"pitches" poems
I came only to watch one person eyes open and peeled.
The Blonde Bombshell was her name and O, what power did she wield!
One look and the explosion of her beauty could soften any heart of steel.
I knew nothing of softball besides the name,
but the blonde pitcher inspired me to change my game.
As I watched she seemed nervous on the softball mound.
Her first few pitches practically never left the ground.
The game continued and she pitched better in each inning.
Each throw as beautiful as she was and secured her team in winning.
She looked more confident as she began to smile.
Sending each batter back to the bench crying like a child.
As I prepared to leave I waved my farewell.
To a blonde beauty who looked and pitched exceptionally and gracefully well.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
A perfect Anchor will hug you on calm seas as you travel and explore.
When the winds blow and the sea pitches, the same
Anchor will dig in and hold you steady!
It is always in the background, it is strong and understands its role!
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
*When winds at night on windows roar
wax runs out dies candle's flame
you would hear a knock upon door
a familiar voice calling your name.
Don't respond nor open the eyes
the voice is keen over winds' howl
grows it louder its pitches rise
scaring even the brave barn owl.
Pull the blanket up your head
you are safe so long you hide
lie dead quiet not move on bed
with mom asleep by your side.
Between the pause your fears mount
if is a chance to be found out
one two three the calls you count
but count it right leave no doubt.
Three times the voice would call your name
for it has no power to do any more
but move onto where dies a candle's flame
and a child is awake behind closed door.*
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 11:51 AM UTC
Some pitches are so high
That when one shouts
No one could listen
Except for the animals.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 4:04 AM UTC
Iridium fastball pitches
from Zuni serpent mound,
bottom of the 9th walk-off homerun
over 30ft diving moai.
Slide to home base in volcanic lava
to congratulatory ***** Gatorade bath
from Kubla Kahn forefathers,
chanting psychedelic clubhouse anthems.
Levitate from home plate
and land atop Pyramid of Cholula for victory dinner;
for since we’re all artists in our dreams,
true dreams never come true.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
.
Flying, flying
Away and dying
Across the night air is the cackling of witches.
Flying, flying
Away and crying
Are children abducted for wickedest fun.
Flying, flying
Away and sighing
Are night winds that murmur in ominous pitches.
Flying, flying
Away and nighing
Their lair, the witches have only begun.
O.O
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
My sister is a quarterback
I rarely catch a pass
and she can run a marathon
I soon run out of gas
she pitches for her baseball team
I pop up on her curve
and she's an ace at tennis
I can't return her serve
My sister dunks the basketball
I dribble like a mule
she swims like a torpedo
I flounder in the pool
she's accurate at archery
I hardly ever score
She wrestles and she boxers
I wind up on the floor
My sister catches lots of fish
I haven't had any luck
she's captain of her hockey team
I can't control the puck
her bowling's are unbelievable
I bowl like a buffoon
she says someday I'll start to win...
I hope someday is soon
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
Dedicated to John and Bob
From first flesh we move down widening halls
That lead to lives of wondrous walls.
Our spidered fingers gripped walls of brick,
Cruets, cups and candle sticks.
Incense clouded open graves
When we too believed we too were saved.
Between Annex walls we learned our phonics,
On tin-roofed walls we lived our comics.
Garage walls scaled showed different views,
Kitchen walls steamed with soups and stews.
Our school yard walls tallied pitches
That marked our summers of youth and wishes.
Now lift memory's pane and go back
To the white-framed walls of a secret shack.
There, in confusion we would cling
To the unknown wonders girls would bring.
These young boys' walls we both outgrew;
Now new walls sprang, as we did too.
Coffee House walls offered something new.
Wet kisses lingered near shadowy walls,
We heard poetry read in a backroom stall.
Recreationals made our new skin crawl.
Cliff walls were breached by stairs of clay,
Carved by Incas on a turquoise day.
Tent walls echoed with impish fray,
Green walls beckoned at the end of day.
These walls gave rise to hot desires,
Like Vikings planning funeral pyres.
New music, cheers and weekend guests
Stood us ***** to pound our chests.
Those walls no longer ring our shores;
Time swept us forward with worldly lures.
We doffed our coats of suede and frills,
And donned new clothes and workday skills.
The walls of work are a rocky climb,
Stones laid by us, for yours and mine.
Such towers & turrets of heart & hearth
Guard all we know of any worth.
I see distant walls on cliffs, in fields;
Where do they lead? What will they yield?
Yet, there three friends climb one more hill,
Climb one more wall. Then all is still.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
*Life is a melody
You can listen to only once*.
The first thirty seconds, you find the groove,
it's appealing
A harmonious rhythm hereto unwritten
This could be your favorite.
It is.
For the next three minutes, you settle in.
The chorus comes around.
You'll be here again.
It's fresh, it's catchy
You're enraptured by these certain pitches and the words rhyme perfectly.
One line flowing into the next, the ends justifying the means.
Another verse, another chorus. This one feels more weathered
Routine, maybe. You still feel that groove but your perspective of it has been altered by the change in tempo and direction during the last verse.
You realize you have fifteen seconds left.
This was your song. What did you do with it?
As you think back, a gentle blanket of white noise embraces everything that ever was, and your song fades
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 3:27 PM UTC
I find it interesting,
The way we mold ourselves to the given situation
Different faces means new spaces
to fill liquid in, intoxicate, and ultimately change them.
So we need our weapons clasped in our grip
catch a bad intention, make sure they're the ones who slip...
No! We've been doing this all wrong.
Keeping the walls up inhibits growth to be strong
Even if it takes, "far, too long."
Inevitably we exclaim pitches that reside in the same song.
The color-changing, tree-walkers are said to blend into their environment.
This is actually not true.
They change based on light intensity, temperature, and mood.
The personality-changing, free-walkers change based,
On the type of reaction they want to get out of you.
After all you could be the ***** to hold together the whole scheme
Caught in a feverish nightmare, when it seemed to be a sweet dream
Solitary work is needed, now, to avoid a potential sting
And so I take the time to rhyme this,
Evaluating the nature of everything.
The mouth can be, but the eyes are not untruthful
They precipitate pictures, from the scary to the downright beautiful
Look deep within yourself, and see your own array of colors.
We may be blind to the importance of some priorities, but I feel we're all lovers.
"Hurt people hurt people," In my life it's a fact.
But remember you can only be responsible for how you act.
No offense or defensive tactics,
Throw the whole playbook out.
Conducting this vessel requires much practice,
Reflect needs of warmth for the seeds to sprout
Make sure you don't love someone, just for what they can give to you.
Highlight their radiance, for making you feel the way you do
The cycle, is only as vicious as one portrays it
The choice is ours, and I choose to change it.
Right here,
right now
Breathe in,
Feel the oxygen go down
Hold it,
For a moment
Every exhale reminds us,
That life's color is golden.
So fold up the clothes,
And walk out the door.
So many illuminated pigmentations to see,
~Everybody's a new world to explore~
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
UNDERDOG RAP
We are a population which is
Awaiting loaves and the fishes
And other unfulfilled wishes;
No chance to know what rich is,
While graduates are digging ditches
Immigrant PhDs are doing dishes.
Never quite knowing which is
Snake oil salesmen pitches.
Politicians too big for their britches.
Fools don’t know where the hitch is
Whatever the larcenous pitch is;
Reacting with kneejerk twitches
Due to governmental glitches.
And creeps like that guy Mitch is
Are rapacious sons of *******
Hunting for Democratic witches
In all the freedom fighting niches
With hearts as black as pitch is.
And the rich have a wish list
In which they scratch their itches
Regardless of what our ***** is
By wallowing in stolen riches
Punishing watchdogs snitches.
Politicians too big for their britches.
We are a population which is
Awaiting loaves and the fishes
And other unfulfilled wishes.
No chance to know what rich is.
Brent Kincaid
March 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
Some people think I make rash decisions
Like I'm not aware
They tell me I should be more careful
I shouldn't assume such positions
That I should use more precision
But am I the only one aware of the time we have here
And how important it is to live without limitations
I don't want to be old and look back in regret and fear
I don't know the repercussions of what I may do
And who I may hurt, may end up hating me too
But sometimes I'd rather have that than never knew
And it's sad, really sad to look back
And see all of your mistakes piling up in stack
And saying hey, things would be different if I hadn't have ****** up so bad
But sometimes funny things happen in life, and can lead you to the right people
And if that's the case than maybe the others were wrong
Maybe life is more than just a sad song
When everybody's all bent from the throng
The song can take a variety of pitches and tones
It's the sound of opportunity that I'm trying to hone
It's hard to keep a clean slate when you're all caught up brunettes and blondes
And alcohol in the name of the yesteryear
All caught up in love and song and you can't seem to grasp the time like it's sifting through an hourglass
Just trying to enjoy my time here, so please don't hold my decisions too seriously
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
slowly carefully
as i might an ancient diary
still full of young dreams
and even perhaps
the salt of young love
it hurts
to carry adolescent obstacles
given my age
and all those hateful skeptics
it hurts how they gleefully profane
yet settled dust is yet dust
i sit willing to love
amid my dust
i sit in ever deeper vasts of love
in existential sacrum wag
kindled crown and fullness breath of all the scents of varied forms of love
lighthouse toes inspire seas ancestors swam
lyric feet to message myth of travels won
my calves and shins knees and thighs
crawling climbing walking running jumping kicking at the start
physiologies of courage ****** ahead
as future unmade moulds invite
caress the bodied length intent provides
singing fingers scale my world in chords of gliding love
tips of arcing sensate dawns
diverse as nightsky suns
my palms divine an ever giving gift
no futures could unveil--
the toucher's touching touched
aligning novel insights wordless as the womb of time:
perhaps a symbol flare could squint
and grant a vision of horizon's end--
another pleasure game
a bonsai love to soften age
another twisting meditation's emptiness in form
as motion stillness spaces words
to perfect pitches tempos sound
though all of which will never meet
and never meeting meet
as one
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
for the karens of the street.
The karens of the world,
you ruin out the people's peace.
Your hair is frizzled like a you got electrocuted,
your feet smell like vinegar and your *** hole smells like ****
but wait, not the one at the bottom, yet the one at the top right in front of your lips, that's right it's your mouth and all i ever see from it is the garbage that comes out.
So please kindly would you do,
shut your ******* trap,
everyone will be happier when you're out
with a clap!
Hurray, hurray,
the karens are out,
But wait, here they are coming back again,
to see what's in store for them once more.
Pitches and forks and all things that stork the time between
a karen and the normal people who just want to live free.
**** you, **** you
Aug 21, 2021
Aug 21, 2021 at 9:50 PM UTC
My favorite music is imperfection
the little breaks
the husky
inaudible screams
the short breaths
the ahs
the un-understandable pronunciation
mispronunciations
the weird rise and fall
and awkward syllabication.
Like a cd that's got just enough for one last spin
rough
scratchy
perfection of imperfection
My favorite music is imperfection
off key harmony
and drunk, smoked-up throats
the hard breathing
the sharp little pitches
the accents
the sudden switch from singing to speech
the guitar that's just a little too loud
the drums that are a little too fast
the back up singer that forgets the lines
or the lead singer too drunk to remember what his own hands wrote
prolonged Ssssss....
off time beats
and ****** up base lines
Imperfection's my favorite music.
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 8:14 PM UTC
FISHTHOUGHTBLOOD JON BOLDUC
When I was a boy,
Father taught me to ice-fish.
Here’s a memory;
Father drills a hole,
the auger bounces, vibrates, roars,
shaving ice– soon
the blade connects with winter water,
–the engine fades off.
I fish floating ice chunks from the hole with a skimmer
while
Father sets the trap, ties the sinker, and hooks the minnow
thru its side.
He lowers the line
gently into the fishhole; the bait plunges to the lakebed.
Father reels up the slack, pitches the three legged trap
above the exposed black water
and we wait for a trout, or a snarled toothed pickerel.
Father,
I have learned
to fish for thoughts
with an ice–trap. When the flag
springs up, I reel
slippery ideas up from deep darkness.
As they flop, I pull the hook out from their lips,
knock them in the head,
throw them in a pail; gut them, I spill fishthoughtblood on the white snow.
After the low sun sets,
My friends and I fry caught fishthoughts
in my dim cabin.
Hughes, Plath, Ginsberg, and Eliot
talk around the fireplace
as the pan sizzles, as the oil jumps. Soon
we feast on flakey poemfillets;
we talk about the dark english rain,
the crowded zoos, electroshock therapy, bald mediocrity.
After we have eaten
and finished the wine,
and all my friends have gone home
I look down at empty plates
and somehow,
“the page is printed.”
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
She laughs, as bright as day
She mourns with the passion of ocean waves
She giggles, with the pitches of a child
To be returned with glances and mild laughter
She takes each hand,
Gently squeezing in return
She understands and accepts
All that happened and will happen
Only hoping that someone will notice
. . .
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
When I walk through the woods, I enter another world. Everything is in high definition. The breeze occurs in pitches, singing a song for no one in particular. The wind cares not if anyone is listening, for it will blow regardless. Dead leaves, the final victims of the end of winter, crunch underfoot. They care not if anyone walks over them, for they will be crisp either way. It is a warm day, and I find a clearing where the Sun shines just right. I can feel its radiance on every inch of my body. A pleasant pause in the middle of a cold, never-ending winter, today is unreasonably warm. The Sun reaches all the way through me, and melts away the frost which has crystallized over my heart. It feels like magic but I know it is not. The Sun cares not if I bask in it.
It is here that everything exists in perfect harmony. The pine trees, tall and prominent, provide for the tiniest creatures. The puddles, formed from the melting snow, are just as important as the rocks by the shore of the pond. Nothing in nature cares whether it is being acknowledged or appreciated. It just exists. Every day, whether plump raindrops fall from the sky or intricate snowflakes, it exists.
I understand that the woods do not desire a human presence, so I continue walking, leaving as few footprints possible.
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 7:28 AM UTC
Woke up early like I always do, no matter what I'm going through I sit and contemplate my present situation, like is this life worth living or am I wasting it, I got plans for myself but with what I know, I know there's a possibility of removing it from the shelf of possibilities, sometimes I can't control myself, so I get ****** off let some shots off and restock, my life is just a ramble that needs to be reshocked like defibrillators to your live stock, cause global warming turned to climate change and they make it seem it's not an issue by keeping your mind invisibly encaged and your nose in the tissue, I've been changing, so when it comes to blaming there's no one to blame but the cats who put our work to shame, **** the industry it's why I live in infamy like the US has for practically an entire century, continuing forensically but fail to catch their own trace of criminology, instead blaming you for your ideology passed down from generations along with theology, some things are more believable like the inconceivable evil that's injected inside the bloodstreams of my people, makin them turn from people to machines, **** that I'd rather be trapped in Saturn's rings but sometimes it's hard to stop some things
- This world has been ruled, dominated, and conquered for thousands of years.. I think it's about time to let that **** lay to rest -
Man I've been living for quite some time, and all I've seen is the world go from a bright shine to a darkened shrine, but I guess that's what will happen when you're born into a world that's already fastened their seatbelts for a global blastin, end the nukes end the fed end the ************* who will leave us for dead while they happily sit in bed waiting for their master Satan to come in faster, the worlds a disaster but it can be fixed if everyone pitches in to dethrone their "masters", mathematical factors plotting out disasters cause they're done on purpose like previous stories remastered, some will ridicule me but it won't matter when they realize the truth that's been hidden educationally generationally, you're serviceably useful to the machine aka the system, but the system needs you, you don't need to listen
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
over the phone you might think me
a kindhearted metro-sexual with a deep voice
that lilts and appropriately pitches
to accommodate your ear
and manipulate your conception of me
so that you wont put a frowney face
nested in the message that im leaving
for someone else
above any "i" that might appear
but this vocal spirit only disguises
the less-than-cheeerful demeanor
with which i walk around
when i deftly cut of all communication
with the people that need me to be
something that makes them feel better
not only about my person
but humanity as a whole too
i have a
love hate relationship with phone voice
it often feels like im acting
i wrote and approved a script
where a melancholy person pretends
to be the most pleasant thing
that you have ever known
"yes, HULLLOOO! im looking to leave a message for
....[puke in mouth] heather"
and when that dreadful experience
wains and vanishes
i light another cigarette
slam down a shot glass
and growl
ghrryeeeeaaaaah
me again
***** with tobacco stained fingers
happy [through ingestion]
but still not that person
never phone voice happy
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
Old poisons bake from the soil;
Pluto, underworld god, pitches
Plutonium, god of dirt and death.
What was it ****** cried --
Judische Physik? His lucky hate
Kept Dybuk in the dust,
The devil inside uranium.
But, ****** left us behind:
his U-Project,
The creatures who salted Carthage.
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 2:41 PM UTC
The cloud are reflecting off my computer screen
Moving at a rapid pace
They have somewhere to be
They have to move on
Fading into my shadow
They’re like daggers
My head is like daggers
And my smile is like a rifle
Loops one more time
Just picking the achy strings
I think he’s exhausted
Really just ******* tired
And the way he sings
Just wants to speak
And pour all of his heart
Thoughts
Emotions
Pain
Pain
Pain
These pitches, John, they aren’t real
They aren’t right
You aren’t right
I’m listening to this for you
Because last night was the night I took your life
I was tired too
I was tired and used your insecurities
As an excuse
To blow you off
Bryce come back please
I love you
I CAN’T SEE WHAT I’m typing anymore
It’s waterwashed
I love you I love you
I lov you please
Please trust me
My tears are ocean currents
My calves are the sand
Pull me to La Jolla please now
Hold my hand Bryce
You’ll be unconscience in 5 minutes
Fiberglass isn’t all that dependable
Fiberglass will float on
You’re heart is lead
Let it sink
Hold my hand
Let it sink
They’ll find our bodies
Eaten decayed by algae
You look just as fine with your
Skin pruned and ribcage exposed
I would kiss you all the same with your
Toes consumed by fishes
4 times over John
4 times you don’t sound anymore like an answer
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
The Empress now waxes delirious.
With her legions in tow, she's nefarious.
While they major in minors
she pitches one-liners;
the media's hers. It's hilarious.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 3:44 PM UTC
You remember them nights?
Use too kiss ya lips..
use to touch your spots
"Baby just like this"
**** look them hips..
sensation becoming to real
Seducing ya mind, I think things bout to get real
Do you feel how I feel?
Is this just an act?
Will you make me numb, leave... than never comeback?
My head spinning in circles..
How does she do this?
I should've seen it coming...this woman's bluff I missed
Imma charge her mound
Give her all the pitches
Knock her lights out
Flip off all the switches
Protection a must
When you encounter a woman in lust
Lower Repetition
"Baby oh fuh..."
Shh baby please calm down
You gunna wake the neighbors
If the feeling to good
Let my neck be ya new favorite flavor
She starts to bite as I start to grab
We moving slow to the track
"Baby just like that"
Loving like she the one
What have I become...
Her body produces novacane
Girl, I'm about to go numb
She pulls me in close, continues to ride the beat
I told her "baby not yet"
She replies "you gon remember me"
Toes curling on my feet
Suddenly the moment comes...to an end
She slowly kisses my lips and whispers
"You'll never have this again"
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
If there's one thing I've learned in life
It's that
Although high pitches have purity
The low grumble has got the soul
And all through the years
of itches and puberty
(two words I hate; I cringe)
the ******* can still have humility
and modesty is over-rated
because I wish I wasn't so modest
and I wish I wasn't so honest
and I wish I wasn't so jealous
because everything that's looked up upon
I tend to grab a hold of on accident
and I can't let it go
it's branded on the surface
and virginity is over-rated
because maybe the sexies
just know how to show love
and to be loved
Or maybe I'm just too modest
and too honest
and too jealous
And although I scream
a really high pitch
it never seems to be pure
But purity is over-rated
So when I'm feeling anything
I'll grumble
because the grumblers have the soul
and soldiers know how to fight
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 7:03 PM UTC