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Words
"pointedly" poems
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy ~~~ the divers’ recovery, diverse, shipwrecked salvage from different locations, auctioned to the highest bidder, tho the excised excerpts are exceptional, none come to do the bidding, for the provenance of words belongs to all, and to none ~~ “so oft we trifle words, expel them from the country of our body, without passport and earnestness, as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler, day tourists, to be treated as leavings, refuse for daily discardation, barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance, but leaving not, a mark of distinction” “the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few, like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am, evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings, how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty to love the crafted content of our human essence to better comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule, becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit” “murmur me, with soft downy charms, these words discovered recoursed and intended well to pointedly offset and contradict their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering, tear tongue me with calming, lapping word  wages, hymns harmonious and fine homilies, a call, a request, a bequest to sedate my shrill life “some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally, aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes, making me speak in tongues I do not recognize, but fluently possess, no wonder there, the memory place fairly empty, room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery                                                          ­ of the vaguest of dearly departed skin is not the only mot shed,                                                 sloughing of woeful words” “speak them slow and distinct, for they arrive slow to you, a trickling of refugees for your sheltering, harbor them as full companions, protected by natural law, provision them well, prepared and ever ready for a quick departure, moor these words at the embarcadero, for the next restless leg of endlessness, which they themselves will inform you will last longer than eternity, long after there are no humans to speak them”
0
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
“diving into the depths of my words”
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy ~~~ the divers’ recovery, diverse, shipwrecked salvage from different locations, auctioned to the highest bidder, tho the excised excerpts are exceptional, none come to do the bidding, for the provenance of words belongs to all, and to none ~~ “so oft we trifle words, expel them from the country of our body, without passport and earnestness, as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler, day tourists, to be treated as leavings, refuse for daily discardation, barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance, but leaving not, a mark of distinction” “the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few, like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am, evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings, how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty to love the crafted content of our human essence to better comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule, becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit” “murmur me, with soft downy charms, these words discovered recoursed and intended well to pointedly offset and contradict their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering, tear tongue me with calming, lapping word  wages, hymns harmonious and fine homilies, a call, a request, a bequest to sedate my shrill life “some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally, aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes, making me speak in tongues I do not recognize, but fluently possess, no wonder there, the memory place fairly empty, room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery                                                          ­ of the vaguest of dearly departed skin is not the only mot shed,                                                 sloughing of woeful words” “speak them slow and distinct, for they arrive slow to you, a trickling of refugees for your sheltering, harbor them as full companions, protected by natural law, provision them well, prepared and ever ready for a quick departure, moor these words at the embarcadero, for the next restless leg of endlessness, which they themselves will inform you will last longer than eternity, long after there are no humans to speak them”
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58
HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW "Hello!" said the crow. "Hello?" I answered thinking: ("Talking to crows is a bit of a no-no?") "Do I know you?" I asked politely. "I'm Ted Hughes' CROW ....you know!" "I didn't know that! I admitted. "You look like every other crow there is to know." I impolitely pointed out. "Every crow is CROW!" it pointedly pointed out. "Say...something Ted Hughes-ish then!" I challenged it. "In the beginning was..." "...scream!" crow screamed and then a load of begatting to give the Bible a run for its money. Nothing and Never both begatted to make crow. It made me remember the only time I had been in Mr. Hughes' presence. One shift leading into another shift and yet another shift so that it was falling with tiredness I was. Was it on Thursday I was to meet the girlfriend on Friday Street or Friday I...just didn't know no more. Ted grasped the podium with crooked  hands as if he were Tennyson's EAGLE or a Heathcliff grown old. He glared down on me. I trying not to fall asleep. He like a cliff come alive as if rocks could talk. His words....CROW'S words. Ted now merging into the crow gazing upon me as if I were carrion. Crow now losing his human voice. His raucous caw echoing inside my head as he takes to the skies. I should have listened to what my mum said. "Don't talk to strange corvids!"
0
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 3:35 AM UTC
donall-dempsey
HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW
HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW "Hello!" said the crow. "Hello?" I answered thinking: ("Talking to crows is a bit of a no-no?") "Do I know you?" I asked politely. "I'm Ted Hughes' CROW ....you know!" "I didn't know that! I admitted. "You look like every other crow there is to know." I impolitely pointed out. "Every crow is CROW!" it pointedly pointed out. "Say...something Ted Hughes-ish then!" I challenged it. "In the beginning was..." "...scream!" crow screamed and then a load of begatting to give the Bible a run for its money. Nothing and Never both begatted to make crow. It made me remember the only time I had been in Mr. Hughes' presence. One shift leading into another shift and yet another shift so that it was falling with tiredness I was. Was it on Thursday I was to meet the girlfriend on Friday Street or Friday I...just didn't know no more. Ted grasped the podium with crooked  hands as if he were Tennyson's EAGLE or a Heathcliff grown old. He glared down on me. I trying not to fall asleep. He like a cliff come alive as if rocks could talk. His words....CROW'S words. Ted now merging into the crow gazing upon me as if I were carrion. Crow now losing his human voice. His raucous caw echoing inside my head as he takes to the skies. I should have listened to what my mum said. "Don't talk to strange corvids!"
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51
“that’s a Simpson’s sky,” you say, pointing to the fluff strewn across the highway sky, I smile and nod, concentrating on the music we’re driving to Cornwall in the curb lane, pointedly avoiding what’s uppermost, halfway there from Toronto “driving makes me think,” I think to myself and turn up the volume on Buddha Bar III and talking fades into the rearview mirror black Firebird, racing stripes, eager to pass me I hold steady – he should know how to use the passing lane! he bobs and weaves and nips at my fender it washes in waves over you so palpably I feel it crash on my shoulder - your father passed away yesterday rolling the window down slightly, you light a cigarette I roll down mine and light up, too our ritual – one feeding off the other we’re driving to Cornwall, to family, to mother, alone now among children “what will you say to her?” I ask you silently we’re driving to Cornwall towards loss, towards hope with a black Firebird close behind I move the wheel slightly to avoid a can of Pepsi rolling in the lane the rear-view mirror catches the firebird deliberately swerve to hit it and exlode its contents in a little puff of vapour - highway music bonaventure saptel
0
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
bonaventure-saptel
Driving to Cornwall
“that’s a Simpson’s sky,” you say, pointing to the fluff strewn across the highway sky, I smile and nod, concentrating on the music we’re driving to Cornwall in the curb lane, pointedly avoiding what’s uppermost, halfway there from Toronto “driving makes me think,” I think to myself and turn up the volume on Buddha Bar III and talking fades into the rearview mirror black Firebird, racing stripes, eager to pass me I hold steady – he should know how to use the passing lane! he bobs and weaves and nips at my fender it washes in waves over you so palpably I feel it crash on my shoulder - your father passed away yesterday rolling the window down slightly, you light a cigarette I roll down mine and light up, too our ritual – one feeding off the other we’re driving to Cornwall, to family, to mother, alone now among children “what will you say to her?” I ask you silently we’re driving to Cornwall towards loss, towards hope with a black Firebird close behind I move the wheel slightly to avoid a can of Pepsi rolling in the lane the rear-view mirror catches the firebird deliberately swerve to hit it and exlode its contents in a little puff of vapour - highway music bonaventure saptel
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31
Hello old friend, With your tall sweeping evergreens Towering almost endlessly Into a blue clear sky The endless swell of traffic Cars peeling down the street The smell of roasted coffee beans From some hole-in-the-wall cafe The obvious transplant donning an umbrella in the Autumnal warm rain The light sprinkling of water enough To nurture the verdant green Hello old friend, Mt. Rainier, she greets me, Looming ever majestically Over expanses of tree and road Her white peaks cresting over Fields of blossoming flowers The tulip fields scattered across the sloping Skagit Valley, her vineyards spanning for miles and miles Hello old friend, Seattle's grungy nature Masked by her streets of trendy Cafes and farm-to-table restaurants Her mom and pop cafes Her canvas gray dress marred by graffiti And street tags The busker on the street corner panhandling for change The homeless sheltering under a cardboard blanket outside of a Starbuck's The transplant with the umbrella stopping down to drop change in their jar The crumpled dollar The locals who pointedly ignore him on their way to work, to school, back home, to somewhere...anywhere... The constant dazed bustle The stench and pungent odor of **** Curling around every seedy corner and Affluent street crossing Hello old friend, It's been a while Let me nestle into your newness A new coast greets me across the horizon Replaced by homespun everything Pastoral fields where the bovine and equine reside Hello old friend, I suppose you're home now I suppose you're home...
0
Oct 30, 2021
Oct 30, 2021 at 10:46 PM UTC
girl-diffused
My Old Friend
Hello old friend, With your tall sweeping evergreens Towering almost endlessly Into a blue clear sky The endless swell of traffic Cars peeling down the street The smell of roasted coffee beans From some hole-in-the-wall cafe The obvious transplant donning an umbrella in the Autumnal warm rain The light sprinkling of water enough To nurture the verdant green Hello old friend, Mt. Rainier, she greets me, Looming ever majestically Over expanses of tree and road Her white peaks cresting over Fields of blossoming flowers The tulip fields scattered across the sloping Skagit Valley, her vineyards spanning for miles and miles Hello old friend, Seattle's grungy nature Masked by her streets of trendy Cafes and farm-to-table restaurants Her mom and pop cafes Her canvas gray dress marred by graffiti And street tags The busker on the street corner panhandling for change The homeless sheltering under a cardboard blanket outside of a Starbuck's The transplant with the umbrella stopping down to drop change in their jar The crumpled dollar The locals who pointedly ignore him on their way to work, to school, back home, to somewhere...anywhere... The constant dazed bustle The stench and pungent odor of **** Curling around every seedy corner and Affluent street crossing Hello old friend, It's been a while Let me nestle into your newness A new coast greets me across the horizon Replaced by homespun everything Pastoral fields where the bovine and equine reside Hello old friend, I suppose you're home now I suppose you're home...
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44
thinking about how cops are beating protestors senseless not even 20 minutes from where i live. thinking about how they block off the streets and stand unmasked, batons in hand, other hand resting pointedly on their gun. thinking about how it could be me next— another unspecified black face and black body and black existence snuffed out— a hashtag, a mural. (and those are the lucky ones.) thinking about how a memorial is the best case scenario for a black life. thinking about the bodies in the street. thinking about blood splattering the ground, mixing with paint and obscuring the “black lives matter” lettering on the road. thinking about the chalk art and loud music in a neighborhood soon-to-be-gentrified. thinking about how we’ve grown used to the stench of rotting flesh outside our doors. thinking about the taste of blood in my mouth from my nearly-severed tongue i didn’t realize i was biting. thinking about the tension in my neck and jaw. thinking about the way my eyes never seem to close. thinking about the eyes that will never again open. thinking thinking thinking.
0
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 4:27 PM UTC
moniqueezeh
11:23 pm
thinking about how cops are beating protestors senseless not even 20 minutes from where i live. thinking about how they block off the streets and stand unmasked, batons in hand, other hand resting pointedly on their gun. thinking about how it could be me next— another unspecified black face and black body and black existence snuffed out— a hashtag, a mural. (and those are the lucky ones.) thinking about how a memorial is the best case scenario for a black life. thinking about the bodies in the street. thinking about blood splattering the ground, mixing with paint and obscuring the “black lives matter” lettering on the road. thinking about the chalk art and loud music in a neighborhood soon-to-be-gentrified. thinking about how we’ve grown used to the stench of rotting flesh outside our doors. thinking about the taste of blood in my mouth from my nearly-severed tongue i didn’t realize i was biting. thinking about the tension in my neck and jaw. thinking about the way my eyes never seem to close. thinking about the eyes that will never again open. thinking thinking thinking.
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14
There once was a tiny bundle of cells that grew in my womb without the assistance of fertility medications or ovulation testing a surprise spontaneous occurrence of the first sparks of Life a product of the kind of ******* that happens on a honeymoon between newlyweds full of bliss, lust, and hope My womb once thought uninhabitable to such an occurrence boarded a plane home five days later cradling this new truth- The Honeymoon Baby Weeks would pass before my womb would begin to betray its secret 3 days late- nothing 5 days late- nothing 8 days late- the little blue plus sign and a whisper from deep in me- “You aren’t broken?” For several hours my womb and I jealously guarded this knowledge My new husband not known for his enthusiasm wouldn’t share in my joy So I sat alone feeding my hungry heart on now debunked beliefs “You AREN’T broken!” Having gorged myself to the point of bursting on a meal years in the making I looked with wet eyes to my then partner of more than half a decade “we made a honeymoon baby; I’m not broken.” No, he wouldn’t share my joy. His eyes turned to windows in the days that would follow They screamed their disgust into the wide open parts of me as pointedly and with as much passion as his mouth could ever muster It was then that I began to silently pray the baby away My silence only increased his vitriol until with a blast he climaxed in his rage and I felt the cold of the recently adorned wedding band against my neck as the hands which had held mine so softly so often pinned me to the door Finally my silent prayers gave way to a singular scream “I ******* hate you and I hate your child inside of me!” My womb cried to hear the prayer spoken She cried so long and so loud that she began to bleed She heaved and sobbed her rage into rivers of blood that wouldn’t stop for weeks and earthquakes of cramps that would rock me to my core The unstoppable current of tears and blood carried the translucent sac that housed the had been Honeymoon Baby into the ***** porcelain bowl The baby I prayed away that would never speak whispered up “You are broken.” The honeymoon was over. I hadn’t hated him before that. Six years later to the day we signed divorce papers.
0
Nov 12, 2019
Nov 12, 2019 at 6:19 PM UTC
MandiWolfe
The Baby I Prayed Away
There once was a tiny bundle of cells that grew in my womb without the assistance of fertility medications or ovulation testing a surprise spontaneous occurrence of the first sparks of Life a product of the kind of ******* that happens on a honeymoon between newlyweds full of bliss, lust, and hope My womb once thought uninhabitable to such an occurrence boarded a plane home five days later cradling this new truth- The Honeymoon Baby Weeks would pass before my womb would begin to betray its secret 3 days late- nothing 5 days late- nothing 8 days late- the little blue plus sign and a whisper from deep in me- “You aren’t broken?” For several hours my womb and I jealously guarded this knowledge My new husband not known for his enthusiasm wouldn’t share in my joy So I sat alone feeding my hungry heart on now debunked beliefs “You AREN’T broken!” Having gorged myself to the point of bursting on a meal years in the making I looked with wet eyes to my then partner of more than half a decade “we made a honeymoon baby; I’m not broken.” No, he wouldn’t share my joy. His eyes turned to windows in the days that would follow They screamed their disgust into the wide open parts of me as pointedly and with as much passion as his mouth could ever muster It was then that I began to silently pray the baby away My silence only increased his vitriol until with a blast he climaxed in his rage and I felt the cold of the recently adorned wedding band against my neck as the hands which had held mine so softly so often pinned me to the door Finally my silent prayers gave way to a singular scream “I ******* hate you and I hate your child inside of me!” My womb cried to hear the prayer spoken She cried so long and so loud that she began to bleed She heaved and sobbed her rage into rivers of blood that wouldn’t stop for weeks and earthquakes of cramps that would rock me to my core The unstoppable current of tears and blood carried the translucent sac that housed the had been Honeymoon Baby into the ***** porcelain bowl The baby I prayed away that would never speak whispered up “You are broken.” The honeymoon was over. I hadn’t hated him before that. Six years later to the day we signed divorce papers.
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42
"what's your favorite book?" "oh, you mean aside from the Bible and the collected works of Plato?" "yeah" "the art of racing in the rain" "like jumping and skipping through a field in a rainstorm?" "no. like racecar driving while it's raining." "is that a metaphor?" "the whole book is a metaphor." "books like that are ****** "books that aren't like that are ****** if there's no hidden meaning then you have a ****** author." "point taken. but wouldn't a good author let you take the meaning yourself and not pointedly write it in?" "a good author does both; but the pointedly written in part is written so that you can't even tell it was on purpose." "is the art of racing in the rain by a good author?" "absolutely." "so what's the meaning?" "read the ******* book." "no, just tell me the meaning." "you create your life, man. everything you did led up to this moment. you made the problems so you have to react to them faster than at speed. it's- it's like in a race, if it's raining, then you have to spin your car out before it spins itself out, because that's the only way you can solve the problem, you see? and if you can't stop looking at the wall then you're gonna run into the wall. like if you accept a terminal diagnosis, you're gonna die. you have to look away. you create your future by accepting it and refusing to change it. you can also create your future by writing your own story in the way you want it." "I don't get how a message like that is explained through racecar driving." "read the book and you will." "okay."
0
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
m-48
my favorite book
"what's your favorite book?" "oh, you mean aside from the Bible and the collected works of Plato?" "yeah" "the art of racing in the rain" "like jumping and skipping through a field in a rainstorm?" "no. like racecar driving while it's raining." "is that a metaphor?" "the whole book is a metaphor." "books like that are ****** "books that aren't like that are ****** if there's no hidden meaning then you have a ****** author." "point taken. but wouldn't a good author let you take the meaning yourself and not pointedly write it in?" "a good author does both; but the pointedly written in part is written so that you can't even tell it was on purpose." "is the art of racing in the rain by a good author?" "absolutely." "so what's the meaning?" "read the ******* book." "no, just tell me the meaning." "you create your life, man. everything you did led up to this moment. you made the problems so you have to react to them faster than at speed. it's- it's like in a race, if it's raining, then you have to spin your car out before it spins itself out, because that's the only way you can solve the problem, you see? and if you can't stop looking at the wall then you're gonna run into the wall. like if you accept a terminal diagnosis, you're gonna die. you have to look away. you create your future by accepting it and refusing to change it. you can also create your future by writing your own story in the way you want it." "I don't get how a message like that is explained through racecar driving." "read the book and you will." "okay."
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21
"Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!" (from the libretto of Handel's Semele - opera.stanford.edu/iu/libretti/semele.htm) think of your ears as an ever alert, high pitched, sensory tuning fork, an aural radar, searching for that acute, oblique, perforating and poking phrase, that lost airplane of solace buried and too well hid in the vastness of empty, characterless searchable seas that rarely yield up their comforting finery when discovered, tripped upon, instant recognition pleads "write me down, write me up, delve me, determine me, make me more!" t'is a thrumming vibrato interfering with mind, that phrase, that phrase, that phrase "Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!" content coursing through the eyes, piercing veils of hum drum dumbing down, a life spying drone eliciting excitedly a high value target, an unexpected mission, camouflaged amidst the chit chat droning of the choking ordinary and commonplace *murmur me, with soft downy charms, these words discovered recoursed and intended well to pointedly offset and contradict their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering, tear tongue me with calming, lapping word wages, hymns harmonious and fine homilies, a call, a request, a bequest to sedate my shrill life, You murmur me again to peace* even the words be prepared to sacrifice, surrender, but promise me that the Justice of -just- thy tone, thy inflections, will gentle the infecting turbulence of being a plain, tried and trialed human let me not catalogue the onerous, the burdening barbell weights, we carry for no purpose Give us our daily bread of a singular phrase~prayer~poem, our verbal bond, modest sequest, honey oatmeal, cut up strawberried jewel, give it, me this day, my daily soothing "Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!"
0
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
"Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!
"Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!" (from the libretto of Handel's Semele - opera.stanford.edu/iu/libretti/semele.htm) think of your ears as an ever alert, high pitched, sensory tuning fork, an aural radar, searching for that acute, oblique, perforating and poking phrase, that lost airplane of solace buried and too well hid in the vastness of empty, characterless searchable seas that rarely yield up their comforting finery when discovered, tripped upon, instant recognition pleads "write me down, write me up, delve me, determine me, make me more!" t'is a thrumming vibrato interfering with mind, that phrase, that phrase, that phrase "Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!" content coursing through the eyes, piercing veils of hum drum dumbing down, a life spying drone eliciting excitedly a high value target, an unexpected mission, camouflaged amidst the chit chat droning of the choking ordinary and commonplace *murmur me, with soft downy charms, these words discovered recoursed and intended well to pointedly offset and contradict their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering, tear tongue me with calming, lapping word wages, hymns harmonious and fine homilies, a call, a request, a bequest to sedate my shrill life, You murmur me again to peace* even the words be prepared to sacrifice, surrender, but promise me that the Justice of -just- thy tone, thy inflections, will gentle the infecting turbulence of being a plain, tried and trialed human let me not catalogue the onerous, the burdening barbell weights, we carry for no purpose Give us our daily bread of a singular phrase~prayer~poem, our verbal bond, modest sequest, honey oatmeal, cut up strawberried jewel, give it, me this day, my daily soothing "Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!"
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71
and they walked on like clouds float on the blood red sun on rivers run waterfalls you see flow one way and molds don't notice what they decay a quiet drum to quell those flashes canvas white for bold stroked splashes pointedly naming because of growth grown awake again because of what my mind knows bearing what brunt? this is the purpose in the thicket noises form onslaughts planting bones to grow dreams lost and these eyes are sharper now cutting through balloons in air I want to hope for old eyes, as if growth was easy
0
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
jopo
some days
and they walked on like clouds float on the blood red sun on rivers run waterfalls you see flow one way and molds don't notice what they decay a quiet drum to quell those flashes canvas white for bold stroked splashes pointedly naming because of growth grown awake again because of what my mind knows bearing what brunt? this is the purpose in the thicket noises form onslaughts planting bones to grow dreams lost and these eyes are sharper now cutting through balloons in air I want to hope for old eyes, as if growth was easy
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14
Though the date may be late… and Those type things don’t happen anymore…MUCH…dare I say Those type things don’t happen MUCH anymore… (yes I dared) It is nevertheless ingrained… No matter the age or the date However young or old… It is in our DNA… and Our DNA does not forget Will not allow us As other cultures will To easily enjoy The remote loveliness… and Maniacally flowering greenery… and Beauteous quiet of this Southern forest… this Confederate lake…   Without our spirits Sadly counting The cumulative number of Hundreds of years of Fertilization by Black Men’s bones… But like my father and his father before him We show up anyway… Albeit somewhat uneasily… While the native good-ole-boys Stand stock still and stare Actin’ like they never seen one’a us before… and Though we arrived obviously prepared for what we came to do They still stare… as if wondering what we could possibly be doing here… or maybe… how dare we enjoy God’s green earth with our brown selfs… And my beautiful Black Man with ease of motion Audaciously pays the Black Tax (the quoted price over what the sign says the price is) As I bait my line in defiance Albeit somewhat uneasily… and Cast it out into this confederate lake And my beautiful Black Man Also stands… broad shoulders back… and Pointedly does not acknowledge the presence of the natives As they stand stock still and stare But it is there (We will NOT be afraid… and we will NOT go away) Unspoken between us... But Always in the back of the mind… The recesses of the consciousness… Preparation for this day… and the worst that it can bring… Is ingrained…
0
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
carla-marie
This Beauteous Confederate Lake
Though the date may be late… and Those type things don’t happen anymore…MUCH…dare I say Those type things don’t happen MUCH anymore… (yes I dared) It is nevertheless ingrained… No matter the age or the date However young or old… It is in our DNA… and Our DNA does not forget Will not allow us As other cultures will To easily enjoy The remote loveliness… and Maniacally flowering greenery… and Beauteous quiet of this Southern forest… this Confederate lake…   Without our spirits Sadly counting The cumulative number of Hundreds of years of Fertilization by Black Men’s bones… But like my father and his father before him We show up anyway… Albeit somewhat uneasily… While the native good-ole-boys Stand stock still and stare Actin’ like they never seen one’a us before… and Though we arrived obviously prepared for what we came to do They still stare… as if wondering what we could possibly be doing here… or maybe… how dare we enjoy God’s green earth with our brown selfs… And my beautiful Black Man with ease of motion Audaciously pays the Black Tax (the quoted price over what the sign says the price is) As I bait my line in defiance Albeit somewhat uneasily… and Cast it out into this confederate lake And my beautiful Black Man Also stands… broad shoulders back… and Pointedly does not acknowledge the presence of the natives As they stand stock still and stare But it is there (We will NOT be afraid… and we will NOT go away) Unspoken between us... But Always in the back of the mind… The recesses of the consciousness… Preparation for this day… and the worst that it can bring… Is ingrained…
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50
Yes, freaky man on bus Those are my ******* I'm sure You must have seen a pair before? I can tolerate a quick glance, But is there any chance You could take your stare elsewhere For at least some of this journey? I saw you pay in cash At least you're getting your money's worth, at my expense. I'd crotch-watch, pointedly, Except there isn't much to see.
0
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
AmandaIS
Commuter Blues (part 1)
Yes, freaky man on bus Those are my ******* I'm sure You must have seen a pair before? I can tolerate a quick glance, But is there any chance You could take your stare elsewhere For at least some of this journey? I saw you pay in cash At least you're getting your money's worth, at my expense. I'd crotch-watch, pointedly, Except there isn't much to see.
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11
Next to him the eldest daughter: She suggested very little Only asked if he would take her With her look of 'passive beauty-' Her idea of passive beauty Was a squinting of the left-eye, Was a drooping of the right-eye, Was a smile that went up Sideways To the corner of the nostrils. Hiawatha, when she asked him Took no notice of the question Looked as if he hadn't heared it; But, when pointedly appealed to, Smiled in his peculiar manner, Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,' Bit his lip and changed the subject. Nor in this was he mistaken, As the picture failed completely. So in turn the other sisters.
0
1.5k
Lewis Carroll
Hiawathas' photographing ( Part IV)
Next to him the eldest daughter: She suggested very little Only asked if he would take her With her look of 'passive beauty-' Her idea of passive beauty Was a squinting of the left-eye, Was a drooping of the right-eye, Was a smile that went up Sideways To the corner of the nostrils. Hiawatha, when she asked him Took no notice of the question Looked as if he hadn't heared it; But, when pointedly appealed to, Smiled in his peculiar manner, Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,' Bit his lip and changed the subject. Nor in this was he mistaken, As the picture failed completely. So in turn the other sisters.
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19
Six Straight The old cowboys of  TV fame, Were straight shooters, Who carried six shooters, Sometimes two. When I grow up, I want be a  six straight cowboy too, Six straight hours of sleep, Or dem bad poems all dressed in black, they're a gonna shoot me, holy dead. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The youniverse is getting smaller The you-in-verse is getting smaller, My poems, shorter, Hemingwayesque, see! Why use two words, Whenonewilldo. Warmer, too, Somehow tho global heat Ain't reached my woman's Hands or feet. When you touch my GPS, It stands ready, at attention, Always opens up with a prayer, Directions to Home, Like I said, The you-in-verse is getting smaller. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lend Me a Tune Wish I knew how to Compose some love lyrics, But can't carry a tune, It seems that the music Must always comes first. So with conceit and disbelief, Wrote words and shot 'em into space, Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies, Maybe a comet tail, Find a Songster who will strum them Into perfect, into complete. I ain't unhappy that all I got Was the lesser gift of Humming words to myself, Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they Could be ratified, by the music Of a voice reading them to me Or fingers tapping, happening them Upon the ivories upon my chest, The chest that needs exploration. So let's make some music Finish these lyrics jointly, When all finito, pointedly Take our co-sing-song, Dance to it with our bodies Sing words the whole night long, And please baby, Don't tell me to shut up so you can sleep....
0
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
3 Quickies in the Mid of Night
Six Straight The old cowboys of  TV fame, Were straight shooters, Who carried six shooters, Sometimes two. When I grow up, I want be a  six straight cowboy too, Six straight hours of sleep, Or dem bad poems all dressed in black, they're a gonna shoot me, holy dead. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The youniverse is getting smaller The you-in-verse is getting smaller, My poems, shorter, Hemingwayesque, see! Why use two words, Whenonewilldo. Warmer, too, Somehow tho global heat Ain't reached my woman's Hands or feet. When you touch my GPS, It stands ready, at attention, Always opens up with a prayer, Directions to Home, Like I said, The you-in-verse is getting smaller. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lend Me a Tune Wish I knew how to Compose some love lyrics, But can't carry a tune, It seems that the music Must always comes first. So with conceit and disbelief, Wrote words and shot 'em into space, Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies, Maybe a comet tail, Find a Songster who will strum them Into perfect, into complete. I ain't unhappy that all I got Was the lesser gift of Humming words to myself, Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they Could be ratified, by the music Of a voice reading them to me Or fingers tapping, happening them Upon the ivories upon my chest, The chest that needs exploration. So let's make some music Finish these lyrics jointly, When all finito, pointedly Take our co-sing-song, Dance to it with our bodies Sing words the whole night long, And please baby, Don't tell me to shut up so you can sleep....
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57
Lend me a tune *(For Robert C Howard, One of the lucky ones)* "But I'll know my song well before I start singing". Bob Dylan Some of us poets, some of us musicians, and a few, A very blessed few Songwriters and lyricists, Poets in sound and words, Both. Wish I knew how to Compose some love song music notes, But can't carry a tune, Seems to me, Comes first the music, Must music comes first So with conceit and disbelief, Wrote words and shot 'em into space, Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies, Maybe a comet tail, Find a Songster who will strum them Into perfect, into complete I ain't unhappy that all I got Was the lesser gift of Humming words to myself, Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they Could be ratified, by the music Of a voice singing them to me Or fingers tapping, happening them Played upon the ivories upon my chest, Where the lyrics are aborning, The chest that needs Music to be whole, and word-completing Wish I knew how to Compose some love notes But can't carry a tune, Seems to me Music, Must come first So let's make some music **** right, together, Finish these lyrics jointly, When all finito, pointedly Needed your music, my darling, Music to make them soar, Take our co-sing-song, Dance to it with our bodies Sing words the whole night long
0
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Lend me a tune
Lend me a tune *(For Robert C Howard, One of the lucky ones)* "But I'll know my song well before I start singing". Bob Dylan Some of us poets, some of us musicians, and a few, A very blessed few Songwriters and lyricists, Poets in sound and words, Both. Wish I knew how to Compose some love song music notes, But can't carry a tune, Seems to me, Comes first the music, Must music comes first So with conceit and disbelief, Wrote words and shot 'em into space, Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies, Maybe a comet tail, Find a Songster who will strum them Into perfect, into complete I ain't unhappy that all I got Was the lesser gift of Humming words to myself, Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they Could be ratified, by the music Of a voice singing them to me Or fingers tapping, happening them Played upon the ivories upon my chest, Where the lyrics are aborning, The chest that needs Music to be whole, and word-completing Wish I knew how to Compose some love notes But can't carry a tune, Seems to me Music, Must come first So let's make some music **** right, together, Finish these lyrics jointly, When all finito, pointedly Needed your music, my darling, Music to make them soar, Take our co-sing-song, Dance to it with our bodies Sing words the whole night long
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48
HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW "Hello!" said the crow. "Hello?" I answered thinking: ("Talking to crows is a bit of a no-no?") "Do I know you?" I asked politely. "I'm Ted Hughes' CROW ....you know!" "I didn't know that! I admitted. "You look like every other crow there is to know." I impolitely pointed out. "Every crow is CROW!" it pointedly pointed out. "Say...something Ted Hughes-ish then!" I challenged it. "In the beginning was..." "...scream!" crow screamed and then a load of begatting to give the Bible a run for its money. Nothing and Never both begatted to make crow. It made me remember the only time I had been in Mr. Hughes' presence. One shift leading into another shift and yet another shift so that it was falling with tiredness I was. Was it on Thursday I was to meet the girlfriend on Friday Street or Friday I...just didn't know no more. Ted grasped the podium with crooked hands as if he were Tennyson's EAGLE or a Heathcliff grown old. He glared down on me. I trying not to fall asleep. He like a cliff come alive as if rocks could talk. His words....CROW'S words. Ted now merging into the crow gazing upon me as if I were carrion. Crow now losing his human voice. His raucous caw echoing inside my head as he takes to the skies. I should have listened to what my mum said. "Don't talk to strange corvids!"
0
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
donall-dempsey
HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW
HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW "Hello!" said the crow. "Hello?" I answered thinking: ("Talking to crows is a bit of a no-no?") "Do I know you?" I asked politely. "I'm Ted Hughes' CROW ....you know!" "I didn't know that! I admitted. "You look like every other crow there is to know." I impolitely pointed out. "Every crow is CROW!" it pointedly pointed out. "Say...something Ted Hughes-ish then!" I challenged it. "In the beginning was..." "...scream!" crow screamed and then a load of begatting to give the Bible a run for its money. Nothing and Never both begatted to make crow. It made me remember the only time I had been in Mr. Hughes' presence. One shift leading into another shift and yet another shift so that it was falling with tiredness I was. Was it on Thursday I was to meet the girlfriend on Friday Street or Friday I...just didn't know no more. Ted grasped the podium with crooked hands as if he were Tennyson's EAGLE or a Heathcliff grown old. He glared down on me. I trying not to fall asleep. He like a cliff come alive as if rocks could talk. His words....CROW'S words. Ted now merging into the crow gazing upon me as if I were carrion. Crow now losing his human voice. His raucous caw echoing inside my head as he takes to the skies. I should have listened to what my mum said. "Don't talk to strange corvids!"
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51
Hide-a-ways and drive-a-ways And Solitary Spots in between. I say "Robots are good looking When they wash and do your cooking All the time." You say "Poems are the best When you can put them to the test, And they still rhyme." But they don't have to rhyme. At least, I don't think they do. Of hidden drives and allergies A tall hedge is like a violent sneeze, And you break the windshield of a car. You break the windshield of an oncoming car. To the dusty sneakers of the world: Get wet, get ***** get defiled. I say "Problems are fantastic When you wrap them up in plastic, And the answer's there." You say "Plastic wrap is pointless Unless pointedly anointed as a joie de guerre." How morbid, Claire.
0
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 4:19 PM UTC
nat-yonce
Of Hidden Drives and Allergies
Hide-a-ways and drive-a-ways And Solitary Spots in between. I say "Robots are good looking When they wash and do your cooking All the time." You say "Poems are the best When you can put them to the test, And they still rhyme." But they don't have to rhyme. At least, I don't think they do. Of hidden drives and allergies A tall hedge is like a violent sneeze, And you break the windshield of a car. You break the windshield of an oncoming car. To the dusty sneakers of the world: Get wet, get ***** get defiled. I say "Problems are fantastic When you wrap them up in plastic, And the answer's there." You say "Plastic wrap is pointless Unless pointedly anointed as a joie de guerre." How morbid, Claire.
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26
Whispering her smile Looking beatific, Looking arousingly terrific, Uninvited but invitingly, Place my pointer finger Upon her breast, ******* already attentive, *****  she preps to dance and to Leave me Bid her despedida, For my adieu is tinged With desperation internal raging, For tantalizing, J'accuse, Guilty as charged My tango muse, Off to dance in dives, Where all the men are Strangers, who paid in cash, With creased and stained $20 bills, To soil themselves, to dance with my woman, Paid far in advance. For consorting with the enemy, I renounce her not, but guilty charged, For mesmerizing, J'accuse, Guilty as charged She'll return, after three, Undress before me, Purportedly sleeping, Pointedly, slowly, knowingly, To insure I scent the sweat That tango demands, The ****** side effects, The Argentines invented, Accoutrement rituals, Excuses to invent dance, In order to pleasure intensity, For teasing w/o mercy, J'accuse, Guilty as charged She chambers her body bullet, Sliding in unrobed, For a negligee would be Negligent in her condition, Laughing at my pretend closed eyes, She whispers,: I return here, to you For one reason alone Despite soul and body, exhilarated, While gone, you have been composing About me without permission, Of  this, of thee, J'accuse! I know you have penned Poem, Which long after the dance thrill has chilled, Will belong to me forever, I will kiss you now so I may taste the Words  that are mine, until next week, When I will be guilty again Of charging your imagination
0
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Every Wednesday Night, She Tangoes With Someone Else
Whispering her smile Looking beatific, Looking arousingly terrific, Uninvited but invitingly, Place my pointer finger Upon her breast, ******* already attentive, *****  she preps to dance and to Leave me Bid her despedida, For my adieu is tinged With desperation internal raging, For tantalizing, J'accuse, Guilty as charged My tango muse, Off to dance in dives, Where all the men are Strangers, who paid in cash, With creased and stained $20 bills, To soil themselves, to dance with my woman, Paid far in advance. For consorting with the enemy, I renounce her not, but guilty charged, For mesmerizing, J'accuse, Guilty as charged She'll return, after three, Undress before me, Purportedly sleeping, Pointedly, slowly, knowingly, To insure I scent the sweat That tango demands, The ****** side effects, The Argentines invented, Accoutrement rituals, Excuses to invent dance, In order to pleasure intensity, For teasing w/o mercy, J'accuse, Guilty as charged She chambers her body bullet, Sliding in unrobed, For a negligee would be Negligent in her condition, Laughing at my pretend closed eyes, She whispers,: I return here, to you For one reason alone Despite soul and body, exhilarated, While gone, you have been composing About me without permission, Of  this, of thee, J'accuse! I know you have penned Poem, Which long after the dance thrill has chilled, Will belong to me forever, I will kiss you now so I may taste the Words  that are mine, until next week, When I will be guilty again Of charging your imagination
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58
I watch as a ****** of crows fly over Cawing loudly Deafening in their wake Landing upon a barren tree Giving the illusion of life I stare pointedly at this ****** Then, they quiet A fog of silence Loud and unrelenting No cars to be heard Insects hushed The only sound is the beating of my heart They move as one Heads turning simultaneously Eyes staring back Only one opens its maw A screech of terror comes out They are warning me Of what, I do not know In the screech I do understand A trial is set before me One I must withstand
0
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
karina-veirs
******
I watch as a ****** of crows fly over Cawing loudly Deafening in their wake Landing upon a barren tree Giving the illusion of life I stare pointedly at this ****** Then, they quiet A fog of silence Loud and unrelenting No cars to be heard Insects hushed The only sound is the beating of my heart They move as one Heads turning simultaneously Eyes staring back Only one opens its maw A screech of terror comes out They are warning me Of what, I do not know In the screech I do understand A trial is set before me One I must withstand
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22
Green crash, suddenly center signal on strange, distant announcement squiggle. Scenery dashingly simple, single. Wave shape, hungering scented cower. On top, beady dispassioned shower, shaving or scraping a wooden tower. Stale grid, static or sounding static. Appear, pointedly under attic, wailing forbidden, not automatic. Big screen messaging: starlight scatter. The end. Something but antimatter. Trigger between, in the ribbing: flatter. Soft board, terribly outer terror perceives singular, stringent error. Coughing accordingly code propeller.
0
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
edwardalan
Green Crash
Green crash, suddenly center signal on strange, distant announcement squiggle. Scenery dashingly simple, single. Wave shape, hungering scented cower. On top, beady dispassioned shower, shaving or scraping a wooden tower. Stale grid, static or sounding static. Appear, pointedly under attic, wailing forbidden, not automatic. Big screen messaging: starlight scatter. The end. Something but antimatter. Trigger between, in the ribbing: flatter. Soft board, terribly outer terror perceives singular, stringent error. Coughing accordingly code propeller.
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25
It was the taboo of the touch and although it was her habit, it still held the power to thrill me to comfort my distance. We chatted as she scanned each item , especially the contraband cake, and it was as if we were conspiring, masking our planned insurrection. I obeyed the card-only directive and, as the till printed the receipt in a flurry, she reached over, stripped it away and pointedly held both hands out toward mine. And just there – as I reached around the screen, she cupped my hand in hers and she gifted me her “Look after yourself, luv.” - while I choked on my goodbye.
0
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:47 PM UTC
stevejeff
My weekly shop at Sainsburys during the first lockdown
It was the taboo of the touch and although it was her habit, it still held the power to thrill me to comfort my distance. We chatted as she scanned each item , especially the contraband cake, and it was as if we were conspiring, masking our planned insurrection. I obeyed the card-only directive and, as the till printed the receipt in a flurry, she reached over, stripped it away and pointedly held both hands out toward mine. And just there – as I reached around the screen, she cupped my hand in hers and she gifted me her “Look after yourself, luv.” - while I choked on my goodbye.
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6
My whirligig giggling and jiggling in an ever gyroscopic balancing act of spotting the to and fro, does sometimes wobble recklessly, even falls down. Revealing, revolving, evolving windy patterns and magnetism that spin pointedly upon an axis of gender nonspecific intention, it gets back up and twirls again. Whirls again, girls again, boys again, toys again, an accelerator from beginning to end, how can I be propellant and then, marry, tie it down? Letting loose these inhibitions of how such a perfect plaything may be too perfect, too divine a contraption is scary whirlwind to put my head around. Yet, this desire to go with it, oscillate and make rounds seems truer than any boxed in version of wooden wouldn't I rathers. So there it is, to grace a pirouette with stable partner, might be a portion of the dance, picturesque, but more ensemble pieces may follow. These too add to the brilliant ballet, and we are in it together.
0
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
pj-poesy
Dance Of The Curio
My whirligig giggling and jiggling in an ever gyroscopic balancing act of spotting the to and fro, does sometimes wobble recklessly, even falls down. Revealing, revolving, evolving windy patterns and magnetism that spin pointedly upon an axis of gender nonspecific intention, it gets back up and twirls again. Whirls again, girls again, boys again, toys again, an accelerator from beginning to end, how can I be propellant and then, marry, tie it down? Letting loose these inhibitions of how such a perfect plaything may be too perfect, too divine a contraption is scary whirlwind to put my head around. Yet, this desire to go with it, oscillate and make rounds seems truer than any boxed in version of wooden wouldn't I rathers. So there it is, to grace a pirouette with stable partner, might be a portion of the dance, picturesque, but more ensemble pieces may follow. These too add to the brilliant ballet, and we are in it together.
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1
*A feeling Is not about who is best Art Is not a contest To insist on a victor Is an ego that has broken Showering hate upon the lives Of hearts that are open* What may or may not be poetry Is instead the heart of our family You commented rather pointedly About your superior ability And eloquent verbosity Most likely derived from history Of the friends of Neal Cassidy And other written eccentricity Yet you forgot your humanity And instead introduced a monstrosity An ego steeped in personal vanity Insisting on being treated royally Demanding your subjects bow immediately As you crashed into the sea of tranquility Planting your flag of superiority And crushing our words spoken so plainly But heartfully Because the letters are unworthy To one who is challenged emotionally Unable to live peacefully Amongst those who wish to learn gratefully About a craft you have reserved selfishly For yourself and those you deem to be equally As adept as yourself in the vagary Of references you declare to be wholly Fresh and newly Minted by your ability To walk around the cliché so gracefully While we repeatedly Use words such as lovely Or heavenly Or tearfully Or holy So we beg you openly To understand what is primary In a place for the novice to publically Air their emotions unapologetically And speak candidly And unconditionally About how painfully It is to live freely In a place so worldly Where men think judgmentally ******* the life from those who live meekly And wish to exist thankfully Amongst those who understand brotherly Love and who affectionately Praise those who tenderly Open their hearts to humanity Giving mercy To those without the gifts you egotistically Bludgeoned us with so artfully But failing miserably To impart insightfully Your wisdom for those who willingly Would receive daily Your transcendently And insightfully Spoken songs of serenity But instead you callously Reminded us unfortunately That mere man is weakly Empowered to exist commonly And instead arrogantly Cuts the rose greedily Leaving the thorns sadistically
0
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
mark-lecuona
Criticism
*A feeling Is not about who is best Art Is not a contest To insist on a victor Is an ego that has broken Showering hate upon the lives Of hearts that are open* What may or may not be poetry Is instead the heart of our family You commented rather pointedly About your superior ability And eloquent verbosity Most likely derived from history Of the friends of Neal Cassidy And other written eccentricity Yet you forgot your humanity And instead introduced a monstrosity An ego steeped in personal vanity Insisting on being treated royally Demanding your subjects bow immediately As you crashed into the sea of tranquility Planting your flag of superiority And crushing our words spoken so plainly But heartfully Because the letters are unworthy To one who is challenged emotionally Unable to live peacefully Amongst those who wish to learn gratefully About a craft you have reserved selfishly For yourself and those you deem to be equally As adept as yourself in the vagary Of references you declare to be wholly Fresh and newly Minted by your ability To walk around the cliché so gracefully While we repeatedly Use words such as lovely Or heavenly Or tearfully Or holy So we beg you openly To understand what is primary In a place for the novice to publically Air their emotions unapologetically And speak candidly And unconditionally About how painfully It is to live freely In a place so worldly Where men think judgmentally ******* the life from those who live meekly And wish to exist thankfully Amongst those who understand brotherly Love and who affectionately Praise those who tenderly Open their hearts to humanity Giving mercy To those without the gifts you egotistically Bludgeoned us with so artfully But failing miserably To impart insightfully Your wisdom for those who willingly Would receive daily Your transcendently And insightfully Spoken songs of serenity But instead you callously Reminded us unfortunately That mere man is weakly Empowered to exist commonly And instead arrogantly Cuts the rose greedily Leaving the thorns sadistically
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74
12/24/2016 to G.G. *"When the sons of Princeton Gather anywhere, There’s a place they think of, Longing to be there. It’s the one and only University, Situated and celebrated In New Jersey -Traditional Princetonian song, "Going Back to Nassau Hall"* You worried I wouldn't contact you again I laughed because it was funny. I'd told you my favorite beach boys song was That's Not Me He moves to the city and regrets it I guess maybe the feeling of being in over my head prevailed in my life. Speaking of which– we sat in the deserted Prospect Garden where Fitzgerald did once And it was donated in 1879 people wrote of it: "Its grounds, like eden" I wondered if this was ephemeral looked hard for the temptation. I didn't see any fruit trees. I stared straight ahead on the bench into the piercing dark English Yew behind us and the red gravel. I said: "I can't use thin spoons" I didn't look at you when I did. "When you say that," A pointedly deep breath I turn to you. You continue: "I feel like I love you." I laughed, not because it was funny But I laughed in its simplest form- Is it not an expression of human happiness? You told me that you didn't know why I seemed to Dislike the things that made me great I laughed because it was funny And turned to kiss you you were the first person to ever say I was "absolutely" beautiful What do you say to that? I smiled and tried to not look At you in a way that betrayed to you the feelings I was trying so very hard to conceal– they said this: That I was starting to feel the affects of a very deep fondness. As time passes my poetry, more succinct. i fear i am losing it but does it matter? we'd talked about vanitas. it was hard to say goodbye and i turned to you as you walked away focused on the way you walk watched you become smaller and went out to the car. in front of nassau hall and i thought of the next time.
0
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
kdmills
going back to nassau hall
12/24/2016 to G.G. *"When the sons of Princeton Gather anywhere, There’s a place they think of, Longing to be there. It’s the one and only University, Situated and celebrated In New Jersey -Traditional Princetonian song, "Going Back to Nassau Hall"* You worried I wouldn't contact you again I laughed because it was funny. I'd told you my favorite beach boys song was That's Not Me He moves to the city and regrets it I guess maybe the feeling of being in over my head prevailed in my life. Speaking of which– we sat in the deserted Prospect Garden where Fitzgerald did once And it was donated in 1879 people wrote of it: "Its grounds, like eden" I wondered if this was ephemeral looked hard for the temptation. I didn't see any fruit trees. I stared straight ahead on the bench into the piercing dark English Yew behind us and the red gravel. I said: "I can't use thin spoons" I didn't look at you when I did. "When you say that," A pointedly deep breath I turn to you. You continue: "I feel like I love you." I laughed, not because it was funny But I laughed in its simplest form- Is it not an expression of human happiness? You told me that you didn't know why I seemed to Dislike the things that made me great I laughed because it was funny And turned to kiss you you were the first person to ever say I was "absolutely" beautiful What do you say to that? I smiled and tried to not look At you in a way that betrayed to you the feelings I was trying so very hard to conceal– they said this: That I was starting to feel the affects of a very deep fondness. As time passes my poetry, more succinct. i fear i am losing it but does it matter? we'd talked about vanitas. it was hard to say goodbye and i turned to you as you walked away focused on the way you walk watched you become smaller and went out to the car. in front of nassau hall and i thought of the next time.
Continue reading...
80