Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Words
"pickings" poems
The forest of legs swayed in the moving shadows beneath the chatter over head, each threatening to block our path and crush our attempt to get to the first fallen crisps of the party season, which as yet laid undisturbed. We weaved and advanced as fast as their legs allowed, eager to scavenge the waiting bounty before they were trampled underfoot by the oblivious adults who were intent on a seasonal ritual of their own that went on high over our heads. We emerged unscathed at the edge of the forest and raced across the open parquet to the cover of the drapped, white topped trestle tables catching our breaths and crunching our snatched crisps planning our next move toward the plateau above. Our scout had reported rich pickings, but when we looked around, seeking signs of our brave advance party, we could find no trace beyond a half eaten volovant and what might have been regurgitated mushroom. We shook our heads in despair at their folly. Every kid knows to stick to crisps and to processed meats, avoiding anything that might contain vegetables. We saw an open French window just beyond the trestles and heard plaintive heaves that had a distinct 6 year old strain. We checked each other's resolve and saw on each other's faces that we believed our mission was more important than any one stomach. With a maturity that would have surprised our parents, we pushed the plight of our friend to the back of our minds and focused on the task at hand. We each reached up with practiced stealth, taking only a second to check the food on offer and with a speed bred into us by the curse of older siblings, we each grabbed our prize. Acknowledging the hazards of the return journey we devoured the meat at hand and with hyena grins savoured our just rewards. While our fallen friend heaved once more, we saluted one another: the season had started better than any of us could have hoped.
0
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
stevejeff
First hunt of the season
The forest of legs swayed in the moving shadows beneath the chatter over head, each threatening to block our path and crush our attempt to get to the first fallen crisps of the party season, which as yet laid undisturbed. We weaved and advanced as fast as their legs allowed, eager to scavenge the waiting bounty before they were trampled underfoot by the oblivious adults who were intent on a seasonal ritual of their own that went on high over our heads. We emerged unscathed at the edge of the forest and raced across the open parquet to the cover of the drapped, white topped trestle tables catching our breaths and crunching our snatched crisps planning our next move toward the plateau above. Our scout had reported rich pickings, but when we looked around, seeking signs of our brave advance party, we could find no trace beyond a half eaten volovant and what might have been regurgitated mushroom. We shook our heads in despair at their folly. Every kid knows to stick to crisps and to processed meats, avoiding anything that might contain vegetables. We saw an open French window just beyond the trestles and heard plaintive heaves that had a distinct 6 year old strain. We checked each other's resolve and saw on each other's faces that we believed our mission was more important than any one stomach. With a maturity that would have surprised our parents, we pushed the plight of our friend to the back of our minds and focused on the task at hand. We each reached up with practiced stealth, taking only a second to check the food on offer and with a speed bred into us by the curse of older siblings, we each grabbed our prize. Acknowledging the hazards of the return journey we devoured the meat at hand and with hyena grins savoured our just rewards. While our fallen friend heaved once more, we saluted one another: the season had started better than any of us could have hoped.
Continue reading...
7
How will we progress today? Will we risk life attending Mosque, Or have an affair with our spouse's boss? Will we take the dog out for a walk, Step on a landmine, use plastic straws? Perhaps we'll play with our kids today, Or call Amber Alert, wait scared, and pray? Will we defy authority with a righteous tone, Or leave our tail tucked, like a dog with his bone? Will we gauge goods today for our Vegan menu, Or show a distention as millions today do? Will we drive around town for cheaper gas, Or choose our pickings from picked-over trash? Do you sling eggs and sausage for sub-minimum wages, Or attend a visitation in a tortured MADD rage? Will you tee off at eight, or do a spin class, Or sit solitary watching the hourglass? Did we place our script at the shiny drugstore, Or wade across water to Jordan's fair shore? Will we question the teacher at our kid's school, Or play Avatar falling off our bar stool? Did you set a reminder on your AI phone For chicken delivery to your suburban home? Will you lift copper tubing from construction sites, Proclaiming your station in life gives you right? Do I recline in my La-Z-Boy for a nap with a book, Or teach someone to live with a line and a hook? Will you take out your family, Are you last on your list, Will you reciprocate a handshake Or raise a gloved fist? Our words can't bind all our wounds, Few are born with silver spoons, We're not wrapped in silk cocoons. A metamorphosis is coming To this world of gloom, A rousing group flight, And it can't come too soon.
0
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 9:36 AM UTC
francie-lynch
Words Won't Bind Our Wounds
How will we progress today? Will we risk life attending Mosque, Or have an affair with our spouse's boss? Will we take the dog out for a walk, Step on a landmine, use plastic straws? Perhaps we'll play with our kids today, Or call Amber Alert, wait scared, and pray? Will we defy authority with a righteous tone, Or leave our tail tucked, like a dog with his bone? Will we gauge goods today for our Vegan menu, Or show a distention as millions today do? Will we drive around town for cheaper gas, Or choose our pickings from picked-over trash? Do you sling eggs and sausage for sub-minimum wages, Or attend a visitation in a tortured MADD rage? Will you tee off at eight, or do a spin class, Or sit solitary watching the hourglass? Did we place our script at the shiny drugstore, Or wade across water to Jordan's fair shore? Will we question the teacher at our kid's school, Or play Avatar falling off our bar stool? Did you set a reminder on your AI phone For chicken delivery to your suburban home? Will you lift copper tubing from construction sites, Proclaiming your station in life gives you right? Do I recline in my La-Z-Boy for a nap with a book, Or teach someone to live with a line and a hook? Will you take out your family, Are you last on your list, Will you reciprocate a handshake Or raise a gloved fist? Our words can't bind all our wounds, Few are born with silver spoons, We're not wrapped in silk cocoons. A metamorphosis is coming To this world of gloom, A rousing group flight, And it can't come too soon.
Continue reading...
38
Cold and dark the solstice night But shadows dance inside by candle-light Pampered spruce holds centre stage Calendar counts down the days Festive holly berries red, mistletoe with white Cards suspended on a string, flashing fairy lights All is quiet in the house Nothing stirs except...a mouse He has no fear Of cat or trap or carving knife On his mind is something nice Perhaps a chocolate-covered nutty treat Beneath the Christmas tree to eat Tonight no usual pickings poor Of meagre breadcrumbs on the floor For tonight he dines like a king On fruit and nuts, dates and cake A little bit of everything All the Drambuie chocolates he ****** dry He could not stop, he knew not why Then he passed out on the floor One hung-over little mouse, his head so very sore
0
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
martin
Solstice house
Cold and dark the solstice night But shadows dance inside by candle-light Pampered spruce holds centre stage Calendar counts down the days Festive holly berries red, mistletoe with white Cards suspended on a string, flashing fairy lights All is quiet in the house Nothing stirs except...a mouse He has no fear Of cat or trap or carving knife On his mind is something nice Perhaps a chocolate-covered nutty treat Beneath the Christmas tree to eat Tonight no usual pickings poor Of meagre breadcrumbs on the floor For tonight he dines like a king On fruit and nuts, dates and cake A little bit of everything All the Drambuie chocolates he ****** dry He could not stop, he knew not why Then he passed out on the floor One hung-over little mouse, his head so very sore
Continue reading...
22
Harsh, desert scenery Haven, from lush misery Forced by Impi, so greedily This, our new sanctuary Glitter, in desert sand The cause, of moonlike land No more men, with bow in hand No more happy feet, stamping sand Scenery, violated by man and machine A hole, were last buck was seen Spiritual pickings, now so lean White man’s god, o so mean Before white man’s god, we now bow We ask the spirits, “How can you allow” Is this, the final raw? Are we, disappearing now? After a visit to Jwaneng, a diamond mining settlement of De Beers in Botswana, I was impelled to write this poem to revolt against the injustices being committed against the Bushmen in Botswana. The Bushman are forcibly being removed from there desert land to make place for diamond mining activities.
0
Dec 12, 2009
Dec 12, 2009 at 7:18 PM UTC
jeanlbouwer-1
THE BUSHMAN’S PLIGHT
Harsh, desert scenery Haven, from lush misery Forced by Impi, so greedily This, our new sanctuary Glitter, in desert sand The cause, of moonlike land No more men, with bow in hand No more happy feet, stamping sand Scenery, violated by man and machine A hole, were last buck was seen Spiritual pickings, now so lean White man’s god, o so mean Before white man’s god, we now bow We ask the spirits, “How can you allow” Is this, the final raw? Are we, disappearing now? After a visit to Jwaneng, a diamond mining settlement of De Beers in Botswana, I was impelled to write this poem to revolt against the injustices being committed against the Bushmen in Botswana. The Bushman are forcibly being removed from there desert land to make place for diamond mining activities.
Continue reading...
17
The Rent-a-Mob loonies, the gangsters and the Racists damaged scums of society and contemporary politics Ignorant arrogant sociopaths who want it all for nothing Indulgent wasters in nation awashed with opportunities In idle union they scream, feed us poor and **** the Rich Strangers come Poland, Bulgaria, India and all over to work in farms, hospitals, hotels and Constructions Building futures and faring in endeavours with sweat Crimson gangs and Renta Mobs states we serve nobody **** the wealth makers, **** the parasites and let's drink Our shyster gangs of Revo-comrades and malcontents See killing fields, whereas strangers toil and find rich pickings Our Revos Distract, confuse, sow seeds of dissent, make strife Blame all others, lie and decieve, fling indulgent political turds Rent brainwashed Mobs,into ***** bridgard to do their ***** work We all know life is unfair and even roses have imperfections Some are born to riches in spades and some born to beggars in dusts Those with time, sit and ask God why, just a fact of life to accept But from dust has risen billionaires, whilst riches have made duds Insane Crimson sits in spurious guise and odious fallacy playing God Yeh, **** the Rich and feed the poor, why hide and use Rent a mob Why not air your case in broad daylight and stand your conviction The coward you are knows it hold no sanity for those with sense Except for thieves, the workshy and wasters who cheat to survive In your city of merits aplenty, Revo-crimson is beneath contempt
0
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
yenson
Rent-a-Mob fable of Fallacy..........
The Rent-a-Mob loonies, the gangsters and the Racists damaged scums of society and contemporary politics Ignorant arrogant sociopaths who want it all for nothing Indulgent wasters in nation awashed with opportunities In idle union they scream, feed us poor and **** the Rich Strangers come Poland, Bulgaria, India and all over to work in farms, hospitals, hotels and Constructions Building futures and faring in endeavours with sweat Crimson gangs and Renta Mobs states we serve nobody **** the wealth makers, **** the parasites and let's drink Our shyster gangs of Revo-comrades and malcontents See killing fields, whereas strangers toil and find rich pickings Our Revos Distract, confuse, sow seeds of dissent, make strife Blame all others, lie and decieve, fling indulgent political turds Rent brainwashed Mobs,into ***** bridgard to do their ***** work We all know life is unfair and even roses have imperfections Some are born to riches in spades and some born to beggars in dusts Those with time, sit and ask God why, just a fact of life to accept But from dust has risen billionaires, whilst riches have made duds Insane Crimson sits in spurious guise and odious fallacy playing God Yeh, **** the Rich and feed the poor, why hide and use Rent a mob Why not air your case in broad daylight and stand your conviction The coward you are knows it hold no sanity for those with sense Except for thieves, the workshy and wasters who cheat to survive In your city of merits aplenty, Revo-crimson is beneath contempt
Continue reading...
25
Beggars line the busy streets cup and cloth outstretched the look of desperation etched on their faces like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph they don't ask me for spare change just a simple nod of acknowledgement; even after a shower and a change of clothes I must have their look, that broken beaten look the look of the street. George Square is busy today tourists happy clicking panoramic memories admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph a list of names they will never know and marvel at the antiquated architecture to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance to the passing of a woman named Judith the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings knowing I've been there for 3 hours already because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street. The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway, the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke like a coal fired power station  in the sunlight this is where they go for over-priced craft ales with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet that was simply spare change to begin with I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call pretending in mime to be semi-OK that the compadres are running late and "tell me about the theatre show later" the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me because I have the look of the street.
0
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
DBeard
Pigeons & Demons
Beggars line the busy streets cup and cloth outstretched the look of desperation etched on their faces like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph they don't ask me for spare change just a simple nod of acknowledgement; even after a shower and a change of clothes I must have their look, that broken beaten look the look of the street. George Square is busy today tourists happy clicking panoramic memories admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph a list of names they will never know and marvel at the antiquated architecture to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance to the passing of a woman named Judith the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings knowing I've been there for 3 hours already because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street. The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway, the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke like a coal fired power station  in the sunlight this is where they go for over-priced craft ales with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet that was simply spare change to begin with I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call pretending in mime to be semi-OK that the compadres are running late and "tell me about the theatre show later" the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me because I have the look of the street.
Continue reading...
40
men would always tell me about the arcs of screaming air splitting through gaia’s hair, the heads of wheat falling, light shredding, and the sun bowing before Leah and her scythe this woman spent all her twenty one years in the fires of idaho working for her father preparing food for her brothers before their schooling. she was made to stay at home, and there she worked and washed and read and cut and crystallized business men in windup cars would see her off the highway her muscles swaying with the wind, treetop hair flogging the setting sun singing folk songs to herself in a falsetto that sounded like a rocking chair. these men would stop to chat, but soon realize that this Leah was burning too much for them. her heart was different from city folk and most country folk for that matter. her ventricles were connected through a series of crimson twigs and gnarled vines. it pumped like any other heart, but it would crack and wheeze anytime she left that farm. those businessmen expected that she would be enthralledby anything out of town. but it was the opposite; fancy gadgets bore her and snazzy suits and autos seemed like pointless little ornaments. she’d be more impressed by a man who could cut wheat like she could a man who could shoot life out of the iron earth and feed his kin with the pickings of his heart. but she never quite found a man like that. she stayed there, and let herself bleed into those idaho hills. the roots of the grain wrapped around her veins and her lungs breathed for the farm just as its rainfall pumped her brown blood. she never grew old that Leah, because she kept her crop so fresh. every morning she watered and plowed and every while, with scorching eyes and whipping locks she’d swing her scythe, and smell the breaking spines of wheat, and would quietly sing, like a rocking chair. Posted by David Clifford Turner at
0
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:19 PM UTC
david-clifford-turner
Leah and her scythe
men would always tell me about the arcs of screaming air splitting through gaia’s hair, the heads of wheat falling, light shredding, and the sun bowing before Leah and her scythe this woman spent all her twenty one years in the fires of idaho working for her father preparing food for her brothers before their schooling. she was made to stay at home, and there she worked and washed and read and cut and crystallized business men in windup cars would see her off the highway her muscles swaying with the wind, treetop hair flogging the setting sun singing folk songs to herself in a falsetto that sounded like a rocking chair. these men would stop to chat, but soon realize that this Leah was burning too much for them. her heart was different from city folk and most country folk for that matter. her ventricles were connected through a series of crimson twigs and gnarled vines. it pumped like any other heart, but it would crack and wheeze anytime she left that farm. those businessmen expected that she would be enthralledby anything out of town. but it was the opposite; fancy gadgets bore her and snazzy suits and autos seemed like pointless little ornaments. she’d be more impressed by a man who could cut wheat like she could a man who could shoot life out of the iron earth and feed his kin with the pickings of his heart. but she never quite found a man like that. she stayed there, and let herself bleed into those idaho hills. the roots of the grain wrapped around her veins and her lungs breathed for the farm just as its rainfall pumped her brown blood. she never grew old that Leah, because she kept her crop so fresh. every morning she watered and plowed and every while, with scorching eyes and whipping locks she’d swing her scythe, and smell the breaking spines of wheat, and would quietly sing, like a rocking chair. Posted by David Clifford Turner at
Continue reading...
38
Strewn across the battlefield a party of discarded heads, Peeled, dripping as blood oranges, Wrapped in a residue of wrinkled skin, A ****** of crows circle over head, Waiting to collect rich pickings, Leftover lunch from the spoils of war! Stench of evil fills the ***** air, As a lone piper, Plays his mournful lament of sorrow, Deeply disturbed by unkind vision of sin! By ladylivvi1 © 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
0
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
olivia-kent
Battlefield!
Strewn across the battlefield a party of discarded heads, Peeled, dripping as blood oranges, Wrapped in a residue of wrinkled skin, A ****** of crows circle over head, Waiting to collect rich pickings, Leftover lunch from the spoils of war! Stench of evil fills the ***** air, As a lone piper, Plays his mournful lament of sorrow, Deeply disturbed by unkind vision of sin! By ladylivvi1 © 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Continue reading...
12
At the precipice of sunrise I might aspire to take a stroll a bipedal tour of the neighborhood catching the scent of recently cut grass feeling the dew on the leaves low hanging trees and observe the moisture drawing earthworms from their shelter easy pickings for the ravens whom may aspire to be eagles. Squirrels approach with a boldness expecting nourishment from my person and leave disappointed as they came. The sun emblazons the horizon with a will to command the chorus of birds At this moment I realize our reservations and selfish preservation have become. As I smile and throw my arms out wide a wasp lands and stings the inside of my joint and I remember how much of an ******* everything is and go back inside.
0
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
dwayne-richardson
Precipice of Sunrise
At the precipice of sunrise I might aspire to take a stroll a bipedal tour of the neighborhood catching the scent of recently cut grass feeling the dew on the leaves low hanging trees and observe the moisture drawing earthworms from their shelter easy pickings for the ravens whom may aspire to be eagles. Squirrels approach with a boldness expecting nourishment from my person and leave disappointed as they came. The sun emblazons the horizon with a will to command the chorus of birds At this moment I realize our reservations and selfish preservation have become. As I smile and throw my arms out wide a wasp lands and stings the inside of my joint and I remember how much of an ******* everything is and go back inside.
Continue reading...
22
How will we progress today? Will we risk life attending Mosque, Or have an affair with our spouse's boss? Will we take the dog out for a walk, Step on a landmine, use plastic straws? Perhaps we'll play with our kids today, Or call Amber Alert, wait scared, and pray? Will we defy with a righteous tone, Or leave, tails tucked, like a dog with his bone? Will we gauge goods for our Vegan menu, Or show distentions as millions do? Will we drive around town for cheaper gas, Or choose pickings from picked-over trash? Do you sling eggs and sausage for sub-minimum wages, Or attend visitations in a MADD rage? Will you tee off at eight, or do a spin class, Or sit solitary watching a sandless hourglass? Did we place our script with the shiny drugstore, Or wade across to Jordan's fair shore? Will we question the teacher at our kid's school, Or play Avatar falling off bar stools? Did you set a reminder on your AI phone For chicken delivery to your suburban home? Will you lift copper tubing from construction sites, Proclaiming your station gives you right? Do I recline in my La-Z-Boy for a nap with a book, Or teach someone to live with a line and a hook? Will you take out your family, Are you last on your list, Will you reciprocate a handshake Or raise a gloved fist? Our words can't bind all our wounds; Few are born with silver spoons. We're not wrapped in silk cocoons. A metamorphosis is coming To this world of gloom, A rousing street flight, That can't come too soon.
0
Sep 21, 2021
Sep 21, 2021 at 8:11 AM UTC
francie-lynch
Binding
How will we progress today? Will we risk life attending Mosque, Or have an affair with our spouse's boss? Will we take the dog out for a walk, Step on a landmine, use plastic straws? Perhaps we'll play with our kids today, Or call Amber Alert, wait scared, and pray? Will we defy with a righteous tone, Or leave, tails tucked, like a dog with his bone? Will we gauge goods for our Vegan menu, Or show distentions as millions do? Will we drive around town for cheaper gas, Or choose pickings from picked-over trash? Do you sling eggs and sausage for sub-minimum wages, Or attend visitations in a MADD rage? Will you tee off at eight, or do a spin class, Or sit solitary watching a sandless hourglass? Did we place our script with the shiny drugstore, Or wade across to Jordan's fair shore? Will we question the teacher at our kid's school, Or play Avatar falling off bar stools? Did you set a reminder on your AI phone For chicken delivery to your suburban home? Will you lift copper tubing from construction sites, Proclaiming your station gives you right? Do I recline in my La-Z-Boy for a nap with a book, Or teach someone to live with a line and a hook? Will you take out your family, Are you last on your list, Will you reciprocate a handshake Or raise a gloved fist? Our words can't bind all our wounds; Few are born with silver spoons. We're not wrapped in silk cocoons. A metamorphosis is coming To this world of gloom, A rousing street flight, That can't come too soon.
Continue reading...
38
Last night I came onto the hellopoetry site to try to drown out my mom's death rattle in some good poetry. Quite a few people, good decent people who have gathered around me and supported me during this agonizing time and one of those sweet Poets was being verbally and mentally attacked by                                    LOGHAIN CARV'O His criticisms were malicious and very hurtful and his taunting her was more than I could bare for a friend. She related the conversation to me and she was really upset. She told me what he said verbatim' It was way uncalled for. And she is not the only one he is doing this to. He's being offensive to the extreme.Calling her a peasant and telling her she couldn't write. And I'll probably catch all kinds of hell for doing it but I paid a "VISIT" to his site and left this comment and I Quote "Stop picking on ---------You call this a poem. You have some nerve telling her she can't write and you write crap like this. Well 1 out of 82 reads isn't so hot is it. Come on and kick me a few times. I should be easy pickings for you. I dare you ****** Well he responded with and I quote "It is obvious you do not have artistic vision like I, that or you did not read my poems and just came here in a petty attempt to demoralize I in retaliation to the criticisms I have revealed to most peoples "poetry" I wish to waste no more breath on my lessers. Just remember I when you see my talent spread out across the world. Remember how you showed the Greatest, most renowned and revered artist no support" End Quote. Loghain carv'o also stated  that "The community on this site is rather poor" He also stated "This site isn't exactly known for it's Grand Community" So now I know he doesn't even mind kicking some one who is already down. and i for one would like to know since he doesn't like this site or the Real Poets why stay? If he doesn't like the"GRAND COMMUNITY" why the hell he's still here. If he doesn't like us "lessers' why be among us. And I didn't even tell you the most malicious comments. When some one attacks a friend I will respond. That's what friends do. And Loghain carv'o is proving to be no ones friend. And his                           GOD COMPLEX is offensive! I SERVE ONE GOD ONLY AND IT IS NOT Loghain carv'o!!! I only have one thing to say to Loghain carv'o and that is and I quote again My visit to hellopoetry last night to get away for a moment from listening to my mothers death rattle, to read a few poems and find a little Peace for a few moments was ruined by you and your offensive attitude and comments and since i'm already in a living hell right  nowI can find you some room here so come enjoy hell with me. Oh but I almost forgot you don't want to consort with us "lessers" THE MIGHTY SURE DO HAVE A LONG WAY TO FALL LOGHAIN                    YOURS SINCERELY                                    Paula This is for you friend love Paula You can dish it out but you sure can't take it!
0
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
paula-lee
To All Concerned
Last night I came onto the hellopoetry site to try to drown out my mom's death rattle in some good poetry. Quite a few people, good decent people who have gathered around me and supported me during this agonizing time and one of those sweet Poets was being verbally and mentally attacked by                                    LOGHAIN CARV'O His criticisms were malicious and very hurtful and his taunting her was more than I could bare for a friend. She related the conversation to me and she was really upset. She told me what he said verbatim' It was way uncalled for. And she is not the only one he is doing this to. He's being offensive to the extreme.Calling her a peasant and telling her she couldn't write. And I'll probably catch all kinds of hell for doing it but I paid a "VISIT" to his site and left this comment and I Quote "Stop picking on ---------You call this a poem. You have some nerve telling her she can't write and you write crap like this. Well 1 out of 82 reads isn't so hot is it. Come on and kick me a few times. I should be easy pickings for you. I dare you ****** Well he responded with and I quote "It is obvious you do not have artistic vision like I, that or you did not read my poems and just came here in a petty attempt to demoralize I in retaliation to the criticisms I have revealed to most peoples "poetry" I wish to waste no more breath on my lessers. Just remember I when you see my talent spread out across the world. Remember how you showed the Greatest, most renowned and revered artist no support" End Quote. Loghain carv'o also stated  that "The community on this site is rather poor" He also stated "This site isn't exactly known for it's Grand Community" So now I know he doesn't even mind kicking some one who is already down. and i for one would like to know since he doesn't like this site or the Real Poets why stay? If he doesn't like the"GRAND COMMUNITY" why the hell he's still here. If he doesn't like us "lessers' why be among us. And I didn't even tell you the most malicious comments. When some one attacks a friend I will respond. That's what friends do. And Loghain carv'o is proving to be no ones friend. And his                           GOD COMPLEX is offensive! I SERVE ONE GOD ONLY AND IT IS NOT Loghain carv'o!!! I only have one thing to say to Loghain carv'o and that is and I quote again My visit to hellopoetry last night to get away for a moment from listening to my mothers death rattle, to read a few poems and find a little Peace for a few moments was ruined by you and your offensive attitude and comments and since i'm already in a living hell right  nowI can find you some room here so come enjoy hell with me. Oh but I almost forgot you don't want to consort with us "lessers" THE MIGHTY SURE DO HAVE A LONG WAY TO FALL LOGHAIN                    YOURS SINCERELY                                    Paula This is for you friend love Paula You can dish it out but you sure can't take it!
Continue reading...
22
One bird sings a swan song Lonesome on the telephone wire Staring down at his fallen flock A ****** of decay Rotting in the hot desert sun of Birdland Slim pickings for the vultures in this angry bird massacre
0
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
TonguesOfOthers
Angry Bird Massacre
One bird sings a swan song Lonesome on the telephone wire Staring down at his fallen flock A ****** of decay Rotting in the hot desert sun of Birdland Slim pickings for the vultures in this angry bird massacre
Continue reading...
6
Carrying round this cage of secrets Heavy on the soul Feel the last rattle upon me Vultures fly overhead for cool pickings. The battle is not with death but me I feel the battles I've had throughout my life Battles against me, few for me Battles against myself. Then death rolled open its rich tapestry Oh, and was it red! As I stepped onto that final rung I felt the wrestling inside; the rattling of that cage. Great is pity for carrying over this onerous charge I ball my fist, rage at the skies And nought but silence greets my fear Thus graceful forward; no more to prove. I've heard that G-d is love... Let's hope I meet no wrath I've heard speak of rebirth Oh, let me unburden afore I leave. And the rattle of the cage's so loud Lying here, I try to tell you things But 'tis of little use, for I am witness to The last moments of this life . . . . Eyes feel lead-laden, hands so heavy Head feels like stone, an appendage Tongue swells up; cannot speak And the lights go out inside my head . . . . Yes, someone turned out the sparkle in my core . . . . (I think that . . . . no, I think . . . . ) And then . . . . simply, I am no more . . . . No more. ( . . . .  ) Star Toucher, 21 February 2013
0
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
st64
The rattling of the cage
Carrying round this cage of secrets Heavy on the soul Feel the last rattle upon me Vultures fly overhead for cool pickings. The battle is not with death but me I feel the battles I've had throughout my life Battles against me, few for me Battles against myself. Then death rolled open its rich tapestry Oh, and was it red! As I stepped onto that final rung I felt the wrestling inside; the rattling of that cage. Great is pity for carrying over this onerous charge I ball my fist, rage at the skies And nought but silence greets my fear Thus graceful forward; no more to prove. I've heard that G-d is love... Let's hope I meet no wrath I've heard speak of rebirth Oh, let me unburden afore I leave. And the rattle of the cage's so loud Lying here, I try to tell you things But 'tis of little use, for I am witness to The last moments of this life . . . . Eyes feel lead-laden, hands so heavy Head feels like stone, an appendage Tongue swells up; cannot speak And the lights go out inside my head . . . . Yes, someone turned out the sparkle in my core . . . . (I think that . . . . no, I think . . . . ) And then . . . . simply, I am no more . . . . No more. ( . . . .  ) Star Toucher, 21 February 2013
Continue reading...
35
We see but we don’t feel Apathy We hear but we don’t speak Injustices We allow the innocent to be Consumed While we give praise to the wicked A blind eye turned A ravens feast Laid bare the pickings- Thus, the glass house shatters from within Its columns of shame is All that remains… …we the people
0
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
odonko-ba
All Things Equal
We see but we don’t feel Apathy We hear but we don’t speak Injustices We allow the innocent to be Consumed While we give praise to the wicked A blind eye turned A ravens feast Laid bare the pickings- Thus, the glass house shatters from within Its columns of shame is All that remains… …we the people
Continue reading...
13
In final autumn heat, Two weeks after apple picking, The bushel baskets sag, Laden with the summer's pickings. Growing sadness clings to me. I sort the dead and dying From the thinning lot, Fearing loss of all to rot. The first to go, Soft and brown, Nearly fall apart, Require gentlest touch; Dripping cadavers Leave healthier neighbors Wet, in danger of early death. In separating them, I hold my breath. On spotted skins I then Must concentrate; Look for inner decay: Sagging indentations, Fallen stems; Hollowed caverns From bird bites and beetles; The evidence of worms' Varicose trails, faintly brown, Just visible beneath the skins, Revealing company within. My eye looks inward first, then out. I know what this malingering's about; The cankers that I seek may find me out. Hesitation clouds my separations; I wonder what a paring knife might do To save some portion, To spare the summer work Of apple trees. I wonder, does the apple Dread the knife, considering strife As much as I, when I confess my sin And writhe beneath the penance My sinning puts me in?
0
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
don-bouchard
Apple Sorting
In final autumn heat, Two weeks after apple picking, The bushel baskets sag, Laden with the summer's pickings. Growing sadness clings to me. I sort the dead and dying From the thinning lot, Fearing loss of all to rot. The first to go, Soft and brown, Nearly fall apart, Require gentlest touch; Dripping cadavers Leave healthier neighbors Wet, in danger of early death. In separating them, I hold my breath. On spotted skins I then Must concentrate; Look for inner decay: Sagging indentations, Fallen stems; Hollowed caverns From bird bites and beetles; The evidence of worms' Varicose trails, faintly brown, Just visible beneath the skins, Revealing company within. My eye looks inward first, then out. I know what this malingering's about; The cankers that I seek may find me out. Hesitation clouds my separations; I wonder what a paring knife might do To save some portion, To spare the summer work Of apple trees. I wonder, does the apple Dread the knife, considering strife As much as I, when I confess my sin And writhe beneath the penance My sinning puts me in?
Continue reading...
41
darkness can come over us at any time, when we least expect it turns our day into night, my darkness hides monsters, they are faceless and yet each one,has my face, a face of mistakes each bloodsoaked line, tells its own story a grain of sand in a lifetime, of blood guts, and glory a page in a book, a look into someones life a good read, or a reason to hide, float away on the tide i watch people, not people like me, there arnt any just regular mr and mrs smith i watch them shop, chat, buy, sell, argue, i watch them watch me, i wonder do we all just watch each other do sisters watch brothers, sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, we all watch the clock, tick tock time running out, death getting closer,life going out people rush to get somewhere, rush to get back sit for 5 mins and think about rushing, for this and that not taking time to chat, laugh, or nap no time to rest, just headless chickins searching for slim pickings, life has to offer sheep that bleet, waiting to be meat, on some fat ******** table stuffing it in, relaying some useless fable to guests that have requests, to be entertained wine and dine, pass the time, like fat swines feeding and breeding, living to eat, to consume we are nothing, nothing that matters anyway we just eat, bulshit, die, and fade away we are here for a short stay, in this coffin life living in stone tombs, for a price noyone cares, noyone is nice, we are all rats and mice kids and a wife a sharp knife, to cut my own throat bleed me dry, make me cry leave this life, its not nice, daytime fading, darkness waiting, life escaping i dont care, nothing left here for me anymore i am sick of being life,s ***** cant do it , feel sick, cant look in the mirror, to face myself i am a blank expression, eyes cloud over, time has run out, i am free, dont cry for me i am finally where i need to be, alone, in the ground, not a sound, cold, old, no more storys to be told just darknesss
0
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 6:05 AM UTC
paul-hope
dark world
darkness can come over us at any time, when we least expect it turns our day into night, my darkness hides monsters, they are faceless and yet each one,has my face, a face of mistakes each bloodsoaked line, tells its own story a grain of sand in a lifetime, of blood guts, and glory a page in a book, a look into someones life a good read, or a reason to hide, float away on the tide i watch people, not people like me, there arnt any just regular mr and mrs smith i watch them shop, chat, buy, sell, argue, i watch them watch me, i wonder do we all just watch each other do sisters watch brothers, sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, we all watch the clock, tick tock time running out, death getting closer,life going out people rush to get somewhere, rush to get back sit for 5 mins and think about rushing, for this and that not taking time to chat, laugh, or nap no time to rest, just headless chickins searching for slim pickings, life has to offer sheep that bleet, waiting to be meat, on some fat ******** table stuffing it in, relaying some useless fable to guests that have requests, to be entertained wine and dine, pass the time, like fat swines feeding and breeding, living to eat, to consume we are nothing, nothing that matters anyway we just eat, bulshit, die, and fade away we are here for a short stay, in this coffin life living in stone tombs, for a price noyone cares, noyone is nice, we are all rats and mice kids and a wife a sharp knife, to cut my own throat bleed me dry, make me cry leave this life, its not nice, daytime fading, darkness waiting, life escaping i dont care, nothing left here for me anymore i am sick of being life,s ***** cant do it , feel sick, cant look in the mirror, to face myself i am a blank expression, eyes cloud over, time has run out, i am free, dont cry for me i am finally where i need to be, alone, in the ground, not a sound, cold, old, no more storys to be told just darknesss
Continue reading...
43
why did he not bother to contact me that is the big question which shall remain from our conversations he did abstain other matters were more pressing for he his mind sidetracked to sweeter terrain the grass was much greener at that place it held sway o'er my unattractive space a well lit spot made the seeing real plain he employed an axe to chop the line dead was the telegraph no more chit chat pickings of delectable kind he'd pursue mine were akin to a dull farmyard swine one once was as blind as cave dwelling bat but one now knows the color of his hue
0
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
ElizabethSquires
Color of His Hue (Italian Sonnet)
why did he not bother to contact me that is the big question which shall remain from our conversations he did abstain other matters were more pressing for he his mind sidetracked to sweeter terrain the grass was much greener at that place it held sway o'er my unattractive space a well lit spot made the seeing real plain he employed an axe to chop the line dead was the telegraph no more chit chat pickings of delectable kind he'd pursue mine were akin to a dull farmyard swine one once was as blind as cave dwelling bat but one now knows the color of his hue
Continue reading...
14
I want to be a blind melon and have the bumble bee girl as my daughter I want to laugh at the rain lay face down in the puddles and drink the water I want to be the red wheel barrel glazed with rain water beside the white chickens that way the world could be mine I am ripe for the plucking and all the pickings
0
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 10:36 AM UTC
SandyPoet
Blind Melon in Red Wheel Barrel
I want to be a blind melon and have the bumble bee girl as my daughter I want to laugh at the rain lay face down in the puddles and drink the water I want to be the red wheel barrel glazed with rain water beside the white chickens that way the world could be mine I am ripe for the plucking and all the pickings
Continue reading...
8
I chip away at the painted walls- clinical white. They say the color is supposed to soothe, but I argue that notion. A combination of cheap mascara and a restrained, yet highly impulsive, lacrimation reflex has dried itself over my eyelashes. "steadfast, firm..." I tell myself that I am, like my father's mother. Unwanted feelings rising through my throat I shove back down to my hollow gut. An artform. The raw pickings on my legs have become even more vibrant in color as my complexion has become increasingly transparent. After all, that is what autumn is for. I soothe the crimson marks by reminding them I am "independent, feral..." like my mother's mother. My remedies for a nostalgic, peculiar time. Necessary preparation for the **** winter.
0
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
rachel-alessandra-incorvati
remedies/restraint
I chip away at the painted walls- clinical white. They say the color is supposed to soothe, but I argue that notion. A combination of cheap mascara and a restrained, yet highly impulsive, lacrimation reflex has dried itself over my eyelashes. "steadfast, firm..." I tell myself that I am, like my father's mother. Unwanted feelings rising through my throat I shove back down to my hollow gut. An artform. The raw pickings on my legs have become even more vibrant in color as my complexion has become increasingly transparent. After all, that is what autumn is for. I soothe the crimson marks by reminding them I am "independent, feral..." like my mother's mother. My remedies for a nostalgic, peculiar time. Necessary preparation for the **** winter.
Continue reading...
12
When I was just a little kid Uncle Jeff talked to me About the things people said As opposed to what I could see. He cautioned me to listen And watch people carefully He promised me an education, Just made for little me. Do they walk their talk When no one is around? Do they mean the words they say, or Is it just a lot of sound? Do you feel you can trust them With what you put away Or do you think they will cheat you And take it for their rainy day? There are those who even as children Prefer what other kids get They grow up to be criminals So you must not forget. Another word for criminals Is a word called ‘politicians’. They’re very strong with cheating But not good at admissions. Money in their bank account Is all that’s driving them. Look for their integrity? The pickings will be slim. They look for what they can get From you in many ways. The cards are marked, you can depend And they know all the plays. Do they walk their talk When no one is around? Do they mean the words they say, or Is it just a lot of sound? Do you feel you can trust them With what you put away Or do you think they will cheat you And take it for their rainy day? You and they don’t think alike; You can’t guess what they think. But you can bet when they suggest The idea will highly stink. Your best protection is to hide When these creeps are around. If you have to pack your things And move to a different town. I have learned my Uncle Jeff Was wise beyond his years. He had a lot of wisdom stored Securely between his ears. He shared them with a little child And I listened to what he said. I heard his words as clean pure truth And kept them in my head. Do they walk their talk When no one is around? Do they mean the words they say, or Is it just a lot of sound? Do you feel you can trust them With what you put away? Or do you think they will cheat you And take it for their rainy day?
0
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 11:07 PM UTC
brent-kincaid
UNCLE JEFF
When I was just a little kid Uncle Jeff talked to me About the things people said As opposed to what I could see. He cautioned me to listen And watch people carefully He promised me an education, Just made for little me. Do they walk their talk When no one is around? Do they mean the words they say, or Is it just a lot of sound? Do you feel you can trust them With what you put away Or do you think they will cheat you And take it for their rainy day? There are those who even as children Prefer what other kids get They grow up to be criminals So you must not forget. Another word for criminals Is a word called ‘politicians’. They’re very strong with cheating But not good at admissions. Money in their bank account Is all that’s driving them. Look for their integrity? The pickings will be slim. They look for what they can get From you in many ways. The cards are marked, you can depend And they know all the plays. Do they walk their talk When no one is around? Do they mean the words they say, or Is it just a lot of sound? Do you feel you can trust them With what you put away Or do you think they will cheat you And take it for their rainy day? You and they don’t think alike; You can’t guess what they think. But you can bet when they suggest The idea will highly stink. Your best protection is to hide When these creeps are around. If you have to pack your things And move to a different town. I have learned my Uncle Jeff Was wise beyond his years. He had a lot of wisdom stored Securely between his ears. He shared them with a little child And I listened to what he said. I heard his words as clean pure truth And kept them in my head. Do they walk their talk When no one is around? Do they mean the words they say, or Is it just a lot of sound? Do you feel you can trust them With what you put away? Or do you think they will cheat you And take it for their rainy day?
Continue reading...
64
The underground mouse in the underground house scurries through Chancery Lane as he nibbles on knick knacks thrown down between train tracks, In the main he is pleased that there's a lack of green cheese for he thinks of himself, a connoisseur, though he never turns up his nose as he goes for the pickings that fall out of boxes of Kentucky fried chickens. I like underground mice and think they're very nice, I wonder what they think of me.
0
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
john-edward-smallshaw
Tuesday tickles
The underground mouse in the underground house scurries through Chancery Lane as he nibbles on knick knacks thrown down between train tracks, In the main he is pleased that there's a lack of green cheese for he thinks of himself, a connoisseur, though he never turns up his nose as he goes for the pickings that fall out of boxes of Kentucky fried chickens. I like underground mice and think they're very nice, I wonder what they think of me.
Continue reading...
5
When you touch me sometimes time stands still and sometimes it rushes. I often can't tell which is which. You're either electrifying me or cooling me down, or both (?) Flip my switches, peel back my hardened layers to see how the pistons move inside me the impetuous blood streaming through my veins See, taste, take all you want from my slim pickings, unraveled from crowds before you, but still, they're there. And though I don't have much to offer, I'd love to offer it to you.
0
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
gnihtogtn
Airotciv
When you touch me sometimes time stands still and sometimes it rushes. I often can't tell which is which. You're either electrifying me or cooling me down, or both (?) Flip my switches, peel back my hardened layers to see how the pistons move inside me the impetuous blood streaming through my veins See, taste, take all you want from my slim pickings, unraveled from crowds before you, but still, they're there. And though I don't have much to offer, I'd love to offer it to you.
Continue reading...
20
O collector, what adorns you as jewels garnered upon tender pickings of beaded words and knitted faith, was once the pulse of my heart!
0
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 3:12 AM UTC
aditya-bhaskara
a plea
O collector, what adorns you as jewels garnered upon tender pickings of beaded words and knitted faith, was once the pulse of my heart!
Continue reading...
7
It's heavy on the head, that letting-go part. The whole, "We need some time apart; it's just too draining. Maybe in a few years we can see how much you are and where we want to go from there." Figures. Always running the show, always giving me a hard time, lifting me up just to slam me down, whooping my *** while I'm sprawled out like roadkill. (Though it's so hard to turn away...) The lies are told to desperate ears, making the pickings ever sweeter. Thanks for the pick-me-up! Now where's the put-me-back-down? When do we plummet way past our infamous goals to the deeply imagined? More than a fair share of fun for the measly price of living! Too many goodnights haunted by negativity, when sleep is better than anxiety. (The real test is when it decides to show its face again...) Bah, that won't be for a while, at least until I've made a name for myself in some... other way. Once the mirror shows beneath the tailored suede suit; then we'll see who separates the lazy from the dead. I wonder if there will be a day when I can wake up, sure that there will be no more condescendence from my craft.
0
May 6, 2021
May 6, 2021 at 9:13 AM UTC
anthony-casamassima
Separation Anxiety
It's heavy on the head, that letting-go part. The whole, "We need some time apart; it's just too draining. Maybe in a few years we can see how much you are and where we want to go from there." Figures. Always running the show, always giving me a hard time, lifting me up just to slam me down, whooping my *** while I'm sprawled out like roadkill. (Though it's so hard to turn away...) The lies are told to desperate ears, making the pickings ever sweeter. Thanks for the pick-me-up! Now where's the put-me-back-down? When do we plummet way past our infamous goals to the deeply imagined? More than a fair share of fun for the measly price of living! Too many goodnights haunted by negativity, when sleep is better than anxiety. (The real test is when it decides to show its face again...) Bah, that won't be for a while, at least until I've made a name for myself in some... other way. Once the mirror shows beneath the tailored suede suit; then we'll see who separates the lazy from the dead. I wonder if there will be a day when I can wake up, sure that there will be no more condescendence from my craft.
Continue reading...
46
How does one begin to write a poem? First one condenses an entire life down into just one line- Clouds, dandelions, adoration, revenge; don't hold anything back. The peaceful smile of death and the rancorous Death of joy. The bubbles of happiness floating upward The downward stinging tears of defeat. The best, the worst, the last, the first: Embellish that line from your life's story with All the rarest moments of worship and awe you've ever known, And keep writing it over and over again, saying it Millions of different ways till it is firmly ensconced in your soul. Don't take any magic for granted; it's too rare in this world. Dreams and visions and nothing sugar coated: The truth alone rules this kingdom. Nobody reading this deserves the lie. Don't forget the startling epiphanies Seeping out of the souls troubles and careless wounds. Sometimes you squeeze out every drop and still The pickings are scarce; other times things bound and leap out- Wild, prolific hares, carelessly raking each other in their haste. Always capitalize on the moments you thought might be your last- Allow the teardrops and sweat to mix freely; swirl your pen in it And apply to all the reopened ulcers and healed over scars. Just before you think it is enough, just when the tale Begins to half conclude, stop there and allow your audience Imaginations machinery to supply the last vivid details: Leave some openings; don't sew it up too tight. Most important of all; read all the poets now alive Still with the breath of life in them. They can show you the way. And never sell yourself too cheaply. Write only from the particular universe hidden inside; Staying true to that one.
0
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 8:09 PM UTC
patti-masterman-heterodynemind
Particular Universe
How does one begin to write a poem? First one condenses an entire life down into just one line- Clouds, dandelions, adoration, revenge; don't hold anything back. The peaceful smile of death and the rancorous Death of joy. The bubbles of happiness floating upward The downward stinging tears of defeat. The best, the worst, the last, the first: Embellish that line from your life's story with All the rarest moments of worship and awe you've ever known, And keep writing it over and over again, saying it Millions of different ways till it is firmly ensconced in your soul. Don't take any magic for granted; it's too rare in this world. Dreams and visions and nothing sugar coated: The truth alone rules this kingdom. Nobody reading this deserves the lie. Don't forget the startling epiphanies Seeping out of the souls troubles and careless wounds. Sometimes you squeeze out every drop and still The pickings are scarce; other times things bound and leap out- Wild, prolific hares, carelessly raking each other in their haste. Always capitalize on the moments you thought might be your last- Allow the teardrops and sweat to mix freely; swirl your pen in it And apply to all the reopened ulcers and healed over scars. Just before you think it is enough, just when the tale Begins to half conclude, stop there and allow your audience Imaginations machinery to supply the last vivid details: Leave some openings; don't sew it up too tight. Most important of all; read all the poets now alive Still with the breath of life in them. They can show you the way. And never sell yourself too cheaply. Write only from the particular universe hidden inside; Staying true to that one.
Continue reading...
33