow,
when we’re really cloaked in hips and lips,
the brutal realities that leave us grasping
tatters of the illusions of love and longing
and the shattered threads of innocence.
Until we wear our own colors
and part the curtains we draped over our mirrors in mourning
and look ourselves in and say
“With you I feel like Isis and I am beautiful”.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
These little fingers
on his little hand
gripping mine
to say hello
Makes me realize
how love can
Create and grow
Helps me understand
what I need to know
That life is precious
And shouldn't be rushed
My own mortality as contrast
to his new life
I'm definitely not in any rush
When my cries for comfort
For food
For a warm hand
patting my ***
And cooing me to sleep
Are so similar to his.
I provide what I can
Because I understand
And I know what he needs.
Two days of life
and a lifetime of lessons
I wish him better luck than me.
And will do what I must
So he can live a more robust
Life than me.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
Almost yesterday, those gentle ladies stole
to their baths in Atlantic Cuty, for the lost
rites of the first sea of the first salt
running from a faucet. I have heard they sat
for hours in briny tubs, patting hotel towels
sweetly over shivered skin, smelling the stale
harbor of a lost ocean, praying at last
for impossible loves, or new skin, or still
another child. And since this was the style,
I don't suppose they knew what they had lost.
Almost yesterday, pushing West, I lost
ten Utah driving minutes, stopped to steal
past postcard vendors, crossed the hot slit
of macadam to touch the marvelous loosed
bobbing of The Salt Lake, to honor and assault
it in its proof, to wash away some slight
need for Maine's coast. Later the funny salt
itched in my pores and stung like bees or sleet.
I rinsed it off on Reno and hurried to steal
a better proof at tables where I always lost.
Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal
toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost
ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust
would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
1.9k
The night before
She came
She came stronger than ever
With her fury locks of blue tipped hair
And molten fire eyes that caught your stare
Her thundering voice caught the ears of the many
And she wailed and she grieved plenty
Her eyes bleeding rain to the ground
In which many did drown
She made her way down the old creek bend
Sweeping down trees
Sweeping down mountains
For she longed for her place
In this old, old world
Her moans for guidance
Tore through the silence
Many fear for her name brings shakes
And her walk brings quakes
Many will run
Many will hide
But I understand what is deep inside-
With her uproar
Men know peace and no war
With her rain
Men can grow all their grains
With her thundering cries
Men know the quiet and no lies
She gives strength to the world
And hope for a day anew unfurled
She makes me feel at home
When she is near I let my heart roam
Her thundering voice lulls me to sleep
Her pit patting rain- I’m now asleep
Her bright flashing eyes watching over me
I know I am safe- at last I am free.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 7:52 PM UTC
I’m sick and tired of people rabbiting on a load of ****
About their ******* duty and fighting for freedom
For the fat ugly patriotic selfish folks "back home"
And pathetic ****** neo-fascist ******** like that
And gabbling on a load of sentimental horsedung
About giving their all for their ******* useless country
When honestly they’d rather be at home in some ugly provincial hick town
Patting their nasty mongrel dogs and groping their neighbours’ wives' arses
And eating mumsy-wumsy’s over-cooked meat and stodgy apple pie
Whilst ensconced on the sofa watching sodding Celebrity Big Brother.
How can a soldier nowadays say he didn't want to be there?
Are people so ******* thick or blind or moronic not to realise
A person volunteers to be in the armed forces in most countries nowadays?
There’s no ****** press gangs or ****** conscription any more;
People become soldiers because they choose to do so
(exceptions include filthy ******* shit-holes like Israel
where the young men queue up to **** Palestinian babies for fun) .
Therefore soldiers DO want to fight, they DO want the chance to ****
And they willingly risk their own ugly unwashed redneck necks.
So they have no right to whine and bellyache when they get asked
To earn their daily state-paid bread and do a spot of killing
Instead of sitting on their overweight arses at MY expense.
Or course, they could show some real guts and resign instead,
But what the **** why pass up on a chance to do some
Legalised ****** and get paid handsomely at the same time.
Just in case you think I forgot, I am totally and fully aware
That 'he' includes 'she' in this context now that women
Have an equal chance to have their military buns blown off pointlessly.
So don't whinge or expect sympathy when your body parts come home in a bag.
Personally, I am of the belief that the only good soldier is a dead soldier,
And the more the merrier. RIP military thugs and up yours.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
from the very first glimpse of world that greets you every sunday,
tuesday
or perhaps thursday morning
the thought of an ordinary day will not dawn upon you
for every day, to you, will be as good as your first
and as bad as your last
life is your dress rehearsal
and its creatures are your cast
seated at the breakfast table
alone
with alphabet cereal
swirling in milk
avidly spelling out the names
of all the galaxies
and daydreaming
of sleeping under the stars
daytime means schooltime
which is synonymous with
underpaid teachers
and high-pitched gossip
and boys with peach fuzz
who never bothered remembering your name.
the cafeteria is a habitat
which houses many
different species
of human
including the undercover poet
scribbling on a grease-stained
napkin :
the ballad of a sad child.
upon a steady return
to the undercover's residence
three things occur:
his fountain pen is quenched
his tears dried
and of course, a bitter realization
that his day had been most banal.
so once again the poet sets off
footsteps patting against textured carpet
your shaky palms
grabbing layers of soft duvet
dragging it across the empty floor
through the hallways
and out the front door
under the stars
you lay and weep: safe forever
and fully submerged in the calm of the night
forever is not a lifetime
it seems
but the time it takes
for the sun to win over the moon
in a fight
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
Reaching out mine poetic finger's,
None to reach back.
Roaming in this passage of expiry,
quietus; how solitary tis.
Patting panels of mysteriousness,
Feel like letting go;
Though do I knoweth I shalt get through
With God, for with humanity I'm alone.
I wilt seest the peep of gleam, just
Yonder the gloaming.
At the moment dead yet living,
Though betimes I'll reach
In pure love all that's
Right and knowing.
With one to hold me
In seas of affections
Warmth, I'll be the
Light I'm meant to
Be- I shalt with
Other's share
Mine torch.
© Brandon nagley
© Lonesome poets poetry.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC