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Noandy Jan 2016
Cerita Pendek Tentang Hantu*
Sebuah cerita pendek*

Anak-anak muda itu bilang bahwa Sundari cumalah hantu. Bagi mereka, Sundari sekedar cerita orang-orang tua zaman dahulu yang tak ingin anak lakinya pergi sampai larut malam. Parahnya lagi, mereka terkadang menganggap Sundari isapan jempol dan menggunakan namanya sebagai ejekan. Berbagai lelucon mereka buat untuk merendahkan Sundari,

Mereka pada saat tertentu menganggapnya seperti hewan kelaparan yang bersembunyi dan siap menerkam mereka,

Ketakutan sesaat.

Sayangnya, pada hari-hari berikutnya, Sundari malah terkadang lebih rendah daripada hewan.

Jika binatang buas dapat sewaktu-waktu muncul dan menyantap mereka dengan mudah, para pemuda justru berpikir bahwa mereka lebih tinggi dan mulia dibanding Sundari sehingga ia hanya akan menjadi segelibat penampakan.

Sundari cuma monster dan angan-angan, katanya, di zaman seperti ini mana ada hantu penculik jejaka. Pikiran anak muda memang berbeda dengan kebanyakan orangtuanya.

Padahal, Sundari sama seperti kita.

Sundari bukanlah siluman, hantu, atau makhluk mengerikan yang layak dijadikan lelucon semata.

Apalagi bahan cerita setan dan sarana menakut-nakuti bocah.

Dengar baik-baik, ia tidak terbang, ia tidak menghilang. Ah, Sundari bahkan tak punya kemampuan macam itu.

Sundari berjalan dengan dua kaki, melihat dengan dua mata, dan dapat memelukmu dengan dua tangan hangatnya. Yang mungkin berbeda adalah hati Sundari yang entah di mana sekarang. Inilah yang membuat ibu-ibu dengan anak lelaki begitu menakuti Sundari. Mereka yakin bahwa Sundari-lah yang akhir-akhir ini menculik buah hati mereka yang pergi malam, lalu menghilang selama satu minggu dan ditemukan gundul tanpa nyawa,

Tanpa hati,

Pada suatu sore yang hangat di padang ilalang dekat dusun.

Beberapa mengira bahwa Sundari adalah perwujudan pesugihan atau tumbal yang mengincar jawara-jawara muda, seperti andong-andong pocong yang dahulu sempat marak. Dahulu, pergantian kepala dusun di sini dilakukan dengan adu kekuatan. Para sesepuh percaya bahwa teh dari seduhan rambut pemuda dapat memperkuat diri dan meningkatkan kekebalan, ini menjadi salah satu spekulasi motif Sundari selain tumbal-tumbalan itu. Beberapa berpikir kalau Sundari menjual rambut lelaki muda di desa demi mendapatkan keuntungan baginya.

Kalau di antara gadis-gadis belia nan jelita yang bergelimang asmara, Sundari kerap digunakan sebagai sebutan untuk penyerebot kekasih orang. Terkadang huruf i di hilangkan, sehingga menjadi Sundar saja.

“Dasar, dia memang Sundari!”

“Padahal telah lama kita menjalin kasih, kenapa ia harus jatuh ke tangan Sundar macam dirinya!”

Apa Sundari begitu buruk hingga namanya lekat dengan orang serta kasih yang hilang?

Padahal dahulu Sundari hidup tenang,

Memang dahulu ia juga sumber perhatian,

Tapi ia hidup tenang dan dihujani kasih—

Yah, itu sebelum dusun ini akhirnya mengadili sendiri suaminya yang sepuluh tahun lebih muda darinya. Menurut mereka, sangat tidak masuk akal seorang wanita pintar, seperti Sundari yang bekerja sebagai pendidik, memiliki suami yang lebih muda darinya. Pemuda berambut panjang itu hidupnya mungkin berkesan asal-asalan. Dandanannya serampangan, rambutnya berantakan dan panjang; padahal di dusun ini, sangat wajar bagi lelaki untuk memiliki rambut panjang. Banyak yang bilang tubuhnya bau tengik, dan ia jarang terlihat bekerja. Pada kedua tangannya, sering terdapat guratan-guratan warna. Berbeda dengan para petani pekerja keras yang terkadang tangannya diwarnai oleh tanah, warna-warna yang ada pada tangannya merupakan warna cerah yang tak mungkin didapatkan secara alami. Namun Sundari dan suaminya tetap dapat hidup dengan layak dan nyaman menggunakan upah mereka. Pasangan itu tak pernah meminjam uang, tak pernah mencuri.

Tak di sangka, orang-orang di dusun yang memandang bahwa agar dapat hidup berkecukupan harus digandrungi serta ditempa dengan kerja keras yang dapat dilihat oleh semua orang memandang bahwa dalam rumah tangga itu, hanya Sundari yang bekerja keras melayani suaminya. Sedangkan sang lelaki, menurut mereka, ambil enaknya saja dan kesehariannya sekedar leha-leha di teras rumah kayu mereka sambil merokok sebatang dua batang.

Mereka, terutama para bujangan, mencari-cari kesalahan pasutri bahagia itu.

Mereka kembali memanggil-manggil dan menggoda Sundari yang makin merapatkan kerudung hijau yang biasanya ia selampirkan apabila berjalan ke sekolah tiap pagi dengan kebaya sederhananya. Para bujang itu dipimpin oleh  Cak Topel yang istrinya lumpuh dan selalu ia tinggal sendiri dirumah. Mereka menungguinya tiap pulang, dan menghalangi jalannya kembali kerumah. Pernah sekali suaminya mengantarnya ke gedung sekolah reot itu, dan menungguinya sampai pulang. Sedihnya, ditengah perjalanan pulang ia babak belur dihajar  pemuda-pemuda berbadan besar itu—Setelahnya, Sundari melarangnya untuk sering menampakkan dirinya di depan warga dusun.

Yang harus dikagumi di sini adalah sifat pantang menyerah mereka. Berbagai upaya telah dilakukan untuk menjungkalkan Sundari dan suaminya dalam fitnah, sampai akhirnya mereka mencium sesuatu yang janggal dari rumah senyap mereka.

Bau tengik,

Ada yang bilang, jenis pesugihan macam tuyul sebagus apapun tetap akan mengeluarkan bau tengik atau busuk.

Mereka mulai menyambungkan hal ini dengan warna pada tangan suami Sundari,

“Itu tidak mungkin didapat dari bekerja di ladang.”

“Warna-warna itu pasti ramuan dukun.”

Dari situ, dapat dipastikan bagaimana Sundari dan suaminya dapat selalu hidup berkecukupan bahkan dengan uang mereka yang pas-pasan. Bujang-bujang berbadan besar itu segera menyebarkan cerita dan tuduhan-tuduhan yang membuat telinga panas. Sundari dan suaminya makin menarik diri dari warga dusun. Sundari bahkan berhenti mengajar setelah menemui kelas-kelas yang seharusnya ia ajar seringkali kosong, dan menemukan tatapan-tatapan sinis para ibu rumah tangga mengintipnya dari depan pagar kayu sekolah yang alakadarnya itu.

Entah kita harus bersyukur atau tidak, persembunyian itu tidak berlangsung lama. Pada sebuah malam bulan purnama yang lembab dan becek, Sundari melihat bola-bola cahaya dari jendela rumahnya yang ditutupi oleh anyaman jerami. Nyala api itu berasal dari berpuluh obor warga dusun yang berteriak-teriak dan menuntut Sundari dan suaminya agar mengaku bahwa mereka menggunakan pesugihan.

Sundari keluar sembari menyelampirkan kerudung hijaunya, diikuti suaminya yang rambutnya digelung tak rapih. Belum sempat mereka mengucapkan sepatah kata, para bujang menarik suami Sundari dengan menjambaknya dan melamparkannya ke tanah becek, menendangi pertunya, lalu menghajarnya seolah ia binatang peliharaan yang tak pernah patuh pada majikannya. Sundari hanya dapat menjerit dan menariki baju sejumlah laki-laki yang menghunuskan kepalannya pada tubuh kecil dan rapuh orang yang dicintainya. Setinggi apapun ia berteriak, suaranya seolah tenggelam dalam arus deras kebencian yang tak berdasar.

Jeritan untuk orang yang dikasihi itu lambat laun berubah menjadi jeritan untuk dirinya sendiri. Istri Cak Topel yang lumpuh rupanya merayap di tanah dengan sigap seolah laba-laba berkaki seribu, dan menarik bagian belakang kebaya Sundari sampai ia terjerembab ke tanah di mana ujung matanya menangkap sang suami yang rambutnya digunduli tanpa ampun dengan alat yang tak pantas. Saat menyaksikan adegan romansa sedih tersebut, wanita-wanita dusun menjambaki rambutnya, menampari pipinya dan menghajarnya tanpa ampun sambil menghujaninya dengan ludah-ludah mereka yang menasbihkan berpuluh hujatan menyayat hati. Setelah pasutri itu terkulai lemas di tanah musim hujan, barulah warga membumihanguskan mereka berdua yang tangannya tetap bergandengan.

Nasib naas, entah harus disyukuri atau tidak, menimpa suaminya yang terbakar hangus sepenuhnya. Sedangkan Sundari, dengan tubuhnya yang telah setengah terbakar, berhasil kabur dan hilang dari peredaran untuk beberapa saat.

Untuk beberapa saat,

Sampai lelaki yang menggoda, menghajar, membawa mereka pada keterpurukkan semuanya hilang satu persatu, termasuk Cak Topel.

Mereka hilang kala malam, saat cangkruk atau ronda, dan ditemukan lebam sekujur tubuh, tak bernyawa, dan gundul tanpa sehelai rambut pun pada sore hari di tengah padang ilalang dekat dusun.

Orang-orang bilang bahwa ini Sundari yang menuntut balas. Meskipun entah di mana dirinya berada, ia masih tetap menghantui. Membayang-bayangi dengan perasaan bersalah yang menyakitkan bagi seluruh warga dusun,

Karena

Sundari dan suaminya tidak pernah melakukan pesugihan.

Dan, ah, itu cuma tipu muslihat para bujangan yang cemburu dan bersedih karena tak bisa mendapatkan Sundari dalam dekapan mereka sekeras apapun mereka berusaha. Entah sudah berapa lelaki dan lamarannya ditolaknya, ia justru jatuh hati pada pelukis bertubuh kecil yang sepuluh tahun lebih muda darinya.

Bagaimana amarah mereka tidak tersulut?

Seandainya warga dusun lebih mengenal bau cat dan minyak untuk melukis, mungkin mereka akan berpikir dua kali untuk menuduh Sundari dan suaminya terkait pesugihan.

Ah, coba mereka masuk ke rumah kayu kecil itu sebelum main hakim sendiri. Mereka tak akan sekaget itu saat menemukan gubuknya penuh dengan cat dengan bau tengiknya, tumpukan kertas dan bahan bacaan, serta lukisan-lukisan yang masih dikerjakan.

Hilangnya para bujangan lalu diikuti dengan hilangnya murid-murid sekolah menengahnya, dan lelaki muda lainnya yang sama sekali tak ada hubungannya dengan ini.

Sundari tidak berhenti.

Mereka hilang kala malam, saat cangkruk atau berjalan di pematang sawah, saat menantang diri mengaku “tidak takut dengan Sundari itu!” lalu ditemukan dengan lebam sekujur tubuh, tak bernyawa, dan gundul tanpa sehelai rambut pun pada sore hari di tengah padang ilalang dekat dusun.

Sundari menyukai kerudung hijaunya yang hilang kala malam,

Kerudung tipis indah yang digunakan untuk menutupi kondenya—Yang direnggut paksa darinya lalu hangus rata dengan tanah.

Tapi Sundari lebih menyukai kehadiran,

Kehadiran suaminya dan tangannya yang bekerja melukis diam, kehadiran kerudung hijau yang melindunginya dari tatapan tajam, kehadiran murid-murid lelakinya yang dengan polos melontarkan lelucon serta godaan-godaan untuk Ibu Guru Sundari mereka, kehadiran anak-anakmu yang sombong.

Sundari menyukai kehadiran, dan itu merupakan alasan lain mengapa ia menggundul habis lelaki yang diculiknya, lalu mengupulkan rambut mereka yang ia sambung, anyam, serta kenakan dengan nyaman bak kerudung dan mantel bulu.

Maka dari itu, orang-orang yang melihatnya terkadang bilang kalau Sundari cumalah hantu; bayang-bayangnya selalu muncul dalam bentuk segumpal rambut menjelang malam.

Sundari lebih suka kehadiran,

Keadilan.

Tapi apa membalas dendam seperti ini juga salah satu bentuk keadilan?

Entahlah, ini pilihan hidup Sundari. Sudah kubilang kalau hatinya entah di mana.

Sekali lagi, Sundari bukanlah hantu. Ia manusia yang teraniaya sama seperti kita. Manusia yang disalahi.

Kalau dipikir lagi, bukannya setan terkejam adalah manusia sendiri?

Yah, itu sih sudah berpuluh tahun lalu. Entah apa jadinya Sundari sekarang. Sekarang lelaki cenderung berambut pendek, tak seperti dulu. Bayang-bayang Sundari kemungkinan tidak se beringas waktu itu, dan telah berkurang frekuensinya. Namun wanti-wanti mengenai dirinya terus ada dan berubah seiring berjalannya waktu, bervariasi.

Itu sudah
Berpuluh tahun lalu.
Mungkin sekarang ia telah jadi hantu sungguhan, atau ada perwujudan Sundari-Sundari lainnya?

Tidak masuk akal, ya?

Aneh, omong kosong, isapan jempol.

Kalau dipikir lagi, bukannya dunia ini selalu penuh omong kosong dan tangis dalam gelak tawa?
So Dreamy Jan 2017
Aku tahu mengapa dari jutaan perempuan yang ada di dunia ini, matamu memilih hanya untuk memandangi satu perempuan berambut gelombang sedada dengan kaos polos berbahan nyaman berwarna abu-abu muda yang kamu sebut ia sebagai perempuan indie.

Dia perempuan yang kau beri label indie karena ia mendengarkan musik-musik aneh yang tidak masuk di telinga pendengar musik-musik mainstream yang biasa mendapatkan lagu kesukaannya diputarkan di radio mobil. Bukan jenis selera musik yang biasa ada di playlist tim pemandu sorak. Selera musiknya ialah tak lain sejenis musik rock yang ringan, lagu-lagu dari tahun 90-an, lagu-lagu dengan sentuhan retro beat tahun 80-an, dan musik elektro santai yang biasanya kamu dengar di toko baju. Selain selera musiknya, kau beri perempuan itu label indie karena ia bersifat eksentrik, tak terduga dan penuh kejutan, sedikit tertutup, dan bersemangat. Ia jenis seseorang yang bisa kamu dapatkan dirinya menatapi permukaan jendela yang basah dihinggapi bulir-bulir rintik hujan, sibuk memikirkan sesuatu. Ia juga jenis perempuan yang bisa kamu dapatkan kadang menarik diri dari keramaian, lebih suka membaca atau menulis seorang diri. Juga, ia seorang perempuan yang bisa kamu temukan sedang tertawa lepas bersama teman-temannya, mengobrol dengan terbuka dan hangat, menebar senyum sambil menyapa ramah, berteman baik dengan semua orang. Ia jenis perempuan yang tak akan kau sangka-sangka, apalagi dapat kau tebak tindak-tanduk akan ia perbuat selanjutnya. Kau pikir ia jenis perempuan yang kuat, sesungguhnya ia katakan bahwa dirinya cengeng. Setelah itu, kau pikir selanjutnya ia bukan tipikal perempuan mandiri yang mampu membawa dirinya sendiri ke mana pun, tapi nyatanya kau lihat kadang ia berjalan sendiri – ke kantin, ke mushola, bahkan kadang kau mendapati dirinya berjalan pulang seorang diri dengan kedua telinga ditancapi earphone putih. Ia perempuan berperawakan kecil dan seorang pemimpi besar, yang mimpi-mimpinya membuatnya bekerja keras demi menghilangkan ketakutannya akan pikiran ketidakmampuan mewujudkannya. Ia dianggap secerah mentari bagi orang-orang di sekitarnya, selalu tertawa dan melisankan kata-kata positif, tapi sesungguhnya, ia hanyalah mentari bagi dirinya sendiri. Setiap kali ia jatuh, ia yang membuat dirinya kembali bangun − hingga akhirnya, ia tanamkan pada benaknya bahwa begitulah proses dari kehidupan. Kehidupan adalah siklus yang adil. Kehidupan berbuat tidak adil pada semua orang dan itulah saat yang paling tepat di mana ia harus bangkit dan mekar, hanya untuk dirinya sendiri.

Aku tahu kemudian mengapa perempuan yang kamu sebut sebagai perempuan indie itu menarik perhatianmu, bahkan sampai membuatmu rela melakukan apapun untuknya. Ia benar-benar membuatmu seolah bangun dari tidur lama di ruang kedap cahaya, pandangan matamu seolah mengatakan bahwa perempuan itulah matahari baru dalam kehidupanmu. Tentang bagaimana tindak-tanduknya yang tak mampu kau reka dan kau prediksi, perempuan itu membuatmu seperti melihat sebuah misteri dan keajaiban yang melebur jadi satu.

Sebut saja, sederhananya,
kamu benar-benar (akan) mencintainya.
Zien Kartika Jul 2014
Dear Nakama...
      Kau tenang saja, mulai sekarang aku tak kan marah, kesal, sedih, cemburu, iri, ataupun jengkel saat kau berhubungan dengan Dia. Aku tak apa-apa. J

Dear Nakama...
      Sekarang, kau bisa melakukan apa saja sesuka hatimu padanya. Toh, Aku sudah melupakan semua perasaan itu, Aku sudah bisa bangkit dari keterpurukan ini. Jadi, tak ada lagi alasan untuk mu menjauhkan?

Dear Nakama...
      Aku merindukanmu, Tak ingin melihat kau seperti ini, mengapa kau seperti ini? L

Dear Nakama...
      Bukankah, kita sudah saling berjanji takkan pernah saling menyakiti,  akan terus menghubungi dan jangan sampai hilang hubungan? Dan sekarang, Aku ingin menagih janji itu...

Dear Nakama...
      Aku di sini sedang sedih. Tapi semoga, Kau baik-baik saja...

Dear Nakama...
      Apakah aku tidak boleh mengetahui keadaanmu? Tapi, bukankah itu suatu hal yang wajar di antara hubungan persahabatan? Aku tak mau kehilangan “TEMANKU”, aku tak mau kehilangan “SAHABATKU”, dan Aku tak mau kehilangan “KAKAKKU”...  :’(

Dear Nakama...
      Selama ini hanya Kau orang yang bisa mengerti Aku, mempercayaiku, dan menyayangiku dengan setulus hati. Akupun Selalu berusaha agar bisa menjadi seperti itu...

Dear Nakama...
      Setiap hari aku menimbun sedih, menyembunyikan sakit, menampung rindu, menabung kekecewaan, mengumpulkan kegelisahan, dan terus menelan air mata hanya untukmu...

Dear Nakama...
      Pandanganku kabur, pergerakanku kaku, kakiku lesu, tanganku beku, lidahku kelu, air mata terus jatuh, dan sesaat aku merasa duniaku runtuh ketika mengetahui kau sedang berusaha menjauh...

Dear Nakama...
      Apa yang harus ku lakukan agar kau mau kembali seperti dulu? Saat-saat di mana Aku belum mengenalnya, saat-saat di mana aku masih menjadi gadis kecil yang polos dan tidak mengenal cinta, saat-saat di mana kita sering berbincang tentang kartun kesukaan kita!

Dear Nakama...
      Aku minta maaf, jelas-jelas ini salahku. Dan bodohnya lagi, Aku baru menyadarinya sekarang. Maafkan Aku jika Aku melakukan kesalahan yang membuatmu tersakiti. Kesalahan yang di sengaja maupun tidak di sengaja...
Semoga kau berkenan untuk memaafkanku...
Sahabatmu : Haruna J
Gue gak tau nakama itu siapa (/////_////)
judy smith Aug 2016
As an avid golfer, Nashville resident Victoria Kopyar couldn’t find fashionable-but-functional clothing she wanted to sport on the fairway.

Tapping into her background in retail merchandising, product development and sourcing, Kopyar decided to take the matter into her own hands and launched women’s golf and activewear label VK Sport.

“When I was looking at the market, I saw there were a lot of men’s pink shirts, not a lot of print and pattern and not a lot of styling to it. …I really felt nothing was flattering the female figure and I wanted something that fit me well,” Kopyar said.

The first collection launched in August 2015 with golf retailer Golfsmith.com. Kopyar expects sales will be 10 times higher in the first full year in business as she zeroes in on growing VK Sport’s e-commerce website, expanding the collection at independent golf pro shops across the country and reaching new demographics such as the collegiate market. Locally, VK Sport is sold at Belle Meade Country Club and Hillwood Country Club.

Launching VK Sport marked a career switch for Kopyar, whose resume includes corporate positions with U.S. Bank, Target, Dollar General and Gibson Guitar. She didn’t pick up golf as a hobby until she had a summer off work in between jobs at U.S. Bank and Target.

“My dad told me (golf is) a great up-and-coming place for women to do business, there is a lot of opportunity and it’s a lifetime sport," Kopyar said. "So I went out and bought clubs, took some lessons and I fell in love with golf."

In 2014, Kopyar started developing the VK Sport brand on weekends and nights. The following year, she decided to leave the corporate world behind to work full-time on the clothing line. The launch of VK Sport coincided with Nashville's rising reputation as a fashion hub for everything from custom dresses to high-end denim and handmade leather goods.

Her goal for VK Sport is to target fashion-forward women with her key demographic between the ages of 25 to 60 years old. According to the National Golf Foundation, 24 percent of the 24.1 million golfers in the U.S. were women in 2015. Millennials represented the largest group among the 2.2 million beginner golfers last year.

The VK Sport apparel, which is made from technical fabrics with anti-wick and sun-protective properties, includes colorful and printed dresses, skorts, pants, shorts, polos, tank tops and more. Features include anti-slip bands in the skirts and shorts, cutaway sleeves, nine-inch deep pockets, zipper details, mandarin collars, ruched fabric at the buttons and lace features.

Kopyar described it as a high-end brand with price points ranging from $90 for a skort to $110 for pants and $85 for polos.

“We’re a fashion brand," Kopyar said. "We take what’s happening on the runways in New York and Milan and take that and bring it into the functionality of golf wear and/or regular street wear."

VK Sport has been self-funded so far, but Kopyar plans to take on investors as she grows the business. She hopes to capture a piece of the multi-billion dollar athleisure market by positioning the brand as activewear for both golfers and non-golfers.

“I see us as a lifestyle brand," Kopyar said. "Not only are you functional in golf but you can wear it in your everyday lifestyle, whether you’re at the nineteenth hole having lunch with the girls or out picking up your kids at school or running to Target or a coffee meeting."Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
La frente apoyo en la vidriera...
el cielo azul se engalana
y en la fúlgida primavera
canta su canción la mañana.

La mente inclino a lo más hondo
del alma en campos del Ayer;
y marchito miro en el fondo
todo lo que vi florecer.

Soplan auras primaverales
dando más vigor a los músculos.
¡Aquí las brumas otoñales
y el silencio de los crepúsculos!

En el parque crece la yerba
bajo el radiante resplandor.
En el alma todo se enerva
al paso lento del dolor.

Y evoco alegres ilusiones,
campos azules, abrileños;
la juventud con sus canciones
iba entre rosas y entre ensueños.

Fulgurante el cielo reía:
¡Cuán hermoso era el porvenir!
Vino la tarde en pleno día
y todo comenzó a morir.
La frente apoyo en la vidriera...
Verdes árboles, sol radiante
¡Juventud!… ¡también primavera
Fuiste del corazón amante!

¡Días que el alma triste evoca,
alba rosada del amor!
¡Boca que buscaba otra boca,
polen que va de flor en flor!...

En jardines primaverales
las libélulas entre aromas;
rosas rojas en los rosales
y destilando miel las pomas.

Y van surgiendo en un ensueño
amores de la juventud.
Pasan con el labio risueño
en concento de arpa y laúd.

Entonces... retoño y retoño
en los rosales a la aurora...
¡Como lenta bruma de otoño
la tristeza bajando ahora!

En el alma, al ensueño abierta,
algo de antiguo trovador,
y de la vida en la áurea puerta
con sus promesas el Amor.

De la luna la luz de plata
brillaba en el barrio desierto,
y una canción de serenata
subía al balcón entreabierto.

Pendiente la escala de seda
de los barrotes del balcón...
Del pasado ya sólo queda
un rescoldo en el corazón.

Paseos bajo luz de luna
por alamedas de rosales;
dos bocas que el amor aúna
en claras noches estivales...

Entonces... cantos, alegría,
juramentos de eterna fe;
y ahora, gris melancolía
del dichoso tiempo que fue...
La frente apoyo en la vidriera:
en el parque, vestidos blancos,
y amantes en su primavera
bajo los pinos en bancos.

Primeros versos a la amada,
cantos primeros de ilusión...
Son hoy cual queja desolada
en el fondo del corazón.

Tú, flor de la tierra nativa,
de los ojos fuiste embeleso.
Sólo a tu boca, rosa viva,
le dio la muerte el primer beso.

Cuando se recuerda el pasado
hay un deseo de llorar.
¡El árido camino andado
si se pudiera desandar!...

Sombras doloridas que vagan
y esperanzas muertas deploran:
Astros que en tinieblas se apagan
y voces que en silencio lloran!...

A la claridad matutina
fragante erguíase el rosal...
¡ya sobre el agua gris se inclina
la amarilla rama otoñal!...

Una palabra... un juramento...
¿era verdad o era mentira?
Mentira o verdad es tormento
cuando sola el alma suspira.

Se abría a la luz la ventana
en un radioso amanecer,
la ilusión decía: «¡Mañana!»
y el corazón dice: «¡Ayer!».

¡Mañana! ¡Ayer! Polos remotos...
lo que es dolor y lo que salva.
Claros sueños y sueños rotos,
gris de la tarde y luz del alba.

Y el Amor, que en sombras se aleja,
el alma dice: «¿Volverás?»
Y como una lejana queja
se oye en el pasado: «¡Jamás!»

La hiedra fija sus raíces
aún bajo nieve en la piedra.
Recuerdos de días felices:
sois del corazón... ¡siempre hiedra!
Aromadas rosas de Francia
en los casinos y en el Ritz;
Rosas que dais vuestra fragancia
en Montecarlo y en Biarritz.

Reservados de restaurantes;
de vida de goce ansias locas;
El áureo champaña espumante;
temblando de ósculo las bocas.

Nerviosa espera la cita,
Penumbra de la «garconniére»,
Fausto a los pies de Margarita
En el rosado atardecer…

Otra... Extraño acento de arrullo,
honda nostalgia en su mirada,
y severo siempre su orgullo
en su dolor de desterrada.

Su imagen el pasado alegra,
y fijos en la mente están
su traje blanco y su capa negra
en las carreras de Longchamps.

Días lejanos de estudiante,
embriaguez de ideal divino,
El corazón, rosa fragante,
en noches del Barrio Latino...

Midineta bulevardina,
boca roja, frente de lis,
Incitadora, parlanchina,
jilguero alegre de Paris.

Y del «cabaret» la alegría...
¿Era del Rhin o era del Volga?
¿en su vida un misterio había...
¿era su nombre Elisa u Olga?

En otra, del vuelo al arranque,
mirar nostálgico... y ¡pasó!
Muchas veces junto a un estanque
soñando la luna nos vio.

Tú, mejicana-parisina,
de cabellos como aureola
de luz de sol, y habla divina
entre francesa y española.

En la tristeza de un suspiro,
lejos, a la orilla del mar,
una margarita aún te miro
melancólica deshojar.

Húngara triste, flor bohemia,
De ojos miosotis de Danubio:
¡cuán adorable era anemia
En marco de cabello rubio!

Tus pupilas vagas de Isis
fingía decir un adiós;
Y casi exangüe por la tisis
caíste en golpe de tos...
La frente apoyo en la vidriera...
Un claro sol el cielo dora,
riega rosas la primavera...
El otoño en el alma llora.

Se oye como una voz que ruega,
como un gemido de laúd...
¡Es en la tarde que llega
el adiós de la juventud!
Brenda Galván Jan 2013
Lo quiero                                                           ­                                                                 ­                       Lo odio

Me encanta                                                          ­                                                                 ­           Me desespera

Lo adoro                                                            ­                                                                N­o quiero nada con él

Es mi príncipe azul                                                             ­                                          Es el dolor en mi trasero

Es el amor de mi vida                                                             ­        Es la persona que más detesto en esta vida

Pero, al fin del día, es lo mejor que jamás me haya pasado.                                                          ­               . . .
Andrew T Jun 2016
Kanye West made me think polos were cool. I thought playing rap music while wearing polos would make me into a rapper. And then I turned into a tennis player. Tennis got me out of the hood. Let it be known. I could have went to court, and instead I chose the Tennis Court.

Tennis is fun. Before it was ratchet. Now it is tennis racket. Rapping was fun. Bernie Sanders liked rap. He liked Killer Mike, and he was a phenomenal rapper. Hilary listened to me. So I don’t know what that means. I should have been a rapper, but when I saw a videotape of Arthur Ashe playing tennis for Wimbledon, I felt a yearning grow inside of my gut, and it grew until I raised my hand to my mouth to smother the scream of nostalgia that I was feeling.

I wanted people to like me so I started rapping at cafeterias and bleacher stands. People drank cola and munched on popcorn as I talked about growing up in the hood of Burke. Real **** went down in the Burke. Like **** you wouldn’t believe. And that’s real.

I hung out on a rooftop overlooking the city drowned in sunshine that was sad as the girl who left me. Kanye West saved me from becoming a *******. And even if he’s an ******* now, everyone knows he was the greatest with 808’s and Heartbreak. Robocop used to play from the car speakers, as we rolled spliffs in the front seat, the wind pouring into the windows.
JJ Hutton Nov 2012
I left the electric bill in the mailbox. Along with one of those Get to Know Your Community at Christ's Church pamphlets.  One where Jesus sits holding a sheep, and oriental kids sit criss-crossed and apple-sauced at his feet. An advertisement for Great Wall Chinese food rounded out the lineup. How many trashcans must be filled?

But your letter, a mini-salvation at the sight of your name alone, came with me. My octogenarian neighbor with the heavy jowls and purple hair watched me rummage through the mail as her leashed shih tzu ****** in my yard.  Good morning. A nod. No response from my neighbor like usual. She's hardly a neighbor. More like a cop that directs traffic just past her property onto mine so traffic can **** my grass.  The shih tzu, though, that thing quaked as if I might give it a hard kick in the ribs. A satisfying thought.

My great pleasure dissipated when I opened your letter. Don't worry about Tim. I know he cares about you. He'd be an idiot not to. These are things I'm supposed to say. The sad truth being that Tim is a man. And like the rest of us, he's cheating on you. Probably with a thinner woman. A model that still subscribes to ****** chic. Or at least ******.

Before you take a kitchen knife to one of his neglected polos, make sure he's okay. Bizarre advice, I know. My mind only wandered when I did't feel like I was worth a million bucks. You always made me feel like two million. So, I'm sure it's something on his end.

Pour the whiskey until he opens up like one of those cashiers you make the mistake of acknowledging when they've been on the clock for five hours and still got three to go. He'll tell you about the baby he can't feed, the gonorrhea feasting on his urethra, and the titanic loan he took out from mama looming over his head. After he's said his piece, his load will lighten. The clouds will part. Fingers crossed.

The way you described his despondent behavior sounds like the lurking grey of bad luck. A black cat. I'm reminded of the time in my beat-up Cavalier when a black cat began to cross the street in front of us over on 86th and Western. Do you remember that? You have to. I cursed the bad luck. Then my curse seemed to stop the stupid beast in the middle of the lane. He looked straight at me. The headlights reflected off his eyes, and you grabbed the wheel. Turned it right into the cat. "I **** my bad luck," you said as the cat's end was confirmed with a thump. Then you said something like if they don't cross your path completely, it doesn't count. Find the bad luck before it snickers from the other side.
Father, Son, Mechanic…
Man, I’ve wanted to talk to you – really talk to you – for some time now.
to see your face in front of me, instead of dangling from necklaces,
or hanging, melancholy, over sexless couples’ beds.

I’ve spent a lot of time reading all that stuff you wrote (supposedly),
and I’ve enjoyed it, Man, I have.
but I keep wanting it to be a letter, when in the end it’s just
a bipartisan explanation – an engineer’s guide to
building a pretty vehicle around a faulty engine.

I always see you, arms spread,
sprawled across the older bitter-america’s steering wheel.
my mama would tease me, saying you’d want me to help some day.
but you and your cronies drove me like a beat-down El Camino,
joyfully taking me through wrong turns and bumpy streets
waiting for my chassis to split.
and once I ran out of gas to offer, you refused to touch me at all,
letting me rot in your cobweb garage.

and all those ******* in turtlenecks and polos popped,
they’ve gleefully branded your logo on their chemical biceps
and gaily explain how close you were.
how they knew you like no one else did,
how you guys didn’t have a connection, but a relationship.
people should only let their mechanics touch their cars, though,
and keep their innards free of oily fingers.

to be honest, I don’t think I’ll be coming back to this establishment again.
it’s a little too clean for my taste, and your prices are way to high
especially when all you get is a little peace of mind and a sense of humbled grandeur.
don’t worry about the car, though – you can keep it.
you’ve sort of spoiled all its good intentions,
so I’ll be buying a new one sometime soon.
I guess I’ll be taking a taxi.
No, actually.
I’ll hitchhike home.
© David Clifford Turner, 2010

For more scrawls, head to: www.ramblingbastard.blogspot.com
I was moving out
Parked my bike down the street
With a cart hinged on the bolt beneath the rusty pole
connected to my seat.
The yard was steep, and the stairs leading down
the front
Vanished each car-
go carrying trip
of dictionaries and travel guides that
could have been lumped together in boxes
separately tossed into the neon
green
synthetic fiber
rain-proof buggy
Connected to my seat.
I ran across the lawn, one last time
Buckling the watch I found from high school
remembering it’s broken and not caring
then I saw men wearing polos beneath
Greek symbols beneath a doorway
and held my breath as they stared at me.
This vacant lot held something which I carried back
to find
my bike was gone, replaced
by a life-sized depiction of a bike saying
“no bikes--” A girl inside, explaining where I could find mine
I walked down the grey spiral of handicapped access ramps
surrounded by aquariums or tvs
which comprised the store's interior.
The last ramp faced an exit and went straight past
refrigerators next to vending machines
In the alley behind this office supply store were two old men
Roasting my bike on a chain beside the others
Disconnected, hung
its tires lying on the ground beside their feet
and the carriage slung aside like a bloodied gazelle's neck.
“What the ****!”
A woman got into my face “don’t use that word”
“****’s a perfectly good word, after all, it’s how we
got here”
One man smiled.
He felt bad.
They helped me put the bike together and I walked it back to my house.
I saw my car down the street.
I thought about the long trip to the interstate and wondered why I’d
rode my bike
Then I went back up the stairs of the blue sided hill,
to see the roommate I hated
and thought about stealing his SNES and stereo
but took only my one possession
and walked past rotting turkey bacon in a plastic pouch
on the top of a table
beside some legos
and left.
MMXII
Wk kortas Aug 2018
The attendees are told, in a manner befitting a high mass
You have been finally set free,
(Although, in truth, free is a very large and entirely vague word),
And the message is sent forth from all comers in all corners:
Vendor and visionary alike,
German socialists who left university to ride boats for Greenpeace,
First lieutenants doing their level best
To appear at ease in civilian polos and khakis,
But no matter the vessel,
The message is still the same.  
The tyranny of cables and storage space is dead,
It is all but shouted from the lecterns,
(Although it is noted, in small print and sotto voce
That there are certain requirements
In terms of hardware and licensing)
And it is stated by Those Who Know
In tones which neither brook nor invite contradiction,
That they have surmounted, all Hadrian-like,
The alpine divide separating mere data and magic.

Two or three blocks down the street from the convention center,
In a narrow storefront housing an exhibition of ether-only comics
Which have broken the nettling constraints
Of editors and syndication,
There sits, under a somewhat opaque
And slightly scratched piece of plexiglass,
A yellowing comic strip of uncertain vintage,
In which a frowzy cat,
Free of the constraints of panels, gender, and standard grammar,
Is the recipient of a mouse-tossed brick
Whose flight, unfettered by physics, probablility, indeed time itself
Ends striking its mark right between the x’s of the eyes
The projectile itself an inexplicable alchemy
Of confusion, mirth, frustration
And the impossibility of an undeniably pure love.
Sofia Paderes Aug 2021
When news broke out that the glorious White Building
was to become dust to make way for a high rise
that would displace both bones and ghosts,
we were standing in a parking lot, my friends’ fists
clutched tight around their motorcycle handles,
their rapid Khmer lilting with each syllable
as they quickly planned a memorial service
for another shard of history that once did not have
blood dripping from where it had been broken.

My nickname was Country Girl, clueless and silly,
full of questions, songs and dances, a patched-up mess
with the face of a Vietnamese, the laugh of a Filipino,
and the pride of a maybe, sometimes, almost Khmer.

We left just as the city was starting to wake again.
In journalism school, they never taught us
how to grieve for ourselves, so we tried
in the best way we knew how -- a funeral procession
of worn rubber shoes and checkered polos,
in our backpacks the cameras that would write our eulogies for us.
I was the stranger whose connection to the deceased no one
understood, but still let in,
taught me a prayer,
offered some porridge.

That afternoon, I whispered a prayer.
White Building, who stares death in the face,
once a mother to the hands that had colored
their age gold, please welcome me.

Do not let your skeleton
collapse beneath the weight of this stranger.

Please, welcome me.
It was sometime around June 2017 when my classmates and I found out that the historic White Building in Phnom Penh was going to be torn down to make way for a 21-storey high rise. My friends quickly organised a photowalk, and we made our way to the remains of what used to be home to many Khmer artists in the sixties. We spent the entire afternoon exploring the building— capturing corners, faces and stories our feet would never be able to return to again.
White polos and navy blue pants and skirts paraded through the narrow classroom door.
Red and yellow chairs pushed back from the small wooden desks,
Neon tennis ***** stopping them from scuffing the floor.
"Waxing floors is so **** expensive,"
The principle whispered to the wide-eyed teacher.
Backs turned to the large ears on the small bodies.

Nose deep into the latest Barnes & Noble purchase,
Fear struck me as the two gray haired women ushered me into the hall
Where two navy blue pants and one navy blue skirt stood,
Eyes mirroring each other’s knowledge.

“Now apologize.”

Embarrassment burned red in the six cheeks
That mumbled confessions to their victim
A victim unaware she had been voted most blessed in the chest
Oblivious to the whispers of nerd, pizza face, and giraffe
Brace face, frizzy haired freak, and loser

Friday’s vocabulary quiz asked what the definition for friends was.
I left it blank.
A mis soledades voy,
de mis soledades vengo,
porque para andar conmigo
me bastan mis pensamientos.
No sé qué tiene el aldea
donde vivo y donde muero,
que con venir de mí mismo,
no puedo venir más lejos.
Ni estoy bien ni mal conmigo;
mas dice mi entendimiento
que un hombre que todo es alma
está cautivo en su cuerpo.
Entiendo lo que me basta,
y solamente no entiendo
cómo se sufre a sí mismo
un ignorante soberbio.
De cuantas cosas me cansan,
fácilmente me defiendo;
pero no puedo guardarme
de los peligros de un necio.
Él dirá que yo lo soy,
pero con falso argumento;
que humildad y necedad
no caben en un sujeto.
La diferencia conozco,
porque en él y en mí contemplo
su locura en su arrogancia,
mi humildad en mi desprecio.
O sabe naturaleza
más que supo en este tiempo,
o tantos que nacen sabios
es porque lo dicen ellos.
«Sólo sé que no sé nada»,
dijo un filósofo, haciendo
la cuenta con su humildad,
adonde lo más es menos.
No me precio de entendido,
de desdichado me precio;
que los que no son dichosos,
¿cómo pueden ser discretos?
No puede durar el mundo,
porque dicen, y lo creo,
que suena a vidrio quebrado
y que ha de romperse presto.
Señales son del juicio
ver que todos le perdemos,
unos por carta de más,
otros por carta de menos.
Dijeron que antiguamente
se fue la verdad al cielo;
tal la pusieron los hombres,
que desde entonces no ha vuelto.
En dos edades vivimos
los propios y los ajenos:
la de plata los estraños,
y la de cobre los nuestros.
¿A quién no dará cuidado,
si es español verdadero,
ver los hombres a lo antiguo
y el valor a lo moderno?
Todos andan bien vestidos,
y quéjanse de los precios,
de medio arriba romanos,
de medio abajo romeros.
Dijo Dios que comería
su pan el hombre primero
en el sudor de su cara
por quebrar su mandamiento;
y algunos, inobedientes
a la vergüenza y al miedo,
con las prendas de su honor
han trocado los efectos.
Virtud y filosofía
peregrinan como ciegos;
el uno se lleva al otro,
llorando van y pidiendo.
Dos polos tiene la tierra,
universal movimiento,
la mejor vida el favor,
la mejor sangre el dinero.
Oigo tañer las campanas,
y no me espanto, aunque puedo,
que en lugar de tantas cruces
haya tantos hombres muertos.
Mirando estoy los sepulcros,
cuyos mármoles eternos
están diciendo sin lengua
que no lo fueron sus dueños.
¡Oh, bien haya quien los hizo!
Porque solamente en ellos
de los poderosos grandes
se vengaron los pequeños.
Fea pintan a la envidia;
yo confieso que la tengo
de unos hombres que no saben
quién vive pared en medio.
Sin libros y sin papeles,
sin tratos, cuentas ni cuentos,
cuando quieren escribir,
piden prestado el tintero.
Sin ser pobres ni ser ricos,
tienen chimenea y huerto;
no los despiertan cuidados,
ni pretensiones ni pleitos;
ni murmuraron del grande,
ni ofendieron al pequeño;
nunca, como yo, firmaron
parabién, ni Pascua dieron.
Con esta envidia que digo,
y lo que paso en silencio,
a mis soledades voy,
de mis soledades vengo.
Simon Soane Jun 2015
May
A guy awakes in the month of May,
his movement is languid, his thoughts full of fray,
he showers and dresses and then leaves his abode,
the spring sun doesn't warm him as he walks down the road.
He stands on the pavement and waits for the bus,
his fibre is calloused with collision and fuss.
He embarks on his journey with eyes facing down,
needing a break, and to get out of town.
He looks out the window as grey turns to green,
urban concrete to verdant serene.
He spies a large field and rings the bus bell to get off
hoping green grass will quell his bereavement cough.
He meanders through a meadow and parks himself under a tree
and speculates with veracity "what's happening to me?
she's gone and I miss her and i'm still alive
the answer to this tripe of mortality I do strive
why the stop, why a finite ride."
His words are peppered with anguish, seeking reason,
caught in turmoil in this springing season,
he slumps with head in hand against the bark,
no idea if it's light or dark,
or if he's she or me,
he slumps forlorn neath the tree.
Suddenly a voice is heard, soft and free,
the soft free voice of the tree.
"Hi, hope you're well and you don't mind my interject
and what follows isn't ferocious direct,
I know you're not waiting for epiphany."
said the tree.
"Or thoughts of gravity,
or eyeing me up for oars to power ships at sea,
I see you want to quell mortality.
Living isn't a simple thing I know,
leaves they leave and i'm covered in snow,
those nervous budding days that precede thundering green sat row by row
are lost  in kindle by the firework show,
burnt or brittle and toppled by go.
The tree pauses for a sec as the guy listens with a heart full of woe,
then the tree continues as the day starts to glow.
"It's transient and sad this life we have live,
some things are taken when we don't want to give,
and it hurts when we lose the things we love,
but for that there's a reason
and that reason is love.
It aches when their tangible space we can no longer share
and their dalliance as it stopped as their life was short and rare
but the loss is felt because of care
we wouldn't miss if we didn't love
every end would have the green of rub,
because love lasts for every season
in whatever weather whether or not,
so with love comes loss, i'm afraid and amazed to say,
loss comes with love i'm amazed and afraid to say,
if you're finding hard to deal or wanna express maybe say something to say,
I want to write about my leaves leaves now so at your leisure be on your way."
The guy breaths in and out slow for a couple of moments and into hence
and mulls on the tree's words as he moves  from to supple from tense,
and gets up ready
with something wanting to say
and as he bes on his way the guy opens his mouth and mouths into May...

"I'm missing you today and everyday since you went away,
Jan the 25th to precise,
I miss your kindness,
I miss your nice.
When we met in June tons of moons ago
we took our time from seed to grow,
watered with careful rush amid a loud hush,
slowly placing blocks while aware of the splendour of the finished build on the box,
germinating tender.
We grew up in each moment we spent smiling,
in every chat in every dialling.
We were kids eh, buying Kid A,
I held you in May and every other month I remember,
Laughs in December, hugs in September
the summer rush of August,
high fives in July.
We went to the cinema our close was abundant,
we had a handle on home and knew what fun meant,
going to concerts, exploring contours,
flying strong with the span of condors,
taking in breath, rising to soar,
moving together, using the force,
galloping free with the wildest horse,
we could talk in code, dabble in Morse,
our peace, our understanding a calming course.
Our strait newly furrowed no burrowing head in sand,
our relaxed eyes rest on promised land ;
It exists now, it exists right here,
the earth of Utopia burying fear,
it melds in the moment when you’re near,
I think I’ve found my lifetime career!
When you felt I was feeling depressed
you brushed off a burden and cleaned up my mess,
blocked those anxiety yelps,
knowing every little helps,
zapping away fear with your glorious medication,
here it is now, your standing ovation.
Then we didn’t see each other for ages,
as we ran through our own books on separate pages.
Then we bumped into each other and got back in touch,
not just a handshake and then a farewell wave
but shimmering convergence with all that you gave.
We got drunk and laughed as one turned into a few
knowing by now I’d go anywhere with you,
your witty jibes and blooming vernacular,
******* you’re blooming spectacular,
gulping fast, no little sips,
I loved your smile and your jiving hips.
You put the ancient in fossil,
the patience in tousle,
the strength in muscle,
the brave in bottle,
the brain in Aristotle,
the flame disparaged nozzle,
the fall in topple,
the tact in subtle,
the rain in puddle,
you stop the reign of muddle,
the pain and struggle,
the mazy puzzle,
the lazy shuffle,
the cake and truffle which I baked befuddled
after waking troubled and craving cuddles
then you came to me with heavenly huddles.
You’re the sunlight sweet sound of suggestion
And take the risk out of a game of Russian Roulette with a Smith and Wesson,
could never rue letting with you,
your moves define perfection with sublime projection.
You gently gild and made love a reality,
engaged me in present the future a fallacy.
But now you’re gone.
There are so many who loved you after you’d met
And they all miss you lots, especially your pets.
It's all the same without you on earth but different,
wise guys still get hints,
Polos are still mints,
sand castles still do best on the beach,
James still has the largest peach,
supercallifrilous
will still be expealidousis,
they'll still be osmosis,
my fake sibling will still be my faux sis.
They'll be dawn still & moonlight thrill
& silly cats on window sill, still, still.
They'll be puns on the hill & run of the mill,
they'll be hibernation curl to blossoming trill, chances missed & days to rue
& summer nights with joyful coo,
but still's not the same
without you;
because there is one less friend of cats & dogs,
this little world has one less cog.
I don’t know where you are,
you hit the end or the start?
And maybe when I end you’ll be starting my heart
and sat on my heart like a star
giving a light in the dark,
I love you Rebecca, wherever you are.”
The guy stops on the spot and mouths into May,
Rebecca my sweet, I’ve missed you today.
storm siren Jun 2016
Her birth name was Ryan,
But she was a girl
In every aspect
Except the one you wanted to believe.

And her older brother,
His name was Simon,
But we called him "D",
Short for Denial.

Because that was all he could do,
Deny life was bad.

And we loved them so much,
But when the old German man died,
They went to a new home,
And then Reese couldn't take it,
After they cut her hair
And made her wear polos
And jeans.

No more sparkly shoes,
Only white sneakers.

No more pink,
Only blue.

So she was gone,
And most of D left with her.

And when he finally faded out of this world,
Everything broke.

In March,
Literally a year later,
We found his letter that he left for us.

To this day,
When I think of anyone I love dying,
I promise myself I'll try to be with them,
Because you were so alone,
And I don't want anyone,
Especially my Reese
And Simon Jonathan Marter
To feel so alone again.
Life makes me sad sometimes, and I hate people for it.
Este llano de muerte, esta tierra maldita,
Este otero desnudo de costados resecos,
Este páramo triste, donde el hombre que grita
No encuentra un solo monte que devuelva sus ecos,

Este desierto mudo, esta monotonía,
Esta soledad ocre como una calavera,
No nos deseperanza: sabemos todavía
Que, después del estío, otoño nos espera.

(¡Tener alas de pájaro. Dios mío, tener alas
De pájaro!... ¡Volar hasta la mansedumbre
Del mar!...¡Llegar a Ti por sus blancas escalas
A quemarnos los ojos con tu divina lumbre!)

Sabemos que defiendes con tu dorado escudo
los trópicos dorados, los solitarios polos.
Míranos, desterrados, sobre el suelo desnudo.
¡Señor, Señor, por qué nos has dejado solos!
DL Poet Mar 2019
Looks like this cursed title falls to me
I’m Gatsby
At least, now I am
Beer money inheritance
Tighter than the rope round his neck
It all falls to me, no glee
Just a ****** musical rolling in my head
I was a kid once
Little more than a dunce
Friends out of my league
Hiding in leaves
Beyond fields of bricks hidden by empty heads
Falling asleep on desks
It’s lazy education
Low preparation
The works of leaving kids stranded
In a world they’ll never get
Falling far of flat
In terms of getting their hands on it
Giving us all a pit
Just weak little gnats
Blood rain leaves us wet
Once again, branded
Who’d have guess high school never ends
In this bad sandbox

Sister never knew about him
He was potential personified
I always new, never said a word
Terribly waiting for him to take the world
Finish each loose end
Understand depths beyond comprehension
Could never really get how he worked
Killed in the end, a waste more than gold
Could have done so much
Underestimated, self-made, the works
Never really got how it worked
Tell me now, how he died
Never mind, I don't wanna know
Throwing me inheritance
Like the father figure I never had
And certainly never deserved
A few years older
Always sticking out his neck
Now a check?
Miss me with that
If I wasn't strapped
It’d go to wreck
Just like his house
At the end of this mess

Robbed beyond repair
Silk robes in the furnace
How did he earn this
A man so earnest
Now he’s in the sternest prison around
In the grave, like a pound for a stray
Waiting for the day
One shot leads to release
In such a permanent way
This won’t lead into peace
It will lead to more delete
Lives hanging in the balance
Bankrupt to the finest
Capacity they could have imagined
But now it’s all me
Suits, colors, and all
Just a puppet for the crew of the ******
Whispering to me through wrinkled polos
Rolling through the power vacuum
And I don’t know
How quickly I’ll be booted
Or how long I’ll hear his voice
Bouncing around in the black water in the back of my mind
Gatbsy! What Gatsby?
Molly Pendleton Jun 2011
I stood there
In the dim lights of our den

A place once cherished
But now otherwise ignored

It had become his
Hiding place

His refuge for
When he wouldn’t speak

At those times
Like right now

I would stand there
Behind him

Delicately trailing random patterns
On his sweat-soaked tee’s back

He used to dress nicely
Plaid polos and such

But ever since she passed
He was rather shoddy in his appearance; sloppy

I could feel his body
Rise and fall

Each breath shorter and less healthy
Than the last

But I said nothing
Simply humming softly

Finally he lifted his head
His pale, pallid skull

Topped with slightly thinned
Reddish hair

It’d been so thick before
Before she passed

He turned slowly
To face me

His face was a sickly purple so unlike the warm peach
It’d been when she was alive

His lips were pale and chapped
Unlike their previous full pink

And they were shuddering violently
As he tried to speak

After another moment of silence
Eventually he did

If you’d just been
Quiet

He whispered
In a harsh, raspy voice

His now yellowed teeth that he once prided in deeply
Gleamed in the den’s faded light

If you had just
Kept your **** mouth shut

He elaborated
In a sour undertone

I felt my stomach sickening itself
But refused to show reaction to his words

If you had just been able to silence yourself for a ****** minute
She would not have died

I knew it was true
And so I did not try to stop him as he stood

He was gone within hours
To accompany her

To abandon me
The idiot that could not keep quiet

Thus now I am what you might call a
Mute

For silence is a friend
That never betrays
Simon Soane May 2015
Cog
It's all the same but different,
wise guys still get hints,
Polos are still mints,
sand castles still do best on the beach,
James still has the largest peach,
supercallifrilous
will still be expealidousis,
they'll still be osmosis,
my fake sibling will still be my faux sis.
They'll be dawn still & moonlight thrill
& silly cats on window sill, still, still.
They'll be puns on the hill & run of the mill,
they'll be hibernation curl to blossoming trill, chances missed & days to rue
& summer nights with joyful coo,
but still's not the same
without you.
Because there is one less friend of cats & dogs,
this little world has one less cog.
Miki Apr 2015
I'm just waiting for something
that takes my breathe away
something beyond shredded
couch cushions and New Jersey TV
I want to see Mountains in the fullness of their splendor
I want these dirt roads to mark the place
where I first made love to a boy who broke my heart
I want to see the sky from eye level
without crying because I'm afraid of heights
I want to swim in water so deep
That the sharks get scared to dive there
I just want to be fearless
irrationally brave
unbelievably foolish
because my whole life up until now
has been so practical
Lack luster
uninspired
its hard to find a muse
in polos and khakis
and I'm tired of being tired
of doing nothing
Klaus Jan 2019
It's a wonderful day.
So I drink.
Skies are grey when the son is
away.

I'm on the brink of tears.
'cause my pen's out of ink.
I need ritalin with a beer. 


You'll say  I've  wasted my years.

But who cares if my brain's purée?
This is my life and I don't need it anyway.

January first, I'm out with the boys.
Oh the Joys of avoirdupois.
Bowing to the sink.
The Popped collars on our polos, salmon pink.
We drink until we can't think.

She'll  take my kid away.
I can't live a single man life.
I still need to pay.
No man's lonely without a wife.
I'll visit next birthday.

An unskilled worker's pride,
Always fills the void inside.

Dole squad can catch me.
I won't have pay no fee.




New year, same me.
Happy 2019.
Love you.
Sam Dunlap Apr 2014
I feel it
That itching
That aching
That yearning
To break out
With a toothbrush and spare clothes
And hop on a plane
Or a train
Become a stowaway
See the world through different eyes
Things are bigger than what we grew up with
And culture goes beyond
Pencils and polos
I can observe that world of keen minds
Inhaling the aroma of savory finery
Find elegance
Strength
History
In the grand scheme of things
We are very small and
Insignificant
But we are watchers
And creators
So we watch and create
And re-create
And this is how we can change the world
judy smith Jan 2016
ONCE UPON A TIME, men’s style in Los Angeles was laughable. Think loud, logo-driven and larded-up with more skulls than a pirate cruise. Remember the jeans with back-pocket stitching visible from a block away? What about the faux-vintage concert T-shirts? The flaming eyeball Von Dutch trucker caps? I’m sure Ashton Kutcher wishes he could forget.

But the cheesy L.A. of the mid-aughts—when paparazzi swarmed West Hollywood store Kitson and Mr. Kutcher hosted “Punk'd”—is a thing of the past. Kitson will close its doors forever this week, Mr. Kutcher is now a budding tech mogul and the city’s fashion scene is associated less with Ed Hardy and more with Saint Laurent creative director Hedi Slimane, who maintains his design studio in L.A. instead of at the brand’s Paris headquarters. In fact, Mr. Slimane recently announced he will show his fall 2016 men’s collection (and part of the women’s range) at the Hollywood Palladium on February 10instead of in the French capital.

Is that enough to position Los Angeles as a style capital—strong enough to contend with Paris or London? A confluence of factors has given that idea momentum. Factor one: L.A. is attracting creative talent in design and retail thanks to relatively affordable real estate and low operating costs. Factor two: As high-end menswear has moved away from formality, a “creative casual” wardrobe has become more vital than a suit and tie to the working lives of many men all over the country. Not seeming so far-fetched anymore, is it?

Certainly, a number of stylish and influential guys have embraced the notion. “For a long time, Manhattan was the epicenter of all creative thought, but now I feel like that’s changed,” said Josh Peskowitz, the former men’s fashion director of Bloomingdale’s, who settled on L.A. for his first independent retail venture, a 1,500-square-foot men’s specialty store called Magasin, opening Feb. 20.

Mr. Peskowitz said he’s seen the city evolve beyond a metropolis driven by one or two industries: “Entertainment and music are still important, but now there’s also tech, art, clothing design and all the creative services that go along with Silicon Beach.”

And he’s hoping to outfit a good portion of that population in a refined but casual wardrobe of unstructured seersucker Camoshita suits, garment-dyed polos fromMassimo Alba, cashmere T-shirts from Naadam and handmade slipper-like leather shoes by Feit. “It’s for people who need to look like they are put-together and mean business but don’t want to wear a coat and tie,” he said of his store’s offerings. “It’s clothing that expresses personality but is still business- adjacent. There’s a big market for that.”

Even men who still wear a suit to work every day can benefit in their off-duty hours from the well-executed fare, elevated via fit and fabric, that L.A.-based labels such as Greg Lauren, Apolis, Aether and John Elliott sell in the city, in stores worldwide and on e-commerce sites.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Andrew T Dec 2016
Didn’t really know why I felt the way I did
When I saw her
it was like nothing made sense
She coordinated chucks and black nail polish
with Lacoste polos
She belched and smoked
but she hated profanity
She was only in high school but she was wise
beyond her years
She was the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,
but she was lonely
Only thing that made sense
was that I liked her
Did she reciprocate the same feelings?
I already knew the answer
And I was content
Yet
In the back of my mind
I knew I had a chance
when I first made her laugh
I smiled when she told me
she was into the same bands as me
I fistpumped when I heard
she dumped her boyfriend
But then I remembered
Who I am and who she was and I stopped myself
Because she was the wild child
And I was the awkward guy
We didn’t belong together,
we weren’t right for each other
I stopped calling her and slowly I left her life
Next day I turned on the television and I saw a couple
Holding hands
Walking down their street
Talking about how nice the weather is
And I thought to myself
Why can’t the weather be good in Seattle?
I called Elizabeth.
yeah it's time for the hood to stand on they feet
and rep the code of the street
knockin out m and m
with polos shirt
polo jeans and black timbs
extracting limbs
we marchin' like platoons sending dooms
hits like Beruit
these fools is fruit
sweeter than Nabisco
keep the Crisco
roll the molly up slow
so ya know my flow
is smooth and mellow
castin bellows not ya modern day fellow
black as Othello
not Shakespeare
but my gun can make you transform
into the invisible atmosphere
here me clear I have no fear
pressure ya like peers steer
this rap game back to correction
once I make the alignment
hataz get confinement
extort loot like embezzlements
this ain't for embellishment
yeah I'm  hell sent
far from a repent
and you feel my presence
without my presence
I'm coasting beats roasting
leave tracks toast and
who? hotter than me
I beat any and every
emcee that trys to step to me
I'm like sensory
but the message is conveyed cuz I paid
my dues with trues
I deliver rhymes fast
like heard of bad news
so ya know yallin the defeat
try a compete
competition in a sleep
c uz I be the code of the streetts




is it pain or madness
I'm attracting to?
check the door that ya step through
mystical mysterial
stackin' underground
imperials
now your inferior
blacks n latinos
be the surperiors
along with the indians and haitian to jamaican we ain't fakin we takin' mass land ******. a perfecto master plan
because
I like seeing bodies turn blues
like they choked out
gaspin' for air
I don't care
shouldn't have step into my lair
yeah yo rhymes
thin
as a follicle hair
stock rhymes like cement brick layers
true ol school playa  
I be the black Flair
make ya girlies
say wooo beating down crews
like Egyptian slaves none could pave
a pathway I lay
more holier than scripture graphic picture
had to be censored
parental advisory is needed
when it heated like friction
breaking jurisdiction
**** this bias *** system
cold lynching us
mad at us cuz we
still alive
and our guns bust put trust
in myself
I'm a moor short
for Hebrew pointin out the fake h
Jews
ya know ya time is limited
shy but far from timid
runnin the game like Emitt
Smith take a spliff so I can get a lift
and let the hydro take me to astral
let the thoughts flow
on the beat giving subliminal for the code of the streets
Estas que veis aquí pobres y escuras
ruinas desconocidas,
pues aun no dan señal de lo que fueron;
estas piadosas piedras más que duras,
pues del tiempo vencidas,
borradas de la edad, enmudecieron
letras en donde el caminante, junto,
leyó y pisó soberbias del difunto;
estos güesos, sin orden derramados,
que en polvo hazañas de la muerte escriben,
ellos fueron un tiempo venerados
en todo el cerco que los hombres viven.
Tuvo cetro temido
la mano, que aun no muestra haberlo sido;
sentidos y potencias habitaron
la cavidad que ves sola y desierta;
su seso altos negocios fatigaron;
¡y verla agora abierta,
palacio, cuando mucho, ciego y vano
para la ociosidad de vil gusano!
Y si tan bajo huésped no tuviere,
horror tendrá que dar al que la viere.
¡Oh muerte, cuánto mengua en tu medida
la gloria mentirosa de la vida!
Quien no cupo en la tierra al habitalla,
se busca en siete pies y no se halla.
Y hoy, al que pisó el oro por perderle,
mal agüero es pisarle, miedo verle.
Tú confiesas, severa, solamente
cuánto los reyes son, cuánto la gente.
No hay grandeza, hermosura, fuerza o arte
que se atreva a engañarte.
Mira esta majestad, que persuadida
tuvo a la eternidad la breve vida,
cómo aquí, en tu presencia,
hace en su confesión la penitencia.
Muere en ti todo cuanto se recibe,
y solamente en ti la verdad vive:
que el oro lisonjero siempre engaña,
alevoso tirano, al que acompaña.
¡Cuántos que en este mundo dieron leyes,
perdidos de sus altos monumentos,
entre surcos arados de los bueyes
se ven, y aquellas púrpuras que fueron!
Mirad aquí el terror a quien sirvieron:
respetó el mundo necio
lo que cubre la tierra con desprecio.
Ved el rincón estrecho que vivía
la alma en prisión obscura, y de la muerte
la piedad, si se advierte,
pues es merced la libertad que envía.
Id, pues, hombres mortales;
id, y dejaos llevar de la grandeza;
y émulos a los tronos celestiales,
vuestra naturaleza
desconoced, dad crédito al tesoro,
fundad vuestras soberbias en el oro;
cuéstele vuestra gula desbocada
su pueblo al mar, su habitación al viento.
Para vuestro contento
no críe el cielo cosa reservada,
y las armas continuas, por hacerlas
famosas y por gloria de vestirlas,
os maten más soldados con sufrirlas,
que enemigos después con padecerlas.
Solicitad los mares
para que no os escondan los lugares,
en donde, procelosos,
amparan la inocencia
de vuestra peregrina diligencia,
en parte religiosos.
Tierra que oro posea,
sin más razón, vuestra enemiga sea.
No sepan los dos polos playa alguna
que no os parle por ruegos la Fortuna.
Sirva la libertad de las naciones
al título ambicioso en los blasones;
que la muerte, advertida y veladora,
y recordada en el mayor olvido,
traída de la hora,
presta vendrá con paso enmudecido
y, herencia de gusanos,
hará la posesión de los tiranos.
Vivo en muerte lo muestra
este que frenó el mundo con la diestra;
acuérdase de todos su memoria;
ni por respeto dejará la gloria
de los reyes tiranos,
ni menos por desprecio a los villanos.
¡Qué no está predicando
aquel que tanto fue, y agora apenas
defiende la memoria de haber sido,
y en nuevas formas va peregrinando
del alta majestad que tuvo ajenas!
Reina en ti propio, tú que reinar quieres,
pues provincia mayor que el mundo eres.
They were country club boys
who wore polos and expensive cologne
riding around in cars
bought with Daddy's money
and sneaking to smoke cigarettes
out in the edge of the woods
and they would mock her
they'd laugh at her
for being “beneath” them
for not having the proper
upbringing or the nicest clothes
until the shadows started to fall
and night crept in
it was her they came to for comfort
it was she who held their secrets
as they'd cry into her arms
and whisper all their thoughts
the boy with the crew cut
who didn't want anyone to know
that he liked other boys
or the boy with the shaggy hair
who hid the bruises where
his father liked to beat him
& she would cry with them
for all the pain they felt
even though it wasn't hers
and they never looked at her
in those moments
like she was an object
or beneath them
in those sweet moments
it was she who saved them
from themselves
from others
& during the days
when they'd shift their eyes
and go along with the jokes
she'd hide a smile
because she knew
this was just the image
and not who they really were
My life has become a series of fragments
seperated by cups of coffee;
stacks of dog-eared books fade
to lecture slides and surprise tests-
flash forward to scratchy nylon polos
and "please hold, Jeff is busy"
until the lights turn down
and I hit empty,
only to refuel with a lukewarm cup
of the house blend.
Props to JS for the first line*
Eleanor Oct 2016
I took your sticky hand
Both of us uncomfortable in long checkered jumpsuits
and button down polos.

That Thanksgiving we made pilgrim hats and pasta string necklaces
We  walked to the park through the little white gate
that seemed so tall we could barely reach but now it squeaks and the bells broke.
The path through the sour grass flowers is overgrown with cancerous weeds
the trees are too small to climb, and the big one with roots is populated
by empty teenagers making out and carving their names in our place.  
This is where the bodies are buried. Where we said goodbye.
Where we played, our little world
of imagination filled lazy times streamed with
sudzy bubbles: Popped.

I’m sorry I failed you Jack. That she failed you.
For giving up too soon. I know you
wish she held on longer, that she fought
for you and I. You moved away because she left you
And I left you and so you left me, alone.
You lost so much, but you got out, peeled your eyes
from the flickering screen. Flashbacks of
our shared childhood ripped away.
Nis Jul 2018
Mi corazón y el océano son polos opuestos,
por eso en mi corazón lo siento.
Me llora cada noche por no verme,
me grita con tormentas su añoranza.

Yo también añoro al océano
y de mis ojos surgen lágrimas saladas,
sal de océano.
Mi corazón se rompe y él lo sabe,
el océano lo sabe todo.
Sabe su soledad y sabe la mía
y sabe que estamos destinados a encontrarnos.

//

My heart and the ocean are opposing polea,
that's why in my heart I feel it.
It cries me each night to see me,
it cries with storms its longing.

I long the ocean too
and from my eyes salty tears emerge,
ocean's salt.
My heart breaks and it knows it,
the ocean knows it all.
It knows its loneliness and it knows mine
and it knows we are destined to meet.
Something in between the dysphoria caused by the beach and my closeness to suicide by drowning in the ocean.
fatin Sep 2021
"Jika benar kurangnya dia bisa sempurnakan kamu
Apa kurangku tak cukup?"

Kita di kamarmu malam ini
Membahas apakah semesta masih maukan kita?
Apakah alam masih setuju...
.
.
.
.
10 tahun berlalu pantas
Kita masih belum dewasa tentang soal ini...
Seperti ada sesuatu yg menahan
Tapi tak kau luahkan...

Dan saat itu tak ku kenal lagi permintaanmu
Permintaan yg polos, tapi menghancurkan...

Tapi aku pasti itu mmg benar kamu
Yg susah tuk ku duga
Keras kepala
Amarahmu tak pernah reda
Sayangmu tak kau nampakkan...
Dan mau mu yg tak jelas...
Kamu berantakkan

Halusku sebut namamu... lalu,
"Dunia takkan pernah habis kau jelajahi
Kelak kau kan pertemukan apa yg tertulis buatmu
Semesta juga harus setuju jika itu sudah kehendaknya
Jadi tak usahlah kau risau"

Semakin jauh
Kita tak bertemu lagi.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
i think the americans ought to relearn
their policy on isolationism -
the chinese have already overtook
the americans on the grounds of
national capitalism -
      and what a ****** opinion this
ends up being,..
        the only way americans will
retain their americanism is by
isolating themselves from thee rest
of the world,
  lest they become the lingua franca
that equates itself as merely
lingua fornicata -
no, i'm not the ***** of french joke
with bilinguals, or mono-linguals,
or mono-linguals = americans,
or three language speakers being
tri-linguals,
  it just means: you own a *******
*******!
                how's that?!
lingua franca became lingua fornicata...
i swear to god the americans ought
to rekindle the isolationist policies
that FDR made real...
          to live in a monochromatic world
is about as interesting as
living next to 20 taj mahals
    within a 20sqm radius...
             i have more of those
marble monstrosities in my head,
abstract...
              americans ought to relearn
isolationism...
                   just to slow the **** down
on the globalist agendas...
given the made in china
                   national capitalism,
which was only perfected via
socialism...
            funny...
       nationalistic capitalism only
emerged from socialism...
                            well, you save capitalistic
countries via pumping them money rather than
pride....
                               english doesn't actually
encourage *******... why would it,
it already has ******...
     it's lingua fornicata...
perhaps, once upon a time it
was lingua franca...
             now what
            the english economises is *****,
everything else is made in china;
the english used to be the marco polos of
this world, now? they're the don giovannis.
don't you worry about me,
the slavic women adore the fact that
they can be the ****** of
   the kings of europe...
                    hey, i'm done in 70 years
or less given the chance i shorten this
prison sentence by 20+ years...
                     if i take to the fetish of prayer...
which part of the story am i take
honour for?
      the part that i die,
or the part that i am born,
but have no allegiance to life?
mesmerise me, indulgence me,
                                tell me the difference.
i will be content with the last
breath, prior to any breath akin
to mine: take its first.
k Jun 2014
Who the **** wants to hear
another sob story of a girl all alone,
bored with her thoughts or the
agony of being home?

How the light of the sun casts
out all her faults, or simply
pretending that long, hot
June days are soon to be lost.

Summer is choking in more
ways than one, forcing relations
with those whom you'd rather
be done.

Lost friends we call them, those
from your past. But truth be told,
everyone knew we'd never last.

**** foundations split sooner
than hoped, but what was lost
to her then was more than just most...

Most of what she clung to from
days of old, where the glory of
embroidered polos signified gold.

But here, two years later from the
grim summer of '12, she closes old
books and shoves them back to their shelves.

Banished are the memories of these
days from the past, and cut are the ties from "friends" who'd never last.
Old memories creeping in as familiar faces pass me by while home.
wonder if vinny paz is like me
A matrix broken into fragments
To frightening to address
And mind like pacing timing....
That leaves lights inside the basement
Blinding...
A mind that keeps. Ways of finding
Honesty
Untill your conscience
Is haunted
And  stained from lying....
That's why her babies in the basement crying....
Maybe neurological. Neglect...
Dissect. A bug.  A business
And a model citizen.
What the ******* get....
The only difference is different
Legs.
Aside from dopamine.
And serotonin spreads....
Fair to know of comparisons.
*** business men have little legs....
Crooked little tax evading
Job creating **** stained
Polos in a sweater vest....

But never mind I've strayed
From concentrated topic....
Feel like your head is detached
From actions. Simple as talking
Eating breathing walking or being conscious ..
Cogs inside a sleeve. Little reels.
That need these constant watchmen...
Trans affairs. Like I'm so rare.
My steak doesn't even come blood clotted....
**** the life I left behind.
*** this new ones looking awesome

— The End —