"playmates" poems
Now you have to understand
that the greatest gift a child can receive is a sibling.
Wrapped up in that hospital delivery is limitless potential.
They can be your partner in crime,
or the key witness in your conviction.
A sibling fights the same battles you do just with different tactics.
Some prefer to pit mom against dad others dad against mom.
No one will ever walk the earth as close to you.
Part of the DNA that makes you unique flows in their veins.
Even if circumstances change that bond can’t be broken.
They will annoy you, steal from you, drive you crazy,
and if you’re lucky enough hate you. And yet they are your best friend,
confidant, and the person who if you’re unfortunate enough will go to hell
and back as fast for you as you would do for them.
So to all the siblings out there.
May you be playmates in adversity and friendly rivals in joy
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
Brothers on the beach,
Seaside in reach,
The two amigos,
Blood brother bros,
Fraternals and kin,
Pals and companions,
Sidekicks and playmates,
Coastline siblings,
Buddies in the shingles,
A forever brother band,
Golden memories of the strand.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
I wish to retire till the party's over.
Since three o'clock I've done my best
To entertain each tiny guest. My conscience now I've left behind me,
And if they want me, let them find me.
I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats,
I kept them from each other's throats. I told them tales of magic lands,
I took them out to wash their hands.
I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces,
I wiped their noses and dried their faces. Of similarities there's lots
Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots.
I've earned repose to heal the ravages
Of these angelic-looking savages. Oh, progeny playing by itself
Is a lonely little elf,
But progeny in roistering batches
Would drive St. francis from here to Natchez. Shunned are the games a parent proposes,
They prefer to squirt each other with hoses,
Their playmates are their natural foemen
And they like to poke each other's abdomen. Their joy needs another woe's to cushion it,
Say a puddle, and someone littler to push in it.
They observe with glee the ballistic results
Of ice cream with spoons for catapults, And inform the assembly with tears and glares
That everyone's presents are better than theirs.
Oh, little women and little men,
Someday I hope to love you again, But not till after the party's over,
So give me the key to the doghouse, Rover
7.8k
We were born into a world of shallow minds and deep disturbances of young millennials mimicking mindless mimes because we were told to stay in line but be yourself but follow me but think "originality."
A generation full of copycatting individuals with monotone mindsets mulling over social ladders and trends dictated by invisible monarchs of industry inviting and spoon feeding insecurities masked as improvements.
A generation spending more time pretending not to care than on passions stifled by our peer pressuring playmates who are all prescribed Vyvanse, Adderall, Ritalin for their incurable imaginations deemed "learning disabilities."
A generation of temporary friendships because no one can connect with each other but we can connect to the internet and chat with strangers and share thoughts, photos, and secrets to a virtual audience that loses interest in an entanglement of wires forming a noose around our sincerity.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
1549
My Wars are laid away in Books—
I have one Battle more—
A Foe whom I have never seen
But oft has scanned me o’er—
And hesitated me between
And others at my side,
But chose the best—Neglecting me—till
All the rest, have died—
How sweet if I am not forgot
By Chums that passed away—
Since Playmates at threescore and ten
Are such a scarcity—
3.5k
It was 8:45 after my bathe
I dried my *** and put my favorite moisturizer
Looking at my reflection I’m feeling ****
So I put red lipstick on and decided to wear my see-through lingerie
I went to distract my husband playing virtual game, PUBG specifically
He drew attention to me — his hand is caressing my face, you’re gorgeous he said
He then pressed his lips against mine and started talking...
Talking back to his playmates about what strategy are they going to use
So I went to bed to write this lol
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
53
Taken from men—this morning—
Carried by men today—
Met by the Gods with banners—
Who marshalled her away—
One little maid—from playmates—
One little mind from school—
There must be guests in Eden—
All the rooms are full—
Far—as the East from Even—
Dim—as the border star—
Courtiers quaint, in Kingdoms
Our departed are.
2.9k
First time, commercial coffee shop
overindulgence, over laden with portfolio,
books, purse, and now cup: underdressed.
Far too few layers for a
shower of cotton *****
sticking to eye-lashes and hair.
Journeying from coffee shop
to bus stop; urban miles away.
piles of melty cotton *****
grab at my inappropriate shoes.
Too much milk and water
turn me off to Christmas in a cup
so I stick out my tongue
and allow my taste buds a play date with Jack Frost instead.
A lifetime away
a new place with new playmates.
This time leaves and stinky berries
push me on to my destination.
A new coffee shop with bells on the door
boasts bashfully of the same overindulgence.
This one small, cozy like
a thrift store couch or kittens.
Community and friendship present
me with that first cup of Christmas.
Someone from that other world
whispers the memory to me.
Again, my tongue
experiences the most joy on this memory experience.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 4:56 PM UTC
my wars are laid away in books
I have one battle more
a foe whom I have never seen
but oft has scanned me over
and hesitated me between
and others at my side ,
but chose the best neglecting me-till
all the rest have died
how sweet if I am not forgot
by chums that passed away
since playmates at threescore and ten
are such a scarcity
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
I open the old, dusty attic window
Closed for so long, house of another Charlotte
And though it takes time, and the dust,
Still, I open the old, dusty attic window.
I had no plans on sneezing, no dust
will make me sneeze, is what I said
And I had time to spare, if there ever
was time to be nostalgic, it was this.
I open, open the old, dusty attic window
And see, through both black and white and
colored, simultaneously, I see the memories
Flashing back, like they weren't mine.
Are they real? Yes, they are. They just
don't feel like they come from me.
More like I'm audience inside me
Through the old, dusty attic window.
I play through the see-saw, and
slide down the slide, swing through
the swing, all the while with
different, many, many different people.
But she is the one I remember most.
She makes me sneeze, from the dust.
I should have known, and I sit
And watch the two of us, just the two of us.
How she would share the slide, and
push my swing with her might
And how I'd refuse to let her play
Just make her push me, and push.
How she'd be the tag, and look
and look for me, only to realize
That I have left her, have left
her counting, and hoping, and alone.
How I'd push her so she'd hurt
herself. How I'd almost push her so
she'd still get hurt anyway. How
she'd look up and smile and stand.
How she'd sometimes go quiet, some-
times go sad, though she'd never
really show, and still smile, and
push my swing and play with me.
How I'd turn my back when I think
she needed me most, and convince
myself that for some reason she
deserved it, to be alone.
And I wonder now, when I turned my
back, did she ever cry? Was I important
enough to have called to surface
The tears she so effectively can hide?
Did she love me enough that she
could endure? Or was I nothing so
she could shrug off the
bullyings that I did?
And I close the old, dusty attic window
Because she makes the dust make me sneeze.
And I still sneeze, because she always could,
Always, make the dust make me sneeze.
And now that she's in another playground
With more willing playmates who don't leave
Her alone in hide & seek, I wish to go
back and have her again.
And I think if I could have moved on
To the next playground with her, would
she still have played with me,
Although she is well-loved by others?
And I know (like I always have, only that I was
too selfish to acknowledge) that I have
hurt her, and she did not deserve
But still she stayed with me.
And I will always sneeze from her dust
Her way to remind me, my way to remind me
That for all the times she smiled, for all the times I
hurt her, I hurt myself more.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC
153
Dust is the only Secret—
Death, the only One
You cannot find out all about
In his “native town.”
Nobody know “his Father”—
Never was a Boy—
Hadn’t any playmates,
Or “Early history”—
Industrious! Laconic!
Punctual! Sedate!
Bold as a Brigand!
Stiller than a Fleet!
Builds, like a Bird, too!
Christ robs the Nest—
Robin after Robin
Smuggled to Rest!
1.9k
I feel my pretty child well Simply because there is a child inside me ... I feel every moment of my childhood Simply because it's a real thing ... I am still connected with my childhood's days Greatly and wonderfully Simply because I do not want to forget them ... I remember all those wonderful games I enjoyed with my playmates over there ... My mind stores all my Childhood's greatly and admiringly ... I live in my childhood and My childhood lives in me ... It's difficult to forget my pretty child Simply because if someone does not have A pretty childhood(past),then One's present and future will not be As great as one's past ....
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
What should I be but a prophet and a liar,
Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar?
Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water,
What should I be but the fiend’s god-daughter?
And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog,
That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog?
And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar,
But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter?
You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe,
As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby,
You will find such flame at the wave’s weedy ebb
As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother’s web,
But there comes to birth no common spawn
From the love of a priest for a leprechaun,
And you never have seen and you never will see
Such things as the things that swaddled me!
After all’s said and after all’s done,
What should I be but a harlot and a nun?
In through the bushes, on any foggy day,
My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away,
With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth,
A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth.
And there sit my Ma, her knees beneath her chin,
A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in,
And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying
That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying!
He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin,
He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin,
He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil,
And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil!
Oh, the things I haven’t seen and the things I haven’t known,
What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown,
And yanked both ways by my mother and my father,
With a “Which would you better?” and a “Which would you rather?”
With him for a sire and her for a dam,
What should I be but just what I am?
1.7k
Sitting in the bath once again, small blue pad in hand, bit of plastic as support, I write this poem. Albert Cat demands a bit of attention and pad slides into the water. I grab a bit of toilet paper to blot it. That makes it worse. So, blurred and vague, I reconstruct it, using magnifying glasses (2!) while watching the evening news. Here it is:
I Like Facebook
I like Facebook. I don’t know exactly why.
I like looking at the pictures,
Friends I’d never meet another way.
I like friendly messages,
Passages of verse I’d never read
If not for Facebook’s lead.
I like Likes and Comments kind,
Find in comments rich expressions.
Possibly I’m one of few - or few new millions.
I’m inspired when tired, fired up.
Even when I’ve written ‘crap’
No one’s there to trap me.
Some reviewer always sees my views,
Understands.
Someone always sends
Me praise; ends with a Like.
I’ve never had a spikey word;
Cordiality is all I’ve ever read or heard.
Commonality forever somewhere, there
Where someone wants to start a group.
Always somebody to whoop de whoop:
Somewhere folk who populate;
A troupe with common passions.
Then there are the monthly Happys:
Happy Birthdays, Christmases and Easters…
Never had one word rescinded.
Reminded gently daily:
Classmates, playmates
I’d forgotten, dovetailed,
Blazoned on the psyche;
Friends and places,
And of course, the faces -
It is Facebook, after all; the key, the glee,
A source of history.
As for weaknesses I’ve read about –
Never think to route them out,
Going ‘bout my business,
Focused on creativeness,
The lofty and the small.
I like Facebook.
Happy Facebook to you all!
I Like Facebook 3.31.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Corwin
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
1558
Of Death I try to think like this—
The Well in which they lay us
Is but the Likeness of the Brook
That menaced not to slay us,
But to invite by that Dismay
Which is the Zest of sweetness
To the same Flower Hesperian,
Decoying but to greet us—
I do remember when a Child
With bolder Playmates straying
To where a Brook that seemed a Sea
Withheld us by its roaring
From just the Purple Flower beyond
Until constrained to clutch it
If Doom itself were the result,
The boldest leaped, and clutched it—
1.4k
There is a sound in a house when it’s occupants have left for the day and it isn’t silence.
It’s more of a dull collective hum of electrical appliances enjoying the chance to indulge their expression without the need to shout over humans.
There is the echo of words whispered in soft tones and the violent ones exchanged in heated debate, also the screams and laughter and the bark of dogs.
There is the sound of unfolded washing, waiting patiently to be transitioned from unkempt mess to organised functionality in a drawer or cupboard.
Their sound before such a transformation is heavy and unlovable, but once the task of folding is completed, they fall silent, thankful to have reached their destiny this week before their new cycle of destruction of order begins.
Toys, where does one start with the sound of toys in the absence of playmates. Their sound is dependent on how loved they are and how much time they have left before they, like a wife after 20 years of marriage, are replaced by the upgraded model, the new and better version.
But it’s the breakfast things, the things left on the table, half eaten toast and a mauled boiled egg that have the most sound.
It’s the sound of a dwindling life force struggling against its fate to be recycled in the compost, like us.
That sound is a deafening silent scream of a resistance to endings, an inevitable journey back into nothing.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 7:56 AM UTC
You would figure
such a moment would be burned
into the paradigm of memory
when exactly did I learn
life was no cartoon?
well, it wasn’t one traumatic incident
rather a rushing current of events
a drunk uncle here, a screaming mom there
a belting boyfriend or toy-stealing sister
playmates picked dead last no matter
older boys bullying the younger
teachers who didn’t particularly bother
some cousins had yards and fathers
while others like me had neither
always more chores than fun
and no one ever explained how come
priests were less present and less kind
than the mexican street venders
there’s no specific scene to pause when I rewind
I honestly can’t remember.
It wasn’t at a funeral, by then
though I was young , I somehow knew
life was not all beautiful and true
that those adults who told me what to do
sobbed on dark beds and screamed at phones
then wiped their tears or ****** walls
before reentering the room
their eyes a little more like stone
while I pretended to un-see it all
and kept on playing with my toys, alone.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC
Dear Children,
You do not deserve to live in fear.
You do not deserve to lift your hands in surrender when you have done no wrong,
To hide in fright at the sight of the ones who claim authority,
To come home to your houses destroyed,
To have your playmates beaten before your very eyes,
To have mom and dad abused for beliefs they do not live by,
To have your neighbors shot for reasons you do not understand,
To struggle falling asleep when the sound of bombs and gunshots fill the airwaves,
To have military planes speed above you instead of kites,
To have your brothers and sisters hold you close as you tremble and sob,
To have danger and war as all you know.
But children, please remember that what you see and know isn't all there is to the world.
Somewhere out there, perhaps quite far for now, beautiful places await you
Where there is love in the arms that will welcome you,
Gentleness in the touch of strangers,
Parks to sit under blue skies and watch the clouds pass,
Homes where you will be safe and sound,
Quiet nights where you can sleep at ease, the stars watching over you,
And no more war and what you have known all your life.
For now, I only hope that the barren lands you walk on barefoot will begin to grow greener pastures,
I hope flowers grow amidst the rubble and destruction,
I hope the sounds of war will be softened with lullabies,
I hope you will soon be able to play street games and watch sun set,
I hope you will snuggle between your parents at night to sleep soundly,
I hope you will be able to fly kites and build dreams,
I hope you will never grow to become angry and miserable all your days,
I hope you will never feel at fault for things you have never done.
And I wish that you remain hopeful for the day you will be free to wander to better places, away from the turmoil you've come to know, the way you deserve to.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
Doctor and Mrs Granger
have returned from their honeymoon
they are expecting a baby
some time in the middle of June
Mrs Thrift has offered to take the baby
for pram rides in the park
Mr Clarke will escort her home
if she gets lost in the dark
a pleasant family atmosphere
is what Doctor and Mrs Granger want to create
they want to see their child grow up
with plenty of playmates
Mrs Granger wishes to have twelve babies
within sixteen years
this amount of children
will fill the Granger home with much cheer
they are presently decorating
all the rooms at the Granger compound
so it will have enough accommodation
for the babies they'll have around
last week Mrs Granger
spoke to the ladies at the coffee shop
and told them
her life and health were well on top
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
//////
Enchained since puberty
Enchained in manic mutilating scorn
We
Mystic playmates
Of eachother and the gods
••
Drifting
The mountains
We
Are the waters and the years
••
SEED SEED SEED SEED
••
The garden and the gardener
•
Adam and Eve
The fountain
We who make the creation
LAST
Thru all contingencies
•••
Little tiny beings born to love
To nurture and sustain
••
••
we
••
••
Enchained since puberty
created a need for TRUST
And allowed
Demons to enslave
All the righteous powers that were ours alone
••
BATHE !
In the RIVERS OF GOD
IN EACHOTHER'S FRAGRACES!
••
Nothing else must touch
Or
Define you on any way
•
Be
Lovely and free
Be
The ONE who shall ASCEND
dissolving all pain and chains
Into
Magical faces !
And gentle strength
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
*She came and she went.
Like all others did...
With a smile so beautiful and deep.
A God's child she was,
Gleaming with joy and beauty.
Sparkling eyes and tousled hair,
A girl of eleven or twelve...
Touched the heart so beautifully.
I stared at her and felt my smile return.
She peeped into my car window
And looked deep into my eyes.
She made me see through her,
An innocent face and naughty eyes.
I tossed a coin at her and she returned a smile.
I gazed at her for a moment and watched her say goodbye.
Then she ran along with her playmates...
Lighting every corner of the streets.
I smiled at her dissapearing figure as long as I could....
But soon the road was left far behind.
My mind kept wondering....
Will she always be the girl of the street?
Will she too follow her destiny alone?
Then I became busy...
And left the girl behind again...
Afterall who cares for a girl of the street....*
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
Radio news bulletin in the car
the last item read in those mellifluous tones
is about a seven-year-old boy
struck and killed by a car
in a poor suburb of Wellington.
The protocol around the legal and privacy issues
means it’s “no name, no pack drill”,
but he was someone,
someone’s son, grandson
perhaps even great-grandson.
He had probably had siblings,
definitely friends and playmates.
Somewhere in a house with
inadequate winter heating,
where the household income is
constantly under siege
and life never rises above a struggle,
there is a mother and a father
who bear this greatest grief.
Andrew M. Bell
May 15, 2022
May 15, 2022 at 12:48 AM UTC
Cool flowing waters
cater me with plenty of…
Aquatic playmates.
Smallmouth and largemouth –
Either kind acceptable,
if they are landed.
Get them in the boat!
Fishing stories without proof
are just plain-faced lies.
Imitating bugs?
Fishing is an art form of…
Posing as insects.
The splashing fishes
are vying for attention
during school’s recess.
Author Note:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2009, All rights reserved.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 9:22 AM UTC
I long for your cooling embrace
After the relentless flames of the world;
Give me repose, Mother Ganga, for I come to your arms as ashes. 1
Increasingly irksome was the mortal garb,
And the silken ties too tight.
The skein has unravelled,
And I am one with the sky and the stars,
Those symbols of eternity;
Have left behind mortal playmates, fickle emotions...
My pen sobs
And I lack the courage to speak the truth,
To let it know
That it has finally run dry, and I, empty.
Words fail me, like the 'Brahmastra', at vital moments. 2
Perhaps I, too, carry the curse
Of some Bhargava ? 2
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
He was the meanest kid on the playground
If the kid he picked on was half of his size.
He abused his playmates if they were weak
Had freckles or wore glasses on their eyes.
He was not a handsome lad in any way.
It was almost like he took it out on the world
That none of the guys wanted to play with him
And he seldom got lucky with the girls.
There was the slightest hint of intelligence
But it was always of the devious kind.
Nobody ever thought this kid would turn out
To be the type to make fortunes with his mind.
Taking little kids lunch money from them
Was why he even went to school each day.
If he looked a bit older and wasn’t lazy
He might just have hid out and run away.
He didn’t play ball or do any kind of work
And his mom waited on him hand and foot.
You could tell when he reached legal age
He’d find a woman who would follow suit
And treat him like a six foot baby brat
As if he was a gift to the whole world.
Of course he was in luck there because
It’s easy to hook up with that kind of girl.
At work he will call all the women sweetie
And soundly slap his cohorts on their backs.
He’ll always remember his boss’s birthday
It pays to keep the important things on track.
If he can block a promotions of co-workers
Who are not Caucasian and Christian,
He will stick to his hidebound beliefs
And stick to ideas of The Dominion.
And if this reprobate ever has children
They will grow up to be just like him;
They’ll subject siblings and playmates
To their own temperament and whim.
Because bullying is passed by parents
From their parents to their own children.
And bullying adheres to no rules about
Morality, propriety, intelligence or wisdom.
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 9:28 PM UTC