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Traveler Sep 24
You said it
She said it
No one regrets it
Death and suffering
Are at the Poets door
You've read it
A hundred times for sure
Think how many more
Poets and Poetess torn
War in their minds
It's rhyming time
Cuts and craziness
Are divine
Line by line
Bleeding is a sad sign
It would be different
If you were all mine
I would hold you
Until you were fine
Traveler Tim

Follow men's eyes
As they look to the skies
The shifting shafts of shining
Weave the fabric of their dreams

N.P.
Have you been searching for that perfect gift?
Want to say something special, give someone a lift?

Are you popping the question?  Is it someone's birthday
But you're just not quite sure of the right words to say?

Is the one that you love feeling lonely or sick?
If a card or a letter just won't do the trick...

Pick up the phone call Poetically Correct
With our help, you'll achieve the desired effect

Just give us some details, and in a short time
You can send someone special, a gift that's sublime

Anniversaries ~ Apologies ~ Any Occasion ~ Baby Dedications ~ Bachelor/Bachelorette Party ~ Birth Announcements ~ Condolences ~ Congratulations ~ Eulogies ~ Father's Day ~ Get Well ~ Graduation ~ Holidays ~ Love ~ Proposals ~Reunions ~ Roasts ~ Secret Admirer ~ Special Friend ~ Surprise ~ Tell 'Em Off ~ Told U So ~ Valentines ~ You Name It
Anyone else interested in this kind of work, writing for the paying public, please let me know. I'd love to work with you.

So many people have the desire to send something deeply personal, but lack the ability or inclination to write for themselves.

It's a niche market that's under served.

I am disabled and looking for work I can do with my physical limitations.



This is what I propose.
ryn Sep 2014
Poetry moves from within our souls,
It's emotions pouring out
Covering us in rhymes and flow,
Like rain from the clouds

Infinite letters, words and phrases
In various permutations we play
Collaboration between heart and mind
Breathed into these pieces that we lay


Touching lives with our written form
Healing with words, what's poetically true
Freedom of expression, thoughts and ideals
Crying out in ink, until our sadness is through

Similar in thoughts but meander through individual routes
We all sing the same but to different rhythm and tunes
Inscribe our innermost but to varying worthy causes
We all draw inspiration but from the same loyal moon


A different form of art, yet art none the same
It's in the eye of the beholder, so they say
Poetry is life drawn in pen, it's not an erasable game
It truly breathes life, looking forward to each new day

**We proudly fly our diverse flags
United under one banner
We revel in words of poetry
In the hopes they'd last forever
Deeply honoured by the fact that the amazing "The Girl Who Loved You" would even consider a collaboration with me! Such an experience! Thank you TGWLY for this opportunity! Awestruck!
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
~for granddaughter Wendy on her first birthday~

mailman delivers a
a small bubble wrapped envelope,
an internet purchase made a long sometime ago  
accompanied by an enjoyable, self-served and self-serving,
"you're a good fella"
          pat on the back        

a spurting act of the what-the-heck,
trigger pulling, self-pleasuring,
donating a few bucks to saving poetry,
****** in by a suckers click bait

sent money to the
   keepers of poems;   
they even give something
in return.

sensible pencils.  

a non-rational purchase;
@ $6 dollars per leaded squib,
a wooden helping kiss rife with possibilities

all for a goodly cause
preservation band society poetic

this one-and-done impulse many weeks ago, 
followed by an immediacy forgeting,
then, an eye stabbing,
a widening wow weeks later
upon receipt
of an unexpected 5 pencil's all poems poetry reciting!

5 pencils. No. 2’s,
on each a phrase,
a poet's name and their singular words parsed
(see the notes).

paired passages from five poets,
deemed and distinguished to be
commemorated-worthy
and
what's more apropos than a dangerous  instrument of a
loaded leaded pencil,
that can be used to add to the  
Ever Expanding Universe of Verbal Liturgy
("and I helped")
.
once briefly dusted off the top of closeted dreamy days,
my notions of acclaim gone, silly gone,
my only marks now are erasures,
tiny rubber sheddings on paper
that's my marker,
a minus mark of deletion.

may yet come the day,
one will one gather up the
many survivors,
poem fauns, all my orphans,
give them to the
Wendy baby,

first,
she to metamorphose those
baby squeaks and  giggles,
weighty weightless poem noises,
clapping, waving, delighted and delighting, kiss-throwing videos and that milk covered face,
into her own living words

all these noises that makes even non-poets
smile ear to ear unabashedly,
nodding in delight agreement
to her own non verbal
original poems
:
perhaps
one day a little girl
will stumble on five pencils,
mixed in within fifteen hundred poems not particularly well hid,
between worthless insurance policies and other artifacts,
memoirs and pointless depositions,
hid between her older sister and brother's
crayoned keepsakes


  with pointed newly sharpened pencils
the very same,
this,
his Wendy,
might add
to the grandpere's poem collection with
pencils begging to be used,
for they are generationally and genetically,
pre-poetically enabled,
weighting the old memories
with new ballast and new balance,
from new verbal babies
all of her own.
What happens to a dream deferred?  Langston Hughes
Won't you celebrate with me? Lucille Clifton
Do I dare disturb the universe?  T.S. Eliot
I'm Nobody! Who are you? Emily Dickinson
Where can the crying heart graze? Naomi Shibab Nye

poets.org
Poetoftheway May 5
she smells (nameless and shameless)


a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless

morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-a-little-closer-tasting for the summer solstice,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded

the first of the season red spot-stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are mostly gender identifiable

my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within, a ****** hallelujah,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt Nile of the basement waters

the burnt crumbs of illegal in-bed brioche toast
amazingly invisible on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed, was yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things (popcorn pieces)
is just a scratchiest fragrance too far,
needing a sheet wiped clean slate

even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
one of us makes a (vice) presidential declaration:

she smells, I man-ually stink, each,
each glower shower nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass aroma fresh cut,
to exhume and then send away
this odor now christened,


nameless and shameless


11:47 28/4/19
April Watson Nov 2016
He is the rain on my wings making me feel heavy.
I try to shake him and fly away
But I like the cool cage that surrounds me.
He weighs my heart down.
Slow, like the passing of the moon.
Temperamental as the tides
Busy as afternoon.
I ache for him like an addiction,
A feeling I never thought I needed.
He is the pump in my artificial heart,
He is the brace on my knee,
Always there to steady me.
He is the cast I wish I could take off,
But he and I both know how I break so easily.
How I bend and sway
Constantly tripping over my own feet
Sputtering words I meant to say poetically
Only to find he wasn’t even listening.
But eye rolling isn’t easy to see
half way across the country.
He couldn’t read the signs
Even if I painted them across my naked body.
Now I’m left to shake the drops off,
Missing him like the toy my child’s heart never forgot.
Traveler Jan 14
There is just so much
That I should outright say
Yet... Unfortunately
That would be a real
Frighting, uncomfortable page...

I mean
"Wow"!!
Sometimes my mind
Losses doubt
All my past ghost
Start screaming out
Faces I forgotten
Memories obscured
Yesterdays messes
From a city I once severed

So if I happen
To slip and say such words
Let it be known
My heart can no longer endure
.....
Traveler Tim
Siddhali Doshi Oct 2018
Dear Florence,

I remember the day I first saw you. I swear that is the only time I ever believed in ‘love at first sight’. You were as calm as the meditating soul. Your passing wind soothed my beating heart.
In that first ride to my new house, I knew. I knew you were going to be my home. I knew you would mend all of my aching slits, stitch after stitch. Each day you bestowed me with a new beautiful day to inspire me, to metamorphose me, even more poetically than the phoenix rising from its ashes.

I knew, one day, I would say goodbye. Chasing your dreams can sometimes be a painful journey. I knew leaving you would shatter my soul into little pieces, strewed all around your streets and alleys and piazzas and bridges. But dear Florence, you deserve so much more than my little-scattered pieces.

As I say goodbye, pondering over the Santa Trinita bridge, I become forever yours. The joys you have given me, the memories of which will wander along through all my journeys.  My sorrows, the memories of the flowing Arno river will always wash away.

So, as I leave this place, I request you to take care of me. For ‘the me as I know it’ has become ‘the me as I knew it’. I am leaving behind this version of me for it is only in your shadows did she glow bright. Let your pink skies continue to set away all my anxieties. Let your rising blues continue to give me hope. Let the shining gold, always guide my heart home, just like the Duomo always guides us in its warm embrace. Let you ringing bells, help me rise every time I stumble. Let your art, keep my imagination flowing and let your symmetry create order in my life. Let your changing skies give me strength and inspire me to never stop, come what may.

Take care of me when I am gone. Just like you have over the past year.

Forever yours,
The girl who never really left.
Whit Howland Jul 8
sunset never fades
until a new

orange brighter dawn
takes its place

and sea gulls caw
in between

the perfect tempo
of the waves

that sun bronzed
surfers carve

as they ride poetically
to shore

and its all here
in images restored

with words and music
never more

visceral and true

Whit Howland © 2019
Poetoftheway Apr 16
coffee stain memories (an aging love)

our dozen or so mugs,
all white, her color of choice,
accumulating stains of black-brown coffee
that the dishwasher poetically concedes,
a decade plus of drinking, now, oh-now,
****** and can’t be removed

the lips of some are chipped,
the lips of some are chapped,
but they remain employed
for first coffee is a demonstrable
affectation of affection that losing
would be costly

but one of us soto voce, quietly whispers
the radical ionized idea,
shouldn’t we replace,
this should-not is an update, a cognition of
a bridge too far,
both agreeing, both conceding the symbolism,
the heart acknowledges a momentary thrombosis,
for the losing turnover is a winless loss

messaging in and about,
an aging staining love losing

~
A no ki tov tuesday poem
11:36 tuesday ki tov 16/4/2000+nineteen

http://hebrewmeanings.blogspot.com/2016/04/ki-tov.html

“The third day of Creation [Bereshis 1:9-13] is the only day in which the expression “G-d saw that it was good” is mentioned twice. This expression is mentioned both following the gathering of the waters which divided the seas from the dry land, and following the sprouting of vegetation and seed- bearing plants – both of which occurred on the third day of Creation.
As a result of the fact that Tuesday had a double portion of “ki tov” [that it was good], Tuesday is considered a particularly fortuitous day of the week. Many people specifically plan their wedding for this day. When moving into a new house, many people plan to move on Tuesday. Many people try to start a new job on Tuesday.”
Michael John Jan 12
a

auntie mable said to me
said they would hang me..

coming from wales
and poetically placed

(her lilting prophesy
common amid family..)

b

i was bemused at the time
we sat in the bar..red wine

dribbled off her chin
she ****** back in

hang me why
she knew not why

why is a sin
why is a sin boy..
Big Virge Jun 2018
Respect is DYING ... Everyday ... !!!

The old ... " Dismay " ...
cos the young ... DISPLAY ...
A Lack of ... " Respect " ...
in their ... Crazy Ways ... !!!

So, pay ... Close Attention ...

This ISN'T ... " Wordplay " ... !!!

Disrespect has become ...
The ... " Modern Way " ... ?!?

VIOLENCE ....
is now the way .... !!!!!

I hope I'm dead BEFORE ....
28 Days Later ... !!!!!!

What's with these ... " Film Makers " ... ?!?

Actors take roles
for .... Cash Type PAPER ... !!!

EVEN If ... Their Role ...
is a SICK ... Date ***** ... !?!

See ....
This is why ...
Respect will die ...

because ...

Most things seen
on ... Movie Screens ...
are making kids
have ... Violent Dreams ... !!!

from ...
Twelve years olds
to our ... Young Teens ...

The streets we walk on
are ... UNCLEAN ... !!!!!!
because of images ...
placed on ... TV Screens ... !!!!!!

Don't get me wrong ....

VIOLENCE is .... REAL ... !!!!!

But ....
THIS ... I DON'T Want ...
as my ... " Daily Meal " ... !!!!!!

While ... Business Tycoons ....
Continually ... STEAL ... !!!

I Agree with ... Michael Moore ...
STOP Shows like ... " Cops " ... !!!!!

These Violent Shows ...
are built to ... SHOCK ...

So Ratings RISE ...
while black folks ... ROT ... !!!!!

THINK ......

ALL These Things ...
Create ... DISRESPECT ...

DISRESPECT of ... Our Mothers
DISRESPECT of ... Our Brothers
DISRESPECT of ... Each Other
Because of ......... Our Colour

But This .... Disrespect Thing ...
is used in ... " Rapping " ...

So people ... DON'T THINK ...
There are ... " Conscious " ... Rap Kings ...

This .....
DISRESPECT ... Rap ...
is getting kids ... "TRAPPED" ... !!!

Cos' they think ....
Respect's EARNED ...
By dishing out ... SLAPS ... !?!

Instead of ... " Discerning " ...
Who's Setting .... " The Trap " ...

It's ... " Corporate Boys " ...
who sit and ................ " Avoid " ...................
The ... SCREAMING Type Noise ... !!!!!!
When Kids Play With ... " Gun Toys " ... !!!!!!

It's THEM ....
Who sit .... " Planning " ....
THESE ... "Devilish' ... Ploys ...

THIS ....
Lack of ... Respect ...
is SLITTING ... Some Necks ... !!!!!

Believe ... What You Like ... !!!!!

Walk streets ... Late at Night ...
and see what you get .... !!!!!!

On THIS ...
I Would Bet ...
Walk in the ... WRONG PLACE ... !!!
and you'll ... NEVER AGAIN ...

See a ....
Smile on your face ... !!!

It's ATTITUDE Now ...
ALL OVER The Place ... !!!!!

Rudeness is viewed ...
In ... EVERY ... Workplace ...

The way the young ... Act ...
is a ... ******* ... DISGRACE ... !!!!!

It's NOT JUST ... The Young ... !!!

I've really been ... STUNNED ...
by how people ... " Act " ...
Who Claim ... " Poetic Grace " ... ?!?

Fellow Poets have seen me ...
TIME and AGAIN ... !!! ...
But when I ... Return ...
Many STARE ... in my face ... !?!

Like i'm from ....... OUTER SPACE ........ ?!?

Men ....
DISRESPECT ... Women ...

Women ....
DISRESPECT ... Men ...

To me ....
This is .... NONSENSE ...
WITHOUT ... A Defence ... !?!

If we are to live ...
in a world ... FULL of Hate ... ?!?

I Think ....
YES ... For REAL ... !!!!

Give the world to the ... " **** " ... !!!!

I've tried ... NOT TO SAY ...
What I feel about ... " **** " ...

Well I guess ...
Now you ... KNOW ... !!!

So ....
What will you say ... ?

" I DISRESPECT Them !!! "

Well Maybe ... I am ... ???

But ...
Let me just ... STRESS ... !!!
I Face ... Racial Problems ... !!!!!

Give me ... THE POWER ...
That's given to ... THEM ...

Then I Won't ... Shy Away ...
From Talking ... About Them ... !!!!!

But for now ....
I'm ... MORE WORRIED ...
About THESE ... " Gun Sounds " ... !!!!!
and Profanities .... HEARD ...
From MANY ... Young Mouths ... !!!!!

I'm Ready to ... DIE ....
cos these days ... I DON'T CRY ... !!!!!

I'm Poetically ... " Plying " ...
and Constantly Trying ...
to make you folks ... Hear Me ...

Cos' .....

" RESPECT is now dying... "
Todays world is a dangerous one !
.... and RESPECT has not been taken care of as it should of been.
It's been forsaken for all manor of craziness, this poem was written long before it got to...
Michael John Jan 5
i


a strange time
but the same
all the same
i still miss
red wine
how i loved
that abandoned
safe spacing
lifting of pain
a button
in my brain
clicking off
or on
here am i
again..!

ii

i would read
the russians
their suffering
brought solace
so understanding
drink and lie in bed
clair de la lune
thank you


iii

a)

auntie mabel
said
they
would
hang me..

being
from
wales
poetically

a lilting
prophesy
(a prediction
common
among family)

b)

i was bemused at
the time
we sat in the bar
red wine

dribbled off her
chin
hang me..
why..

she said she knew
not why-
why is a sin
i was eleven
or ten..
Hope White Sep 2018
How to Write a Poem:

***** your finger and bleed directly onto the page.
Buy a typewriter from a thrift store and poetically sit in a coffee
shop until your muse walks in.
Sleep with your professor and let her write your poems for you.
Hold private seances at the cemetery.
Read your high school yearbook
until your poems seethe with forgotten teenage angst.
Specifically berate your current lover
but then assure him the words aren’t about him.
Drink yourself into oblivion
but blame your inner artist for your demons.
List all the sins of your mother
and conveniently forget those of your father.
Clutch your pen until a stigmata appears in your hands.
Speak your truth,
but tell your friends
your poems aren’t from your own point-of-view.
Screaming
What's the use----??
Flower of the Graces
"The Tenth Muse"
"Everyday Use It"
The earth revolves
Around the sun

Minerals Love it
Drink it vitamin C
Mass of energy A-B-C
The gravity every day
We cannot use it_
Became the play money
Copied tainted not the
Bee's honey here's
The everyday economy

One lick of hope the
envelope not much
company
Everyday- Einsteins
Big profit scope

The brainstorm Reign
All signs detour cabin
Choo Choo train caboose
You nailed it the moose
One footloose
The one-man show

Two women know
The odds to their
advantage
Someone is the traitor
Mom is the Tailor
The zigzag lines
Crazy cat felines 

"That's It"  punctuality,
Use your capability
"Technet Technology"
take a walk favorite park
Shiba Inu rollover
The bad ones the
Millionaires homes
flip over the do
or dare

We cannot pay
NYC token fare
Words are our power
For Sale quick sales
Being sold
Too hot whats cold
Those emails trying
to delete

(More casualties
Tombstone mummies
Democracy leading us like
dummies chewing Bear
Valentine gummies)

Like the "Elephant Stampede"
New Orleans parade
Every day please donate
We never know about
our fate too early or late
Every day new Providence

Demon computer virus
Love comes with confidence
Love yourself and Venus
Apples and oranges minus
Use it You have a voice!!!
City clean up cockroaches
Swap your fake Rolex

Watchtower index
Trump tower complex
"Eiffel Tower Use It" to be kissed
Every day we need to cleanse
The "Godly Shower" be blessed
Practical Everday Use It
Magical write poetically
Precisely the right piece puzzle

You are the one
World it's you to dazzle
Every day there is always something lets not complain we were born to earn
Use it you know what to do go for the things that made you who you are today every day you are worth it
Whit Howland Jul 14
I've come to love

and know
the color blue to mean
not a Blue Monday
Blue Note or joke
and don't much care to sing the Blues

or for that matter
give them
because truth be told
most of the time

I want to caucus
with those
pumping and stumping
for a Blue Hawaii
or the warm blue waters

pickling poetically
the clam shell white bottom

of Palancar Reef

Whit Howland © 2019
This isn’t a case
Of writers block
Tides have turned
The winds have stopped

Unread poems
Sacks stuck at home
Unposted unknown
Dear Eliot
Where did you go?

All my thoughts
Demand to rhyme
Contemplating
Line after line

Dear Eliot
What is this evil
Who downloaded
This poetic upheaval
Within your cyber grip
You control the trending list

Where approval declines
We are poetically confined
Dear Eliot
Have you lost your mind?
Traveler Tim

HP Should have a message option
So we can ask for help
No, I mean one that they actually answer!
Raziel May 21
If you are to ruin me,
Do me a favor and do it poetically,
So that I may live on in the stars,
And dance inside the moon,

If you are to ruin me,
Give me a chance to live,
Let me paint my colors across the sky,
Let me join my friends among the constellations,

If you are to ruin me,
I want to keep at least one piece,
So that it may grow and bloom,
Into something worth remembering,

If you are to ruin me,
Just give me the chance to surrender,
Surrender to adventures and experiences without you,
Surrender to sunrises and sunsets without you,

If you are to ruin me,
Do not take away my ability to create,
Do not damage me beyond repair,
Do not take away the colors inside of me,

If you are to ruin me,
Just let me fall,
So that maybe my landing,
Will be worth writing,

Because if you are to ruin me,
I want them all to know how it happened,
I want them to know the tragedy in how we met,
I want them to know the mystery in the connection,

Because if you are to ruin me,
I want them to know that there were flames,
That there were explosions and sparks,
That we burned loud and powerful,

Because if you are to ruin me,
I want them to know that I died at the touch of your healing hands,
That I died a writers death among the stories of your eyes,
That I died a painters demise between those wild cherry lips,

Because if you ruin me,
I want them to know that you are still so perfect,
That you have a galaxy trapped in your heart,
And that you have storms and hurricanes in your soul,

If you are the one to ruin me,
I want you to know that it’s okay,
You are a beautiful universe of endless possibilities,
You are an untamable storm of breathtaking spires of emotion,

If you are the one to ruin me,
Know that I’m okay with it,
Because at least I caught a glimpse,
Of something worth writing about.
Rosmarie Correa Jul 2018
She remembers, she hasn't forgotten
She has slept and never dreamed
She doesn't starve but still she's empty
She is safe in the extreme

She wants a purple apple
and a pill for every emotion.
She loves a little magic, sure,
there's no witch without a potion.

She envisions stealing the souls of people,
those too awful to be redeemed.
That way she can season her soup with it
and drink it for the evil she needs.

She cares about the greener grass
if she can bury them in the dirt.
She'll do what she possibly can
to get all her enemies hurt

As long as worms wriggle on rotten
As long as there's teardrops that stream
As long as the pythoness's years are plenty
She will poetically make them scream.
Long live the pythoness queen.
What4221 Sep 22
I've had these thoughts crashing around inside my head ever since the last shell fell to the ground

Pictures of the orange clay breaking in midair
Your finger still resting on the trigger

Did you know, when they said the cars crashed they all saw broken glass
But if they just collide,
All the harm is hidden inside

I stop raising my hand in class.

At night,
The nightmares walk over the broken glass in my mind
The cool metal of the barrel rests against my forehead

I picture my bones as orange clay.

The words creep into my mind when I don't want them to
Intrusive thoughts, extrinsic motivators staring at me from dull eyes

Lonely, lonely, how alone are you now?

My bones shatter on impact and the pieces rest in the field with the rest of the broken disks
You pick up shotgun shells and shards of glass

Motivation hides somewhere in the dark with my voice

I can't even cry anymore.

When the cars crashed there was broken glass,
But all I told anyone was collision
So they think the failure was my decision

God, I just want this to end.

But at night
Lying in my bed wide awake because I slept all day
It's your eyes staring at me in my mind
It's your voice guiding me this time
And the momentary pleasure comes as it always does
And I can imagine it's your touch,
Your love,

But my bones are scattered orange clay
And you are the one emptying the shells from the 12 gauge

And my hands shake when I clean my face in the bathroom
The mirror cracking with the absolute ******* weight of it all

I grip my hair and I want to tear it off.

I start to decompose
I don't know how to put it poetically
I just turn with the leaves
As September turns and the weather turns and the earth turns

I become the dirt and they walk all over me
And I watch you paint another person's bones orange
I watch you load another clip
I watch you trace them through the air

***** shooting hearts.

and im trembling in the dirt
my voice doesn't work
my eyes and ears are gone
im just orange clay,
decomposing
until im-
gone.
.
patty m Feb 14
Admittedly we're best friends,
but how many times must
breath catch and hearts
beat out of control
before we turn away from
this gut twisting longing
that aches beyond ache.

Friends find us rather trying,
disclaiming love at every turn
and yet how is it that
I'm only half of myself
when your not around?

Hot dancers on the floor
we club and toast
but always apart with
some other somebody
between us.

Every Valentine's Day
you send me a funny card
and share a bag of Ghirardelli
chocolates with me,
squeezing the bag so I
only get one or two
while you grab the rest for yourself
laughing all the while.

Even as I open the foil paper
and savor the sweetness
melting on my tongue,
I know your kisses
would melt me just
as easily. . .
I yearn, but squirm
swiftly out of reach
grabbing a bag of chips
I love salty with my sweet.

This year is no different,
you show up at my door,
card and candy, and
a silly smile on your face,
a little bouquet clutched in your hand.

Whats this, are they for me?
You thought I'd like them, since
I'm always looking in the florist
window with a winsome look
on my face.  So you felt sorry for me and
bought me some today.  hahahahaha
I love them, sympathy or whatever,
I adore my flowers.

Then I open my card
already laughing at
the card you selected for me
even as I open the envelope.
I don't know where you find them
but they're always hilarious.
Only this time it's lacy
and beautiful, as well as poetically sweet
and it's signed "I love you."

Is this a dream? I shake my head trying
to take it all in.
It can't be reality because
you're my best friend aren't you?
Then I look into your eyes and they're
smiling but you're not laughing
at the wordless me holding my
card and flowers while I
search your face awestruck,
until you gather me close and kiss
me senseless as I melt
just like Ghirardelli chocolates.
s Oct 2018
Oh.
I think of you so poetically but whenever I see you I just laugh.
Did you even deserve my poems?
Did you deserve all the romantic thoughts I have of you,
Imaginary roses, imaginary smiles?
Maybe we don't belong together.
Maybe I'm just desperate.
The love was so sweet, it makes me sad to see it crumble away
Fade away into the wind.
Maybe that's the only way I can be free.
If I let go.
Falling in love, the colours seem so bright.
The stars light up the nights.
Smiles taste like candy.
It's sugary thoughts and love heart music, schoolgirl chills and giggling in the corridors.
But maybe all you are is a boy.
And all I am is a girl.
And maybe we are just people
Searching, searching
For something we have yet to find
Within ourselves.
So I will let go
I will let it sail into the wind
All that poetry, all those thoughts
And I will learn to love myself
First.
So suddenly, certainly, the certainty
Itself, as it was does seem to vanish.
It had been... Had it not?.. Been.
Real as the hidden clauses, was it not love?
Contingent upon unfaultered perfection, love offered
Promises given, whispered and offered in acts and,
In written words poetically dedicated and surrendered.
Known to be as it holds a cadence it, this, unspoken unobtainable and loafty demand that nothing less,
No hint of weakness or need of any but your own be shown.
At pain of loss, at loss of stature and withdrawal of unproven unconditional love whispered across those infuriatingly
And unforgettable lips I know I do and will and forever still promise to, try after, cry over forever to fail for, you, yours, our love. As I know no want no need, no other will be mine, as it seems neither are or will yours be mine... Love.
As human and imperfect and made of lesser things than the stone you desire, I am destined to fail, every attempt I make at being perfect.
ogdiddynash Jul 13
a thousand poems stronger
by the Son of Ogden
(1 ~ 30)

preface.  
majestic adjectives of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes, scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable, incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed - what is sweet - what is impossible.
my days ending is nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of what I’ve got left,
stale panko crumbs,
here come they in 1000 radium-tipped projectiles of
serious humorous self-destruction,
gifted to you few itinerant followers
brave enough to follow me into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
in no particular disorders
a thousand times
<>

one.
he named me after him
he named me after him,
his best ditty ever,
my inheritance,
a laughing brook of
guppy royalties,
that keep our Labrador
reasonably well fed poetically

and of course his name

his name,
which was not so much inherited,
as deposited, X-mark-the-son

they ask,
no, they declarative announce
as fact,
answered even as asking,
tho their voices rising
in a pretend-questioning format,
are you as good as he was?

Oh no, of course not,
I'm merely the son,
He was the father,
between us now
the celestial
Holy Ghost of Rhyme

two.
platitudes and attitudes
she said
“to find good love,
be receptive never deceptive,
always ever, never never.”

I listened, warming, warning her,
“rhyming is the sophistry of those who cannot decide.”

I drove away, in just my pajama top,
(my bottoms at the crime scene)
lest she ****** macabre me like in an Agatha.

I foresaw a drama developing of her
hanging me by my pj bottoms,
knotted two by too
tightly trite leggings
drawn to prevent the rhyming of my breathing,
each pant to peeve me into panting,
one named
moon and the other,
June

so I decided what the heck,
I’ll go first
for literature’s sake

three.
a thousand poems stronger,
an exercise in 15 minute segments,
18 hours daily, easy peasy,
I’ll have my thousand in a mere
13.8888888888888 days, then
what the heck am I do with those now
superfluous 6 hour wastrels?

drink

four.
chernobyl on peoples mind.
mine too, pretty clear, humanity intent
on destroying itself.

good to know!
I can put off my
my perpetual idea of getting even by suicide,
waiting now until my very last moment,
cause I won’t be cheated
out of course
god and his central committee
of what they have being planning for me,
all my life

five.
which movie do you want to see Saturday night,

Yesterday or Spiderman?

“Spiderman I’ve seen Yesterday”
what!
you saw Spiderman yesterday
without me?
we’re done!
don’t ever text me again!

(parentheses and commas, can keep you together,
get it?
that’s why they call it PUNK’d-you-nat-shun)

six.
the jew in you,
something
you long suspected,
or long lamented, the absence of this moniker
applicable directly to your sorry ***,
after all who doesn’t want to be among the
ch-ch-chosen peeps?

this blessing in disguise, it’s very special
to be hated by almost,
everyone.

Hatred,
the great equalizer,
highlighting your choicest features
race, gender, etc. etc.,
but like the song said,
though somebody may hate unlucky you,
everybody, no exceptions,
hates the jews.

everyone knows the jews own the banks.
everybody hates the banks
who leave you on hold,
leaving you, wondering why, they won’t give you back
at the ATM, the good money you lent them,
so you must be minimum 10%
shrewish (shhhh-jewish) or
whaat! why?

yup, your deposit is a liability on their books,
so you too are a moneylender, congrats!
welcome to the club,
the club of being a liability

we jews travel the world,
chased out from almost everywhere,
so we invented the around-world-cruise,
and the world gave us steerage class
to remember our place.

ask americans why they prefer kosher hebrew national frankfurters
for July fourth cookouts and they will reply they are extra clean,
possibly even a little blessed by the rabbin-ate,
and everybody knows
the jews got all the luck,
so don’t forget the mustard and the
pickled relish,
which rhymes with you know what, 
kosher hot dogs,
love that jewish treat, a digestive hellish,
and proof positive that hot dogs
make america great again

seven.
the hours
she has spent trying to ascertain which,
is she wearing,

is it black or navy,

leave her amazingly distraught;
she stands in bare bulb jaundiced glory undecided,
locked in her not-a-walk-in closet,
till I’m called to catch and release her,
asking me what do I think.

brought her my old school tie,
Joseph-striped of many colors,
only for comparison purposes.

as far as I know,
she’s still hanging there,
right where I left her,
throughly undecided

eight.
since seven ate eight,
one cannot expect much
too much return on my in-vestments,
given the hole in my accounting

five, six, nine
is most unsatisfying,
like brunch.

brunch? neither breakfast or supper,
assuredly not lunch,
pointedly ridiculous
if you don’t know what time it is
by the meal’s nomenclature

nothing sensible rhymes with
supper
except for crupper and scupper,
both of which like brunch,
leave me confused and
wholey unsatisfied
as I’m clueless
as to what each one means,
just like
brunch

by the way,
do have the time?

nine.
Dylan sings to his blue eyed son.
I have two sons, now grown men,
cannot recall the color
of their eyes anymore.

one put seventeen stitches in my skull,
has no interest in my seeing his handiwork,
ok by me, cause he might make some addition &
improvements to my face.

the other, deems himself a failure,
or perhaps just me, guilty,
so he hates me for it,
ergo, ip so facto, he too,
cannot look me straight in my eye.

I have selected my own memory of their
insightful eyeful rightful colorations,
from their visionary visitations in my
unhappy dreams.

one yellow, the other red,
which just now realization dawns,
just happens to be the colors of mine own,
as the song says,
they grew up to be just like me

ten.
loved many women in my daytime life,
still, not enough, to satisfy my needs.
that is why god created the Cohen’s holy dark,
so we can be alone when we
fill out the list I deny keeping,
and only they can see me,
& vice versa, so apropos,
nobody else.

Romance is great,
when it is wordless and silent,
no interrupt-us when writing many
imaginary imagery love poem
with ambidextrous hands!

eleven.
I know you think round about poem number 100,
I’ll curse myself for this sisyphusian self-assigned task.
so far not, as the ideas for poem notions come so fast
I must write them down less they escape my entrapment.
just recall cannot
what this one was to be about...mmm...
entrapment,
maybe?

twelve.
dug a well in the front yard, to be natural and free
fearful of governmental pipes and taxation that grows
under their watchful eye
of all things they controls, that grows and grows,
more, poisonous and Flinty.

next to the well pump,
built a still to harvest
my own liquor, raw and strong,
just like me,
intending to be
a tax-free man, drunk as a skunk,
and dependent on no one.

but I am a puzzled person.

Their adjacencies,
the still and the well,
made a deal in hell,
means they engaged in shameful *******,
and all I can brew is
dis’d-stilled water.

thirteen.
there are so many types of pockets,
especially for jeans.
my favorite is the “ticket pocket,” that little pocket stitched
inside a bigger front pocket,
maybe also called a “watch” pocket,
supposedly
a cowboy designation for safeguarding
their chained pocket watch receptacle.

who ya kidding.

anyway, a second naming more to my liking:

seems cowboys put their train ticket where they could easily
retrieve them as the conductor conducted himself properly,
asking each passenger after every stop to show his ticket.

so it came to be,
Levi gave us pockets of variety,
durable, baggy ones to carry our jewels comfortably,
one for tightly ticket embracing,
and further inspired that
sewn on the hat of every railroad conductor,
a russian motto,
Trust but Verify.

I myself use the ticket pocket for
my keys,
which in any other jeans pocket, movement
causes cruel and unusual pain, but not if that huge bunch of jangling
instruments of torture are tightly tucked in their own prison interior,
incapable of doing hot yoga or
any other stupid exercise requiring
jingling jangling movement

Just don’t you dare ask me what the purpose of each key be,
it is just a tortured secret for men in the private parts of their soul,
to confess that keys carried for three houses ago,
are a metallic proofs that men are indeed as dumb
as women think they are;

show me a rusted lock somewhere,
I got an hour to try ‘em all!

fourteen.
******.
the weather idiot predicted rain and thunderstorms.
planned extensively a day of inside activities, that are time sensitive.
Yes, of course, the sun is shining causing the ladies to question,
my witticisms, my type “A” personnalité, and worse, mocking my
key bulge (see above) as signal sign of my
increasing decreasing procreative masculinity,
due to lead and metallic poisoning.

**** those blonde gorgeous weather persons,
never forget, look out the window!
or
trust but verify

fifteen.
my father was a pretty perfect guy,
beloved by most and especially children.
He was a ‘gallant’ of european extraction,
who tipped his homburg and greeted everyone by name,
forgetting none and who was related to whom,
or their distant cousins in Kansas City,
with whom he stayed when he was a
traveling salesman,
in 1933.

My only complaint, was and remains,
he never went with me
to Yankee Stadium,
saw the emerald green diamond miracle
in the Bronx,
as he,
small businessman, worked six days a week,
and had no time for juvenile nonsense.

Otherwise, he was perfect.

sixteen.
when the kids were young,
invested in fancy luggage
cause we needed vacations
to get away from them.

These luggages,
had them roll to the number combination numbers locks
which was where technology
was back in the nineteen eighties,
when I was a young husband and father,
using the year of their birth
as a four digit code

of course, I programmed them both incorrectly,
and they, who can’t remember anything good
I’ve ever done for them,
remind every time they come to see me,
which is pretty much never.

seventeen.
asked what I desire for breakfast,
replied scones and crumpets from the
good ole U. of K. with a cups of celebratory
invisible tea (tee-hee)

she did not even bother to snort in an elegant
derisory manner,
just walked away,
just turned on her high heeled sneakers,
(a very worthy sight),
saying grilled cheese sandwiches,
it is then,
alright

No need to ask me which cheese,
she experientially knowledgeable in my acculturation,
one will be ameddican, the other swiss, unless
smoked mozzarella is in the larder,
(who has a larder anymore?),
as I am in matters of cheese,
a transgender, formerly bisexual,
but still a questionable
questioning globalist

ateteen.
some men do yoga.
all men do ***.
women prefer,

ah,
never mind,
you know how this ends.

humbug.

nineteen.
man cave(s) versus she-sheds.

A man I know, finished his basement,
a skilled builder, he built it himself and
installed the masculine perquisites items,
recliner and pool table, etc.

When asked how he was enjoying his privy isle
he replied, it’s ok,
but haven’t been down there much lately,
seeing as the pool table is used primarily
for folding laundry, and the recliner
reserved for her unmentionables.

he has
shed his man-cave secondarily
to she,
Cardi-b-Cleopatra,
that rules, the empire,
now it’s
her she-shed,
he cried openly to me,
another man cave-less bro

twentea.
coffee and me and more coffee,
a twining combination made genetically.

no tea for two,
even if it were a lovely twin-ing with milk,
no, my cup of joe, a holy relic,
for holy cherishing.

then they told me about tea thimbles,
their purpose nigh, I know not,
but mightily infuriated,
that they, the tea people
had armament and we bean counters had none.

took a stirring spoon to the tool shed,
cut the spoon in half, then shaved to a pointy edge.
no longer can I stir my hot beverage to
comfort the downtrodden,
poets with zero inspiration,

but who cares,
I am now armed to the
teeth,
or more precisely,
in my gum’s teeth
for that is where  
my pointy thing
decided to make its point,
and poetically,
injure me
egotistically.

twentee one.
if my true name you uncovered,
and called me out by same,
without spasm-ing,
first middle and the lost at-last,
you, like me would wonder
what the heck my parentals
were imbibing
at such a joyous occasion,
at my cursed
naming ceremony

but thanks to them,
I’ll be buried with a full head
of fair thicker hair;
that’s why they say,
“**** good thing
you don’t get
to pick your parents
names!”


twentee two.
every painting in the house is
modestly crooked due to the twinning effects of
vibrations and moonfull spoonfuls of gravity,
causing the tensile strength of the wires to
pensile slowly surrender to point downwards.
It occurs, perhaps
it’s me that’s crooked, but that’s just plainly
croissant crazy, like writing a thousand poems
in one 14 days long sitting. nah, not me...

twentee three.
I am the dishwasher man.
a responsible handyman needs good tools,
given pots and pans to scrub with burnt black stains,
not of mine making, even more infuriating,
of twenty ++ years of Duration
(definitely deserving of a capital D)

went to the supermarket seeking vision,
guidance and a variety of choices,
for a product specific,
not Made in China,
lest we purposely allow ourselves to be poisoned,
so purchased a Scotch-Brite *** scrubbing brush
of hecho mexicano origin

Now I stare at the Amazon screen,
undecided how many replacement brush heads I should acquire,
the cheapest unit price is for a box of 1000,
which no smart store of repute would ever carry,
(cause you would never come back)
@nd which if I actually use up, 1000, it means
I’ll be scrubbing pots from on high.

but my awe for genius wisdom is further esteemed,
as they say of it,
it makes you buy mostly what you don’t need,
or
“each according to his own stupidity.”

twentyfur.
we re-plant hydrangeas annually
which our ravenous tick carrying, **** deer,
munch contentedly,
under our window,
when we are sleeping.

In the last ten years,
today, I saw my first solitary flowering accidental.
as I’m in poem mode, it occurs to me that
the first line is incorrect;
for the sake of brevity,
it should read we retentives,

we re-plant hydrangeas
anally


twentyfiver.
ah pasta!
the quality of good writing is always strained,
salted and drained, the experience of all
your five senses, together in concert, straining,
each rivulet of spaghetti strands stands
indivisible, under god, calorically sinning individually,
defying forking unification,
each recalling the where, the what, or the when,
but not

ah, the how.
matters this know-now,
how,
the how came calling,
the resurrection of inspiration,
the gene sequence of past steppes,
always the first to go

the how of life
grows spoiled, fuzzy first,
because a human assembled
the how,
but allowed time to deconstruct itself-himself,
so
the tomato sauce bolognese inspirational stains
exist to remind us
how
to remain perfect forever

poetica est enim propter cibum

poetry is what you eat

twentysick.
The P Propensity
this benighted dishwasher,
is familiar with the P Propensity Theorem,
as he invented it

the need to solve for the need to P,
while undertaking the great dishwashing,
is mathematically soluble:

N, the number of ***** dishes
                    D%, the variable percentage of how *****,
           (necessitating pre-scrubbing, or not,)
                                M, the meal, breakfast lunch or supper,
(a modifier of N)
Ba2, bladder age squared)

formula:
if N(D%) {M_}
                              [where M1 is breakfast, M2 is lunch etc.]
/Ba2

is >1,

then it is too late,
better get
an adult diaper

twenteesventh.
you write of dismembered leaves,
pains too sweet,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
quiet rain, droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
tastes that burn eyelids colored
blood stained mustard yellow,
the gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,

really?

dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other
and other Olsonian beauties,
non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why

PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?

twenteaateth.
people love my poems
especially the ones they never readeth.
fulfilling, like the goop of the witch of Gweneth,
costly to the point of losing their inside sanity,
but they sell like hot cakes,
so complaining is just me poetic feigning,
my deep appreciation for you shelling out 9.99
for poems no publisher would ever

twentytentygoldniners.
“alliteration”
a tool for useful fools
who tongue words to poems.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

words to a dizzy dancing,
hopelessly hoping, harlequin hovering lover,
tonguing lyrics
like the way I tongue women;
which upon further reflection
alliteration is not a bad idea

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
a single alliterative
love poem
with multiple
endings & possibilities

the ***** thirty.
here I pause,
cause I read Mao.


for Jennifer Beetz  -
“Such a list-  I'm exhausted just reading it.
You must have lots of pockets.”


hell yes, I do!

no man-bag for me baby.
the older I get, the more
stuff becomes the usual,
human carrying
sad necessities.

got me one of them vests,
that the photographers employ
when going on safari.

so many bulging pockets,
the TSA people pat me
up and down, more than once,
and once more when I’m boarding
just to be sure no one pocket goes
untouched and check if I’m excited

don’t expect a full list of what
I’m carrying, suffice to say
it could be embarrassing
to my no doggedy dignity (dig-no-ity).

you may someday come to notice
that life’s baggage is cumulative,
you think, get free of the crap,
but the crap says, nah, sticking to ya.

and one mo’ thing...

all them **** poems
need pocket courage and a
Macbethian sticking place
<>
the end for now
Late night sneaking over your parents' wooden floor
Getting to know the you that I missed through your playlists
Draining your brain to feed my hunder for knowledge
And winning your high score in Guitar Hero

Sitting through boring soccer matches
Holding your hand
Getting poetically overwhelmed in the esctase of the moment
Looking up with big eyes and folding myself tightly around you

Being the imaginary passenger in each of your 007 cars…
This is a story I will never be able to tell
The right idea, but the wrong person
This is the poem I could never even finish writing
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