i scratch my *** in school and disgust myself
im sexualized
i stand in church
listening to the priest
AMEN AMEN AMEN!!!
everybody repeats mindlessly
im thinking to myself,
everybody in here probably masturbates
i wonder if the priest watches ****
i bet
i bet they all watch childporn

Rolled tight and sealed
with my lips this pome
I wrote for you
and placed inside a bottle
Tide is going out
as the sun is setting
with a pome inside a bottle
and you still on my mind
Blue winds and waves
will bring it to you
This pome inside a bottle
Just another love song
like the ones we used to listen to
as the moon rose o'er the ocean
watching the tide come in.

r ~ 7/25/14

I used to think a
Poem was something
Out of reach, unattainable,
Difficult to create; I now
Believe it is a
Drawing out, a
Melding together, a
Composition reflecting what already
Exists, that needs only expression in
Words.

you have to be careful
what you put in your pomes
and how you word your critiques

some poets are unique
and their retorts
are silenced

like their critics.

It would tie your brain up in a knot,
the clink of glasses on the barman's grate,
and the tones of creaky Dublin croaking,
In darkness, mourning the death, of the daytime light.  

It would I say, to grasp the slender neck,
and to lift it, smiling, glancing beyond the glass,
at winking eyes and clinking pints of plain,
My brain is in a knot, when I think of you.  

I held you on the banks, of the  royal canal,
knew then what all the bards and lovers mean,
say it was the light reflected in their eye,
I never did hear tell, of eyes to rival glass

Yet confound revealing daytime light,
you are liquid of the night, stout and dark,
rebuke me not, till your own brain too,
Has been left in knots, by the dark slender boy.

Hello Poets.
I received a copy yesterday of my good friend Timothy's new book "Reflections in Short Poetry". An excellent book with some of Timothy's finest poems.  Many of you are already familiar with his work. The book is very affordable and now available at lulu.com (by Timothy Salter). I highly recommend it. Congrats to Timothy for getting off of his **** and doing what many of us would like to do. Check his work out here at HP, too, if you aren't already familiar with his writing.

r

responsive wordplay resizes
double entendre to single line
call blocked the writers
got more out by dialing 9

touch screens to text readers
read text and seem touched
the ringing in your ears
was from a cellular punch

I plan to limit my data
but I always over share
mastering dastardly dactyls
pushes my meter to bare

if you only think 1x
you might struggle to get the picture
take a 4G dose to flex
your brain with crack and fissures

lithium ironic that my low battery
turns hyperbole to hypo
I got you charged with flattery
alas, you're not my typo

When a poem becomes a pome
Are the letters to blame
Or has it been the fruit of life all along

i heard your clear deep
                           voice     (singin’)
last year in
                 evening san antone
bleeding from truckstop P.A.
where i                                  bought cactus burritos &
                  1 basket
                                  heavensent peaches &
thanked you
for ev’ry one b/c only
someone like you could                              send a gift

so humble
    .

‘They’re my babies
everyone of ‘em’ she grins
Barb is happy she’s released another character
into the world
Tommy Tickeroo the Angry Alarm Clock
and a publisher is interested
and I’m happy for her and
a bit drunk
more than a bit actually been in the Beehive
since it opened at 11 in the morning
and I’m flicking through the artwork
and Barb is drunk too and trying not to flick
*** ash on her brother’s sketches
of a red ******* alarm clock with googly eyes
and a little moustache
and I wonder about myself
and the book that’s proving a ****** to write
and the cliché of putting those authorly trials
into a poem
I am going to stumble home and write
a poem about a dragonfly instead
darting around on gossamer wings
or a pome as Barb calls it
let’s all write pomes together then have a sing and a dance
‘I’m genuinely pleased for you’ l lie and she grins
and puts her head on my shoulder
and I drunkenly go for the *****
down and out and ****** like a **** for The Art
in the middle of the afternoon
in Nowhere Town.

this is sublime.
          vengeful tides of occasions spent thinking too much have
          sent me spinning out of de-controlled skies again
& this sudden urging urgency to be everyone's knight in used armour
will not penetrate through my outer skin

I cannot sit here anymore
              sit here & watch as the skin turns to
              bones, turns to dust, turns to..

I remember meeting this elderly woman on Bank Street in 2007
& what struck me the most about her was that circumstances never
for a second trampled her smile.. her love of life seemed to contradict
an article I read several weeks later that stated all those without
a home were junkies, one hundred percent of them would take change
offered to them & fetch their fix..
                                                                 I knew that just couldn't be..

there are stories
the woman who gave her son up for adoption.. I think her name was Tricia..
the nineteen-year-old girl, Chloe, sitting by the Rideau Centre..
& the elderly woman, I did not catch her name..but I'm sure someone
out there has called her "Mom" in the past..

yes this is sublime.
the tides are swelling high now
& occasions spent thinking too much about
what's on the horizon are throwing me into
                                        
                                                     deafening spins..

tis pity she's no more*

A redolence of musk pervades the evening's air.
Take situation in hand. Sweat and perfume. Lubricious.
Teasing digits. Pressures applied. Tense of touch.
An opening of skirts. A parting of lips. A portal.
Brush of thumb she begins to writhe. Early moaning.
Damp, wet, moist, oozing, dripping, slippy. Fruition.
Coming to. A dance of desire. So many ups and downs.
Withdraw slowly. Enter with alacrity. More is not less.
Hollows of legs on shoulders. Depth charges. Grasp of gasps.
Muscles massage. Internal grip. External eruption.
Bear down. Press your case. Silent screams. Everything ends.
Simply collapse into delight. Smooth texture. Fine night.

i've got me a ***** black cadillac,
stretched out—front windows rolled right down—on the curb.
with a French girl waiting inside, legs long as sin, sitting against the wide dark window
legs extended 'cross the backseat.
hiding her eyes behind big round sunglasses, smoking oily moroccan cigarettes
—writing about the way i talk.

there's a whole lotta crisp, cold money in the trunk,
waitin' to be spent on the furs she wants;
old books for me.                                                 and why not??
old books on art,
and i can't even paint!
just sit around not talking—read about Brughel or som'thin,
wishing my over-large, complacent hands knew to render the face
a fifth so well.
a fifth of whisky's 's close 's i get,
i get drunk and further away,
out now in that devil of a car, parked presently out
by the shed where i go most nights to sit in musty chairs 'n scratch ink lazily
on pages nobody ever reads..
            —but it feels ******
                       g  o  o  d  .

my frenchwoman would like to know what i think of old Proust...

REPLY: he took too ****** long! // (a sigh can be a story)
—one could write a novel in the time it takes to
toss your load on a pair of trembling *******, held up in offering—oh i can't help but be uncouth!!
—i mean just the other day fr christ's sake i moved a friend in Waterloo
to her new apartment and when carrying up the stairs two bags of clothes and a toaster
saw wonderful little second year heading up as well so i
let her go first (at first glance you may think me chivalrous) and while climbing up behind her
composed in my head the following pome, which i dashed off later on a post-it
and dedicated to her exquisite ***:

“all legs blonde climbin' the stairs, lamp in hand, yoga pants
hot & clinging like wee-ooo / hot enough in this cramped old stairwell as is,
carrying all these bags & boxes & couches up for a friend.
—hey when you're all moved in / you could come sit that thing on my lap.
share a cigarette while i carve slices of apple & offer them to you,
impaled on the end of the knife.”

Instead of a card
I carved you a pome
on my heart.

It didn't hurt too much
until I sewed myself up.

You see, I know
you'll never see
the words I bleed.

writing is dead
just like you

so I'm giving up
because thats what
I do

best

my last one - it was very witty.

Letting his pome to Siri
Hopefully will make us 2.[period]
I got it matters what I say
Should probably change it anyway
Still out the 10 at home to Siri

I don't think contacts it should be
Around so cool be made out of me 
Still grumbling to choke 
So I don't waste too much rope
If anyone doesn't turn out too funny

After the person's coming
Bowman mentioned you running
Three more specific
It's more bulimic
Did everything go a plenty

Wonderwall things are
Fly high above All-Stars
Do you think that it's June,
That there Brazelton blue,
If they held and the press really hard?

So this is the phone from Siri
Not feeling quite weary
To Shay' pasta please process he,
Or just a foster for you' [apostrophe]? 
I guess we'll just have to see...

I'm writing this poem through Siri,
Hopefully it won't make us to teary,
I doubt it matters what I say,
she'll probably change it anyway,
Still I'll dictate my poem through Siri.

I don't think complex it should be,
Or else a fool will be made out of me
Still I'll grumble and I'll choke
So I don't raise too much hope
If in the end it doesn't turn out too funny.

After this verse it is coming
A poem that might send you running
Though to be more specific 
It's more of a limerick 
Than anything full of cunning.

I wonder where wild things are,
That fly high above all the stars?
Do you think that it's true,
That their face will turn blue,
If they held in their breath really hard?

So this is the poem from Siri
And now I'm feeling quite weary
For did I say 'pasta please',
Or just 'apostrophe'?
I guess we'll just have to ask Siri.

7/3/14

shelter shelter, bring me a storm
& i'm working on forgiving
funny beacause I wanted to say
working on leaving the living.
forgive me oh forgive oh forget
it *******.
& NOFX
progress, rock this
patience, guide us
kindness, blind us.
curiosity of 1984
& what's to come
It don't look good,
you'd better run.

Here's a little pome
From your little girl
Dedicated to the one
Who brought me
             to the world...

I wasn't an easy child
I thought it would be fun
To run through
              the house screaming
              tormenting everyone!

There was the time
              when I got "lost"
It must've made you bats!
But, of course, you found me...
               in a cage with feral cats!

I got lost on that Hawaiian trip
In that department store...
The largest in the country!
Couldn't find me anywhere!

Another time I climbed on up
To cookies on the shelf...
The top of those cabinets!
I could have killed myself!

Then, as I got older
I became more wild
I won't go into details
But I was a tough child!

I'm surprised I'm still around
For all the things I've done
I must be here to love you now
And I DO love you, ***!

Yeah, I'm surprised I'm living!
I've done SO many things...
I got high... could've been higher...
With a halo and some WINGS!

'Cause moms?
They can be tougher
They can do more than shout
They brought us
IN to this 'ol world...
            and they can take us OUT!

Here's to my Maternal Unit
Yup... you must've passed the test
And when God gave out the hearts

He gave you the BEST!


♡ Your daughter Catherine

sometimes i feel like a citrus
lemon, orange, lime, or grapefruit
fragrant and flavorful
my insides bitter or sweet
and my outsides the exact opposite
high quantities of acid regardless
eat me raw
press my juice, i make a great 'ade
you may also preserve me in a marmalade

sometimes i feel like an apple
do not call me a crab tho
a globose pome
my outside has smooth shiny skin
my inside is sweet or **** yet soft
my centre contains seeds arranged in a star-like manner
i make great pies
but i also pair great with cheese
my versatility allows me to please

sometimes i feel like grape
growing from the woody vines
my flexibility is far and wide
raisins, vinegar, oil, and wines
i prefer to remain in a cluster of friends
im afraid to venture out
because i need them to sustain

sometimes i feel like anything other than me
i am tired of looking in the mirror
i have grown weary of what i see
so i pick flora and fauna
inanimate objects
weather and time
space and place
to rectify my existence
in some way that i can relate

at least when i list fruit
my belly aches with delight

There was a woman,
she is not in this poem.
But occupies this line and another,
nonetheless.

There was a man,
He went to market;
the market was shut;
he went home.

If the stars are just a doorway to lifetimes that could've been,
I suppose I'm hoping a night like this never ends.
Where I've found myself in your embrace,
gazing lovingly into graceful eyes-- you and your
words, lips, & promises.

Time may sour hope,
but it proceeds to season love.

I suppose-
the sweetest would be this temptation.
If you ever dare say those five words
longingly I've yearned for--
to come out of the pome mouth of your's,
clothed in the darkness
but illuminated by the basking moonlit night.

Say them,
say them.

So resonant the sky is given light:

"I'll never let you go."
& infinities are far longer than promises,
your voice so vigorous, so dignified.

Garishly-

as I awake the next morning
the corrosion of my ear's occurs
while your proposal came across as thunderous roars
upon vast skies and growing grounds;
the salt of the earth is mixed with the rain.

Children can sing, can rejoice
in this reassurance--
today and tomorrow shall not be forecasted with any pain,
we're in the same hours.

Hold me closely,
that if the Rapture were to take us
mislead;
equating how pure our love had been.
we will only be garbed in what is our redemption
wholesome & good- willed
I would rip through the edges of every cosmos
to perceive where this would take us again- and again.

As fate would have it,
In every universal tear  
we are
together always

A backwards code
never to be deciphered
perhaps, not in words
but in tone and more importantly
in a ribbon wrapped song

A song of us—
crossing oceans and aging old,
but if not love and cherishing one another
was it not worth our weight in gold,
as we are richer than one man
together you & I.

held close,
hand in hand.

their is a song in my
head that will not go away
whatever i do does not help it go away

it comes back and i think pending on what
what i think about on what
the words mean and the meanning behide them and i add them to a song

everday when i wake up a new song pops up and i write it down
and im done w a new pome or song hoping that it will get out

and people will love

people reading them and knowing what i mean makes me feel good
and knowing that i am doing what i love to do

I wrote this 4 my daughter when she was 7 , I and gave her  the pome with a rock ,handmade painted gold with little gems set.



I know Iam simple but I hope you play with me.
For Iam whatever you dream me to be.
Maybe you found me at the bottom of the deepest
blue sea or,I  rolled down an enchanted hill and landed at your feet.
Lets say "I fell from the sky a peice off sun Iam.
Maybe you have a secret you must just tell.
If you have a wish you could always tell me, for Iam whatever you want me to be.
I know iam simple.

I  gave this pome to my daughter when she was 16,, after a hard few years,,

I know I am simple but
Hope you would have shared with me.
For Iam who ever you want me to be.
I no longer have enchanted powers like i did before.
So I wont tell you fairytales anymore.
The hard line is life has changed me.
Iam still your rock and grounded,
Just  a little batter ad bruised and a bluey shaed of grey.
I love you in the same way.
I know Iam simple,
One day
I hope you can share with me and forget the past.
Il always be your rock with hidden gems,
Il always be your friend.
I know I am simple,
But please share with me,For Iam whatever you dream me to be.

This rock.
Like life will one day turn to sand,Il come back as the beauitful sell that Iam.

lock

One day a man name Arthur his friend max. They went in the wood it was dark they went to find the dog .
Then they fell in a bomb shelter. Then the door shut they find the dog they find a switch for the lite .They wear trap the good side is  they have food.

Day2 they got 1 can to eat they found cards but they had no signal on their phones we played  so we
played cards
Day3  we got bord so we tried to get out we can't it opins on the outside then we ate a can
Day4 it is max's b day  we can't celebrate it
Day??  We had 6 cans in these days we have 95 cans left
Day23 We think we find a plugin we carg our phones  we have games but they get boring
Day 24 we get out from lile and we were glad

They say the bipolars are shamans
But I have no drum

I had a curious dream
I also like dim sum

In but not of America
Homelessly i roam

Why philosophy?
Plato is my tome.

          Pome.