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"pennsylvania" poems
In a bedroom in small-town Pennsylvania, you’ll find an unmade bed, a pile of clothes on the floor— clean but not folded, open drawers and dusty shelves, a desk in the corner of the room with pictures laid across it. When I caught my first fish at six. I held it at arm’s length by the fishing line to avoid the slimy scales, a frown on my face from being forced to sit silently in the cold. When my family went to Marco Island, my sister and I, sifting sand for the best seashells in our matching swimsuits and hats. Mom and dad’s fights forgotten in our fun. High school graduation posing with my best friend since first grade, diplomas in one hand and an extra cap held between us because not everyone survived all four years. Move-in day at college, sitting on my raised bed with a grey comforter and two decorative pillows the color of cotton candy. Sweat on my brow from southern humidity and moving furniture without the help of a father. The pictures are merely snapshots that lack the full story. How I learned what it meant for love to fall apart when I was eight years old. My sister warned me before it happened, told me what a divorce was. I mistook her for joking until they called us upstairs. Dad cried when they told us, but mom held her tears until the day he left. The sounds of her cries escaping from behind a closed door. “This doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.” But that’s exactly what it meant. How I was taught by my father that love is conditional, and I repeatedly needed to prove myself through good grades and unquestioning obedience. Forced to stay home to spend time with the family, sitting wordlessly on the couch while he watched TV. Made guilty for wanting to spend time with friends because that somehow meant that I was a bad daughter. It’s funny—I never asked myself if he was a good father. If you look harder at the bedroom, you’ll find journals filled with bitter words, screws from disassembled pencil sharpeners, loose razors, and Aquaphor, food wrappers stuffed in hidden places, a closet brimming with junk and pairs of shoes, evidence of a story untold. Until you.
0
Sep 20, 2023
Sep 20, 2023 at 9:09 PM UTC
writtenarchive
To Whom It May Concern:
In a bedroom in small-town Pennsylvania, you’ll find an unmade bed, a pile of clothes on the floor— clean but not folded, open drawers and dusty shelves, a desk in the corner of the room with pictures laid across it. When I caught my first fish at six. I held it at arm’s length by the fishing line to avoid the slimy scales, a frown on my face from being forced to sit silently in the cold. When my family went to Marco Island, my sister and I, sifting sand for the best seashells in our matching swimsuits and hats. Mom and dad’s fights forgotten in our fun. High school graduation posing with my best friend since first grade, diplomas in one hand and an extra cap held between us because not everyone survived all four years. Move-in day at college, sitting on my raised bed with a grey comforter and two decorative pillows the color of cotton candy. Sweat on my brow from southern humidity and moving furniture without the help of a father. The pictures are merely snapshots that lack the full story. How I learned what it meant for love to fall apart when I was eight years old. My sister warned me before it happened, told me what a divorce was. I mistook her for joking until they called us upstairs. Dad cried when they told us, but mom held her tears until the day he left. The sounds of her cries escaping from behind a closed door. “This doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.” But that’s exactly what it meant. How I was taught by my father that love is conditional, and I repeatedly needed to prove myself through good grades and unquestioning obedience. Forced to stay home to spend time with the family, sitting wordlessly on the couch while he watched TV. Made guilty for wanting to spend time with friends because that somehow meant that I was a bad daughter. It’s funny—I never asked myself if he was a good father. If you look harder at the bedroom, you’ll find journals filled with bitter words, screws from disassembled pencil sharpeners, loose razors, and Aquaphor, food wrappers stuffed in hidden places, a closet brimming with junk and pairs of shoes, evidence of a story untold. Until you.
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51
Speaking of the kids in my hometown we used to walk the traintracks obsessively like they’d lead us somewhere like they’d show us something like the end of the summer was just a bookend parallel line with the river by the library card that promised if i only read enough books i could get out of there and over the moon. just parallel lines, but they made as much sense as any other way out. And the gazebo where the high school band played and I swung on my first date
0
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
felicia-c
Hawley, Pennsylvania
Speaking of the kids in my hometown we used to walk the traintracks obsessively like they’d lead us somewhere like they’d show us something like the end of the summer was just a bookend parallel line with the river by the library card that promised if i only read enough books i could get out of there and over the moon. just parallel lines, but they made as much sense as any other way out. And the gazebo where the high school band played and I swung on my first date
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8
Somebody who should have been born is gone. Just as the earth puckered its mouth, each bud puffing out from its knot, I changed my shoes, and then drove south. Up past the Blue Mountains, where Pennsylvania humps on endlessly, wearing, like a crayoned cat, its green hair, its roads sunken in like a gray washboard; where, in truth, the ground cracks evilly, a dark socket from which the coal has poured, Somebody who should have been born is gone. the grass as bristly and stout as chives, and me wondering when the ground would break, and me wondering how anything fragile survives; up in Pennsylvania, I met a little man, not Rumpelstiltskin, at all, at all... he took the fullness that love began. Returning north, even the sky grew thin like a high window looking nowhere. The road was as flat as a sheet of tin. Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward...this baby that I bleed.
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6k
Anne Sexton
The Abortion
Somebody who should have been born is gone. Just as the earth puckered its mouth, each bud puffing out from its knot, I changed my shoes, and then drove south. Up past the Blue Mountains, where Pennsylvania humps on endlessly, wearing, like a crayoned cat, its green hair, its roads sunken in like a gray washboard; where, in truth, the ground cracks evilly, a dark socket from which the coal has poured, Somebody who should have been born is gone. the grass as bristly and stout as chives, and me wondering when the ground would break, and me wondering how anything fragile survives; up in Pennsylvania, I met a little man, not Rumpelstiltskin, at all, at all... he took the fullness that love began. Returning north, even the sky grew thin like a high window looking nowhere. The road was as flat as a sheet of tin. Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward...this baby that I bleed.
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27
I was starving in Pennsylvania. One night, I had enough. Done with it all. The poverty and sickness. The drunken mad nights and dog-fight days. Brutality for breakfast. Served sunny side up runny yolks with butterflies trapped in the yellow sunshine. Spiders built webs in my soul. I stood on the torn-up couch in my living room and yelled at the walls. Listen, you devil. You want me, you better be ready for a fight. I paced the floor like a washed-up heavyweight champ, eyeing the ceiling like a drunken sparrow in a cat's mouth.
0
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 11:59 AM UTC
thomas-w-case
Standing Eight Count
I was starving in Pennsylvania. One night, I had enough. Done with it all. The poverty and sickness. The drunken mad nights and dog-fight days. Brutality for breakfast. Served sunny side up runny yolks with butterflies trapped in the yellow sunshine. Spiders built webs in my soul. I stood on the torn-up couch in my living room and yelled at the walls. Listen, you devil. You want me, you better be ready for a fight. I paced the floor like a washed-up heavyweight champ, eyeing the ceiling like a drunken sparrow in a cat's mouth.
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27
What can you say about Pennsylvania in regard to New England except that it is slightly less cold, and less rocky, or rather that the rocks are different? Redder, and gritty, and piled up here and there, whether as glacial moraine or collapsed springhouse is not easy to tell, so quickly are human efforts bundled back into nature. In fall, the trees turn yellower- hard maple, hickory, and oak give way to tulip poplar, black walnut, and locust. The woods are overgrown with wild-grape vines, and with greenbrier spreading its low net of anxious small claws. In warm November, the mulching forest floor smells like a rotting animal. A genial pulpiness, in short: the sky is soft with haze and paper-gray even as the sun shines, and the rain falls soft on the shoulders of farmers while the children keep on playing, their heads of hair beaded like spider webs. A deep-dyed blur softens the bleak cities whose people palaver in prolonged vowels. There is a secret here, some death-defying joke the eyes, the knuckles, the bellies imply- a suet of consolation fetched straight from the slaughterhouse and hung out for chickadees to peck in the lee of the spruce, where the husks of sunflower seeds and the peace-signs of bird feet crowd the snow that barely masks the still-green grass. I knew that secret once, and have forgotten. The death-defying secret-it rises toward me like a dog's gaze, loving but bewildered. When winter sits cold and black slumped between its two polluted rivers, warmth's shadow leans close to the wall and gets the cement to deliver a kiss.
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5.4k
John Updike
Returning Native
What can you say about Pennsylvania in regard to New England except that it is slightly less cold, and less rocky, or rather that the rocks are different? Redder, and gritty, and piled up here and there, whether as glacial moraine or collapsed springhouse is not easy to tell, so quickly are human efforts bundled back into nature. In fall, the trees turn yellower- hard maple, hickory, and oak give way to tulip poplar, black walnut, and locust. The woods are overgrown with wild-grape vines, and with greenbrier spreading its low net of anxious small claws. In warm November, the mulching forest floor smells like a rotting animal. A genial pulpiness, in short: the sky is soft with haze and paper-gray even as the sun shines, and the rain falls soft on the shoulders of farmers while the children keep on playing, their heads of hair beaded like spider webs. A deep-dyed blur softens the bleak cities whose people palaver in prolonged vowels. There is a secret here, some death-defying joke the eyes, the knuckles, the bellies imply- a suet of consolation fetched straight from the slaughterhouse and hung out for chickadees to peck in the lee of the spruce, where the husks of sunflower seeds and the peace-signs of bird feet crowd the snow that barely masks the still-green grass. I knew that secret once, and have forgotten. The death-defying secret-it rises toward me like a dog's gaze, loving but bewildered. When winter sits cold and black slumped between its two polluted rivers, warmth's shadow leans close to the wall and gets the cement to deliver a kiss.
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39
They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up       from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley. They came with carts laden with lumber stacks -       with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools. They gathered with the homesteaders bond.       to co-build their neighbor's' dreams. Sweet music of community echoed off the hills.      Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation, saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton.      The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain.       A smithy leaned over his fire and forge - chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges.      Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called.      In two short passings of the sun the deed was done       and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light. Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table       to share a hearty meal adorned by the music of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter.    Then one by one they steered their wagons home       gazing back at what their labors had wrought - knowing to the depth of their communal souls       that we are more together than we are apart Listen up, America!  This is the music of community.       We are more together than we are apart. © 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
0
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
robert-c-howard
Pennsylvania Barn Raising
They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up       from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley. They came with carts laden with lumber stacks -       with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools. They gathered with the homesteaders bond.       to co-build their neighbor's' dreams. Sweet music of community echoed off the hills.      Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation, saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton.      The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain.       A smithy leaned over his fire and forge - chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges.      Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called.      In two short passings of the sun the deed was done       and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light. Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table       to share a hearty meal adorned by the music of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter.    Then one by one they steered their wagons home       gazing back at what their labors had wrought - knowing to the depth of their communal souls       that we are more together than we are apart Listen up, America!  This is the music of community.       We are more together than we are apart. © 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
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28
When the arc of his watch hands   reached the top of the hour Sam pushed the throttle forward. Engine 138 thundered out of Blossburg station like an iron dragon breathing smoke and steam - whistle shrilling over the Tioga valley. Powered by coal the train carried coal to the waiting city of Elmira where Sam would press his mother's hand - perhaps for the final time. The wheels churning iron on iron across Pennsylvania farmlands, turned like other wheels before moving settlers west to break its ready earth - wheels beneath his grandfather's oxcart turning toward Lycoming's verdant hills. New wheels now carried America to urban landscapes drawing us like electro-magnets to streetlamps - factories - dry good stores - new crops for a modern age. Elmira’s silhouette expanded on the horizon. and Sam pulled the train in on time - brakes screeching through billowing steam. His wife, Jenny and his sister's Sam came in a horseless carriage with Zoe, Marie and Edward, children now grown at their sides. They all gathered by Hannah's bed now approaching her final hours soft voices and fragile smiles cradled the truth beyond all telling: Time, ever advancing like the hands of a fine old watch, holds us all in its circling sway © 2006 by Robert Charles Howard
0
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
robert-c-howard
Sam's Watch (1915)
When the arc of his watch hands   reached the top of the hour Sam pushed the throttle forward. Engine 138 thundered out of Blossburg station like an iron dragon breathing smoke and steam - whistle shrilling over the Tioga valley. Powered by coal the train carried coal to the waiting city of Elmira where Sam would press his mother's hand - perhaps for the final time. The wheels churning iron on iron across Pennsylvania farmlands, turned like other wheels before moving settlers west to break its ready earth - wheels beneath his grandfather's oxcart turning toward Lycoming's verdant hills. New wheels now carried America to urban landscapes drawing us like electro-magnets to streetlamps - factories - dry good stores - new crops for a modern age. Elmira’s silhouette expanded on the horizon. and Sam pulled the train in on time - brakes screeching through billowing steam. His wife, Jenny and his sister's Sam came in a horseless carriage with Zoe, Marie and Edward, children now grown at their sides. They all gathered by Hannah's bed now approaching her final hours soft voices and fragile smiles cradled the truth beyond all telling: Time, ever advancing like the hands of a fine old watch, holds us all in its circling sway © 2006 by Robert Charles Howard
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40
After Midnight The narcissists fall After Midnight A new lyric calls After Midnight The bugles will blow After Midnight There’s more left to know After Midnight The lizards collect After Midnight All tales to reflect After Midnight The ticking won’t stop After Midnight The bottom has topped After Midnight A cancerous tome After Midnight Malignancy known After Midnight Betray and deceive After Midnight Alone in the siege After Midnight All footsteps fall deaf After Midnight Last palate uncleft After Midnight New story to front After Midnight A star for the dunce After Midnight The comets rebel After Midnight The coroners yell After Midnight A suit made of steel After Midnight Its melting reveals After Midnight The plain and the slack After Midnight There’s no turning back After Midnight A sacred oath sworn After Midnight All memory forlorn After Midnight The wheels bend and turn After Midnight Lost vision relearns After Midnight False birth is stillborn After Midnight Old vestments are torn After Midnight The here and the now After Midnight That one sacred cow After Midnight Past-Future unseen After Midnight —new eyes that believe (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
0
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC
kurt-philip-behm
After Midnight
After Midnight The narcissists fall After Midnight A new lyric calls After Midnight The bugles will blow After Midnight There’s more left to know After Midnight The lizards collect After Midnight All tales to reflect After Midnight The ticking won’t stop After Midnight The bottom has topped After Midnight A cancerous tome After Midnight Malignancy known After Midnight Betray and deceive After Midnight Alone in the siege After Midnight All footsteps fall deaf After Midnight Last palate uncleft After Midnight New story to front After Midnight A star for the dunce After Midnight The comets rebel After Midnight The coroners yell After Midnight A suit made of steel After Midnight Its melting reveals After Midnight The plain and the slack After Midnight There’s no turning back After Midnight A sacred oath sworn After Midnight All memory forlorn After Midnight The wheels bend and turn After Midnight Lost vision relearns After Midnight False birth is stillborn After Midnight Old vestments are torn After Midnight The here and the now After Midnight That one sacred cow After Midnight Past-Future unseen After Midnight —new eyes that believe (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
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65
With every cold defeat   of the human spirit The answers move deeper   within the polar arc Victim to its wanton roaming   and endless chill Questions left to wander —fatherless and alone (Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2013)
0
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
kurt-philip-behm
Fatherless And Alone
With every cold defeat   of the human spirit The answers move deeper   within the polar arc Victim to its wanton roaming   and endless chill Questions left to wander —fatherless and alone (Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2013)
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9
"You can't always win, L." he says. He always says that, the boy from Ohio with the lopsided grin, "Sometimes, you just lose.. and that's okay." Emphasis on the "okay". Because he knows that's the one word I won't hear him say. He knows this, because he always says it. When I tell him, I don't feel right, where I am. And it's worked before. So it should work now, he thinks to himself. And perhaps if I were sitting next to him, like I used to, in that one room apartment, in Victorian Village, I would hear it. I would hear it, and it would resonate. Before he punched me in the arm and asked if I was done being dramatic, so we could turn on the game, because he just got a text that OSU is down by 7, and he's pretty sure it's because he's not watching.. So I would laugh, shove him off the couch I got at Goodwill, and he would grab two more PBRs from my fridge that only sometimes worked, and it would be okay. It would. Because to the sound of him yelling at Braxton Miller through the tv like he could actually hear him, and the hot summer breeze pouring through the open windows, it made sense. What he said, made sense. But we're not in that apartment, and he can't hear how hard my is heart beating from 700 miles away, can't see the look on my face when I tell him I think I'm losing my ******* mind. Suddenly his voice sounds so far and so foreign. And he knows, he knows it's not working this time but that's the farthest he ever got so that's as far as he goes. And the long pause is deafening. So in one final act of desperation he simply says, "Love you, kid." And I just say, "I know."
0
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
lp-sills
1304 Pennsylvania
"You can't always win, L." he says. He always says that, the boy from Ohio with the lopsided grin, "Sometimes, you just lose.. and that's okay." Emphasis on the "okay". Because he knows that's the one word I won't hear him say. He knows this, because he always says it. When I tell him, I don't feel right, where I am. And it's worked before. So it should work now, he thinks to himself. And perhaps if I were sitting next to him, like I used to, in that one room apartment, in Victorian Village, I would hear it. I would hear it, and it would resonate. Before he punched me in the arm and asked if I was done being dramatic, so we could turn on the game, because he just got a text that OSU is down by 7, and he's pretty sure it's because he's not watching.. So I would laugh, shove him off the couch I got at Goodwill, and he would grab two more PBRs from my fridge that only sometimes worked, and it would be okay. It would. Because to the sound of him yelling at Braxton Miller through the tv like he could actually hear him, and the hot summer breeze pouring through the open windows, it made sense. What he said, made sense. But we're not in that apartment, and he can't hear how hard my is heart beating from 700 miles away, can't see the look on my face when I tell him I think I'm losing my ******* mind. Suddenly his voice sounds so far and so foreign. And he knows, he knows it's not working this time but that's the farthest he ever got so that's as far as he goes. And the long pause is deafening. So in one final act of desperation he simply says, "Love you, kid." And I just say, "I know."
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59
A motorcycle and leather bag,   life seemed so perfect then When everything I cared about…   my backseat was for them The world was such a smaller place,   ideas grandiose To wander aimlessly I did,   and never be morose The road became my staunchest friend,   new places passing by Those girls I met, the love I spent,   the promise in their eyes That special place my memory held,   for years now time sets free A motorcycle—a leather bag,   and all that was to be (Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
0
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 10:09 AM UTC
kurt-philip-behm
A Motorcycle And Leather Bag
A motorcycle and leather bag,   life seemed so perfect then When everything I cared about…   my backseat was for them The world was such a smaller place,   ideas grandiose To wander aimlessly I did,   and never be morose The road became my staunchest friend,   new places passing by Those girls I met, the love I spent,   the promise in their eyes That special place my memory held,   for years now time sets free A motorcycle—a leather bag,   and all that was to be (Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
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17
After Midnight The narcissists fall After Midnight A new lyric calls After Midnight Last bugle to blow After Midnight There’s more left to know After Midnight The lizards collect After Midnight Old tales to reflect After Midnight The ticking will stop After Midnight The bottom will top After Midnight A cancerous tome After Midnight Malignancy known After Midnight Betray and deceive After Midnight Alone in the siege After Midnight All footsteps fall deaf After Midnight Lost palates are cleft After Midnight New story to front After Midnight Two stars for the dunce After Midnight The comets rebel After Midnight The coroners yell After Midnight A suit made of steel After Midnight Its melting reveals After Midnight That voice in the back After Midnight There’s no turning back After Midnight A sacred oath sworn After Midnight All memory forlorn After Midnight The wheels bend and churn After Midnight Lost vision returns After Midnight False birth is stillborn After Midnight Old vestments are torn After Midnight The here and the now After Midnight That one sacred cow After Midnight Past-Future unseen After Midnight —creation redeemed (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
0
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
kurt-philip-behm
Creation Redeemed
After Midnight The narcissists fall After Midnight A new lyric calls After Midnight Last bugle to blow After Midnight There’s more left to know After Midnight The lizards collect After Midnight Old tales to reflect After Midnight The ticking will stop After Midnight The bottom will top After Midnight A cancerous tome After Midnight Malignancy known After Midnight Betray and deceive After Midnight Alone in the siege After Midnight All footsteps fall deaf After Midnight Lost palates are cleft After Midnight New story to front After Midnight Two stars for the dunce After Midnight The comets rebel After Midnight The coroners yell After Midnight A suit made of steel After Midnight Its melting reveals After Midnight That voice in the back After Midnight There’s no turning back After Midnight A sacred oath sworn After Midnight All memory forlorn After Midnight The wheels bend and churn After Midnight Lost vision returns After Midnight False birth is stillborn After Midnight Old vestments are torn After Midnight The here and the now After Midnight That one sacred cow After Midnight Past-Future unseen After Midnight —creation redeemed (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
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65
for Mark Richards It was a spur of the moment thing -          One message freed us from Tuesday’s calling - The next offered a morning's sailing.   So rather than spray water for Rocky's plants,        We skimmed over Carter Lake’s, crystal waves With steady and ample winds at our backs. Boaters and tubers speckled the waters       While verdant foothills smiled assent From every shore and horizon. Captain Richards skippered his Flying Scot          Toward the far off shore before tacking our To and fro way back to the mooring ball. In years past Mark had captained the Health works          For all the good folks of Pennsylvania, But this morning he guided a much smaller tiller. So we sailed and sailed under fairest of skies         In a swift and charmed little craft Mark chose to call, Spur of the Moment. Robert Charles Howard
0
Jul 26, 2022
Jul 26, 2022 at 6:29 PM UTC
robert-c-howard
Under Carter Lake Skies
for Mark Richards It was a spur of the moment thing -          One message freed us from Tuesday’s calling - The next offered a morning's sailing.   So rather than spray water for Rocky's plants,        We skimmed over Carter Lake’s, crystal waves With steady and ample winds at our backs. Boaters and tubers speckled the waters       While verdant foothills smiled assent From every shore and horizon. Captain Richards skippered his Flying Scot          Toward the far off shore before tacking our To and fro way back to the mooring ball. In years past Mark had captained the Health works          For all the good folks of Pennsylvania, But this morning he guided a much smaller tiller. So we sailed and sailed under fairest of skies         In a swift and charmed little craft Mark chose to call, Spur of the Moment. Robert Charles Howard
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20
There just below the surface,   more present than you know A prophetic Jeremiah,   tracks leading through the snow His message serves to buttress,   those standing in the light A pipeline to eternity, —his vision gifting sight (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
0
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC
kurt-philip-behm
Gifting Sight
There just below the surface,   more present than you know A prophetic Jeremiah,   tracks leading through the snow His message serves to buttress,   those standing in the light A pipeline to eternity, —his vision gifting sight (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
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9
On my own terms,   I lived my life Giving and taking,   both day and night On my own terms,   I lived my life Some then mistaken,   some often right On my own terms,   I lived my life Last right of refusal,   the one holding tight On my own terms,   I lived my life The lows though not many,   the feelings they wrought bright On my own terms,   I lived my life Words ever radiant,   the music so fair On my own terms,   I lived my life The sweetness of children,   my soul they ensnared On my own terms,   I lived my life The darkest of moments,   their message to share On my own terms,   I lived my life A voice though unchosen,   inside me declares On my own terms,   I lived my life As the days grew short,   and the visitors came On my own terms,   I lived my life Their voices cry out,   now calling my name On my own terms,   I lived my life One verse was enough,   no time to explain On my own terms,   I lived my life My final breath,   a lasting refrain On my own terms,   I lived my life The money fleeting,   any fame now gone On my own terms,   I lived my life A 5-Star boardinghouse,   no curtains drawn On my own terms,   I lived my life With arms open wide,   and the peace to move on On my own terms,   I ended my life All that I’ve written, —turned into song (Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
0
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
kurt-philip-behm
On My Own Terms
On my own terms,   I lived my life Giving and taking,   both day and night On my own terms,   I lived my life Some then mistaken,   some often right On my own terms,   I lived my life Last right of refusal,   the one holding tight On my own terms,   I lived my life The lows though not many,   the feelings they wrought bright On my own terms,   I lived my life Words ever radiant,   the music so fair On my own terms,   I lived my life The sweetness of children,   my soul they ensnared On my own terms,   I lived my life The darkest of moments,   their message to share On my own terms,   I lived my life A voice though unchosen,   inside me declares On my own terms,   I lived my life As the days grew short,   and the visitors came On my own terms,   I lived my life Their voices cry out,   now calling my name On my own terms,   I lived my life One verse was enough,   no time to explain On my own terms,   I lived my life My final breath,   a lasting refrain On my own terms,   I lived my life The money fleeting,   any fame now gone On my own terms,   I lived my life A 5-Star boardinghouse,   no curtains drawn On my own terms,   I lived my life With arms open wide,   and the peace to move on On my own terms,   I ended my life All that I’ve written, —turned into song (Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
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65
To my Grandchildren, those great and beyond,   whom I will never meet Know that I love you and have seen you in the   eyes of your parents when they were very small    I’ve heard your voices in the trees, when the   wind blows softly calling my name as I walk I’ve seen your arms reaching out to me in my   dreams, as you cry “Papa" and then drift away Your spirit is mine, as my spirit is yours; and no   lifetime can keep us apart I watch over you now and will watch over you then,   whenever the need is great I’m that voice you hear when no one else listens, and  no one else understands And the heart that feels what you will feel, when no    one else seems to care (Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
0
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 10:19 AM UTC
kurt-philip-behm
To My Great Grandchildren
To my Grandchildren, those great and beyond,   whom I will never meet Know that I love you and have seen you in the   eyes of your parents when they were very small    I’ve heard your voices in the trees, when the   wind blows softly calling my name as I walk I’ve seen your arms reaching out to me in my   dreams, as you cry “Papa" and then drift away Your spirit is mine, as my spirit is yours; and no   lifetime can keep us apart I watch over you now and will watch over you then,   whenever the need is great I’m that voice you hear when no one else listens, and  no one else understands And the heart that feels what you will feel, when no    one else seems to care (Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
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17
The cauldron bubbles and sputters and pops. Odors from a foul witches' brew Fill the mansion. It's called the Nightmare On Pennsylvania Avenue. A ghoulish warlock babbles gibberish, Spreading deceit, anger, and fear. He summons his lackey ghouls to his chamber. They bow to the ghastly profiteer. Their incantations reverberate Through the rooms and down the halls. The din stifles the voices of reason And bounces off the windows and walls. Witches assisting the grisly assembly Grovel and spew nonsensical chatter, While friendly ghosts, horrified, Grab all their belongings and scatter. The leading warlock raises his staff To silence all the ear-piercing shrieking. "Our work here has barely begun," He shouts, "in a manner of speaking. "We have a lot more poison to spread To circulate anxiety and doubt. All we must do is stir the *** To give them something to worry about. "Fan the flames of division and discord. My techniques are tried and true. Keep 'em guessing; then you've got 'em. And then you cater to the chosen few. "We have more rivers to poison, Coastlines to alter, lands to sell, Coffers to fill, coffers to rob, And voices to quiet. Welcome to hell!" The glowering sycophants dance and cheer-- Thirsty for blood, eyes agleam. "Dishonesty is the best Policy," they fervently scream. Oh, it's a frightening Halloween night When one's worst nightmare comes true: The gruesome, macabre, spine-chilling Nightmare On Pennsylvania Avenue. -by Bob B (10-31-18)
0
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
bob-b
Halloween 2018: The Nightmare on Pennsylvania Avenue
The cauldron bubbles and sputters and pops. Odors from a foul witches' brew Fill the mansion. It's called the Nightmare On Pennsylvania Avenue. A ghoulish warlock babbles gibberish, Spreading deceit, anger, and fear. He summons his lackey ghouls to his chamber. They bow to the ghastly profiteer. Their incantations reverberate Through the rooms and down the halls. The din stifles the voices of reason And bounces off the windows and walls. Witches assisting the grisly assembly Grovel and spew nonsensical chatter, While friendly ghosts, horrified, Grab all their belongings and scatter. The leading warlock raises his staff To silence all the ear-piercing shrieking. "Our work here has barely begun," He shouts, "in a manner of speaking. "We have a lot more poison to spread To circulate anxiety and doubt. All we must do is stir the *** To give them something to worry about. "Fan the flames of division and discord. My techniques are tried and true. Keep 'em guessing; then you've got 'em. And then you cater to the chosen few. "We have more rivers to poison, Coastlines to alter, lands to sell, Coffers to fill, coffers to rob, And voices to quiet. Welcome to hell!" The glowering sycophants dance and cheer-- Thirsty for blood, eyes agleam. "Dishonesty is the best Policy," they fervently scream. Oh, it's a frightening Halloween night When one's worst nightmare comes true: The gruesome, macabre, spine-chilling Nightmare On Pennsylvania Avenue. -by Bob B (10-31-18)
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41
Take a moment, breathe... Inhale that infinity carrying all the words that we speak, both the heavy rock steady deadly second darts aiming for the bullseye painted on our hearts and the artistic gypsy dancing ones like honey whisky giving us a little buzz. Take a moment, breathe... Exhale this surreal reality of fallacy don't matter what's happening on Downing Street or Pennsylvania Ave cause you have more important things to do, like laugh as you let your mind crash watching this game everybody's playing like Minecraft. Take a moment, breathe... Exhale the clenching pain your brain might claim you shoulda kept hold, like the Buddha once said it's like grasping hot coal so blow your dragon breath and stoke our campfire souls. Take a moment, breathe... Inhale the light, feel the warmth sojourn and wander through your veins asunder tappin' 5/4 patterns hi hat snappin rim clappin' rhythm filling all schism within as if a liquid bridge joins sides of a grand canyon. Take a moment, breathe... Exhale and feel the silence... listen to the surrounding serenity whispering aplenty serendipitous magnificence within your heartbeats and breath bereft of distraction. This sacred and holy action is a sacrament as you attune into what's happenin both within, and beyond. Take a moment, breathe... Inhale the heartgasm phantasmagorical adorable world force of all things , the high vibe entirety inspiring the fire within everyone, that sacred holy light igniting the path to your heart basking in ancient ******** laughter where nothing matters and the mind chatter is silenced by the awe inducing lucid compassion of all atoms in union of togetherness. Take a moment, breathe... Exhale and follow your breath into the infinite.
0
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
brycical
Follow Your Breath into the Infinite
Take a moment, breathe... Inhale that infinity carrying all the words that we speak, both the heavy rock steady deadly second darts aiming for the bullseye painted on our hearts and the artistic gypsy dancing ones like honey whisky giving us a little buzz. Take a moment, breathe... Exhale this surreal reality of fallacy don't matter what's happening on Downing Street or Pennsylvania Ave cause you have more important things to do, like laugh as you let your mind crash watching this game everybody's playing like Minecraft. Take a moment, breathe... Exhale the clenching pain your brain might claim you shoulda kept hold, like the Buddha once said it's like grasping hot coal so blow your dragon breath and stoke our campfire souls. Take a moment, breathe... Inhale the light, feel the warmth sojourn and wander through your veins asunder tappin' 5/4 patterns hi hat snappin rim clappin' rhythm filling all schism within as if a liquid bridge joins sides of a grand canyon. Take a moment, breathe... Exhale and feel the silence... listen to the surrounding serenity whispering aplenty serendipitous magnificence within your heartbeats and breath bereft of distraction. This sacred and holy action is a sacrament as you attune into what's happenin both within, and beyond. Take a moment, breathe... Inhale the heartgasm phantasmagorical adorable world force of all things , the high vibe entirety inspiring the fire within everyone, that sacred holy light igniting the path to your heart basking in ancient ******** laughter where nothing matters and the mind chatter is silenced by the awe inducing lucid compassion of all atoms in union of togetherness. Take a moment, breathe... Exhale and follow your breath into the infinite.
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47
Goodnight pumpkin, I luv you. L-U-V U. Dear mom, Nothing ****** me off more than misspelling the word Love. If you’re not willing to put two seconds into a text or even a letter to spell it correctly, then you need a ******* dictionary. The only time you looked into a dictionary was to find words big enough so they could fit through ears but not into my brain making it easier for lies to flow out of your mouth like it is second nature. The only truth that ever spit out of your mouth like lemon juice, was when you told us, not all lives have happy endings. But when you were still here, and I was only eight, you let me watch disney movies so I could learn my own fate. One of the movies taught me that if I said Ohana means family, that you’d respond with, family means no one gets left behind, or forgotten But you left your kids to pursue Your happiness, Now every time you leave to Pennsylvania another memory of us flies away from the airport you call a body just like the planes you get on, Your lies create a tornado that destroys everything in it’s path, and my life is a flat ground so this spiral of emotions won’t stop until you do. You circled your yin-yang arms around me for the first time in the hospital, that was the same night people in white coats handed you a certificate with my name written on it, Now anytime my name is brought up in a subject you pull your hoodie over your head as a sign of embarrassment. I want you to feel the pain you have been giving me for the last 2 years when you hear this poem. I want you to realize that you’re the reason my feelings are scribbled down to make a mess out on paper. Every night I make a new river with my tears and when I realize you are lying to me, it makes waves of depression and those waves, are created by earthquakes of anger. These waves are strong enough to break through any hoover dam made up of antidepressants and pills that will only make me what you want me to be which is “normal”? If you tell someone you love them at least have the audacity to mean it. Be a the definition of a mom and care about us and our feelings, and not just your own. Mom, I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U Ohana means Family, but no one said family would last forever. But you always will last forever, in my heart
0
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC
CapitalofNJandCT
I luv U
Goodnight pumpkin, I luv you. L-U-V U. Dear mom, Nothing ****** me off more than misspelling the word Love. If you’re not willing to put two seconds into a text or even a letter to spell it correctly, then you need a ******* dictionary. The only time you looked into a dictionary was to find words big enough so they could fit through ears but not into my brain making it easier for lies to flow out of your mouth like it is second nature. The only truth that ever spit out of your mouth like lemon juice, was when you told us, not all lives have happy endings. But when you were still here, and I was only eight, you let me watch disney movies so I could learn my own fate. One of the movies taught me that if I said Ohana means family, that you’d respond with, family means no one gets left behind, or forgotten But you left your kids to pursue Your happiness, Now every time you leave to Pennsylvania another memory of us flies away from the airport you call a body just like the planes you get on, Your lies create a tornado that destroys everything in it’s path, and my life is a flat ground so this spiral of emotions won’t stop until you do. You circled your yin-yang arms around me for the first time in the hospital, that was the same night people in white coats handed you a certificate with my name written on it, Now anytime my name is brought up in a subject you pull your hoodie over your head as a sign of embarrassment. I want you to feel the pain you have been giving me for the last 2 years when you hear this poem. I want you to realize that you’re the reason my feelings are scribbled down to make a mess out on paper. Every night I make a new river with my tears and when I realize you are lying to me, it makes waves of depression and those waves, are created by earthquakes of anger. These waves are strong enough to break through any hoover dam made up of antidepressants and pills that will only make me what you want me to be which is “normal”? If you tell someone you love them at least have the audacity to mean it. Be a the definition of a mom and care about us and our feelings, and not just your own. Mom, I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U Ohana means Family, but no one said family would last forever. But you always will last forever, in my heart
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34
(Went out today, Charter boat Trinidad Bay Limited out on rock fish in two hours Watching Elks Head from the ocean, Grandpa) Isadore Called him Izzy Chewing all day on a fat cigar Looked at lot like Jimmy Durante His father stowed away on a ship Wasn't going to be a Russian military conscript Genocidal pogroms were coming how he knew we'll never know. Ended up in Philadelphia town, Scranton Pennsylvania Moved along to Brooklyn Stubby Izzy fighting it out with the Irish immigrants Dreaming of having a chicken farm over there in New Jersey Izzy met Grandma Sarah at the family clothing store they fought it out for 70 years The 60's book Games People Play They were the star attraction The friction was the glue that kept them together The friction was the match that lit their passion. Grandpa Izzy funniest man I ever met Drove an old 48 Ford selling housewares in the Southern route. In the morning far too early Sneaking into his room tickling his feet to the sounds of ohhs and hoho's At five years old Grandpa Izzy took me fishing on some New Jersey pond - Afternoon sun with yellow colors bringing all the foliage alive Sun setting fish rising a hand held in mine defined the peace I seek in reoccurring dreams through out a lifetime A troubled teen all suicidal the drive in the 48 Ford with Grandpa Izzy running down the Malibu pier catching the half day boat before it disappeared Grandpa Izzy never lived far from a race track I don't know about those losing days but the secret he said Was to never lose your sense of humor Always be able to laugh at yourself Izzy smoked those big old chewed cigars lived until he was 94 Ended up not knowing Who or where he was Maybe we all end up that way too But in my memory there is sharp focus he remains alive in me If heaven is there I know I'll find Izzy and I on that New Jersey pond, a fishing line and peace inside.
0
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
sjr1000
Generations
(Went out today, Charter boat Trinidad Bay Limited out on rock fish in two hours Watching Elks Head from the ocean, Grandpa) Isadore Called him Izzy Chewing all day on a fat cigar Looked at lot like Jimmy Durante His father stowed away on a ship Wasn't going to be a Russian military conscript Genocidal pogroms were coming how he knew we'll never know. Ended up in Philadelphia town, Scranton Pennsylvania Moved along to Brooklyn Stubby Izzy fighting it out with the Irish immigrants Dreaming of having a chicken farm over there in New Jersey Izzy met Grandma Sarah at the family clothing store they fought it out for 70 years The 60's book Games People Play They were the star attraction The friction was the glue that kept them together The friction was the match that lit their passion. Grandpa Izzy funniest man I ever met Drove an old 48 Ford selling housewares in the Southern route. In the morning far too early Sneaking into his room tickling his feet to the sounds of ohhs and hoho's At five years old Grandpa Izzy took me fishing on some New Jersey pond - Afternoon sun with yellow colors bringing all the foliage alive Sun setting fish rising a hand held in mine defined the peace I seek in reoccurring dreams through out a lifetime A troubled teen all suicidal the drive in the 48 Ford with Grandpa Izzy running down the Malibu pier catching the half day boat before it disappeared Grandpa Izzy never lived far from a race track I don't know about those losing days but the secret he said Was to never lose your sense of humor Always be able to laugh at yourself Izzy smoked those big old chewed cigars lived until he was 94 Ended up not knowing Who or where he was Maybe we all end up that way too But in my memory there is sharp focus he remains alive in me If heaven is there I know I'll find Izzy and I on that New Jersey pond, a fishing line and peace inside.
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84
Sages and broomsticks   motherless pearls Witches that threaten   fatherless girls Curse of the ages old grudges remain A coven of stages   to hide from the rain The markings of Satan   the touch of the Lord A death plated sunset   and winner forlorn The trap now a quandary   and you must break free As with all soiled laundry   to burn once deceived The truth is not distant   first word never feigned The peace that you’re seeking   inside you unclaimed So let go of the dogma   the medals will melt New songs of arrival   you’ll write most heartfelt But the moment is now   and the moment is clear Once the moment is christened   new joy spins from fear To those who still threaten   with eternity ****** Say:         “Away with your blasphemy,           stop where you stand         These wings have reopened           my eyes looking in         New life has been gifted           —I’m blessed to begin” (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2014)
0
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
kurt-philip-behm
Blessed To Begin
Sages and broomsticks   motherless pearls Witches that threaten   fatherless girls Curse of the ages old grudges remain A coven of stages   to hide from the rain The markings of Satan   the touch of the Lord A death plated sunset   and winner forlorn The trap now a quandary   and you must break free As with all soiled laundry   to burn once deceived The truth is not distant   first word never feigned The peace that you’re seeking   inside you unclaimed So let go of the dogma   the medals will melt New songs of arrival   you’ll write most heartfelt But the moment is now   and the moment is clear Once the moment is christened   new joy spins from fear To those who still threaten   with eternity ****** Say:         “Away with your blasphemy,           stop where you stand         These wings have reopened           my eyes looking in         New life has been gifted           —I’m blessed to begin” (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2014)
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38
Glistening through shafts of sunlight, I spy the silvery dragonfly, Hovering above the clovered knoll, Swaying like wheat in speckled sun. Cantering up grassy hills, away from the stream, The bleating goats exchange existential crises, Brushing past the whispering tulips ablaze in the sunset. Behind me, In the shade of oaks, in spiraling dusts, Decaying logs half buried in the windbreak Rekindle and animate in the orange beams. I stand up and sip my beer, as the stars blink and stutter. A snowy owl whooshes past, wishing for rain. Somebody loves me.
0
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 5:00 PM UTC
grace-gwendolyn-henry
Sitting at a Picnic Table at Stolzfus Farm in Scranton, Pennsylvania
Glistening through shafts of sunlight, I spy the silvery dragonfly, Hovering above the clovered knoll, Swaying like wheat in speckled sun. Cantering up grassy hills, away from the stream, The bleating goats exchange existential crises, Brushing past the whispering tulips ablaze in the sunset. Behind me, In the shade of oaks, in spiraling dusts, Decaying logs half buried in the windbreak Rekindle and animate in the orange beams. I stand up and sip my beer, as the stars blink and stutter. A snowy owl whooshes past, wishing for rain. Somebody loves me.
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13
Science… a handmaiden of knowledge The upstairs maid in a mansion of discovery Chauffeuring itself along roads it has built A quantitative valet —in the closet of the unknown (Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)
0
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 10:32 AM UTC
kurt-philip-behm
A Quantitative Valet
Science… a handmaiden of knowledge The upstairs maid in a mansion of discovery Chauffeuring itself along roads it has built A quantitative valet —in the closet of the unknown (Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)
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9