"poppa" poems
If I should have a son,
Instead of mom, he's gonna call me Support
That way he knows, no matter what happens, I'll be there to hold open the heavy doors.
And I'm gonna paint the solar systems on the fronts of his game controllers
So he has to learn the entire universe before he can say "I'll school you in that!"
And he's gonna learn that this life will bury you
Deep
Underground
Wait for you to claw your way out just to throw dirt in your eyes
But not being able to see which way is up is the only way to remind your pupils how much they enjoy the beauty of this earth
And there is hurt here, that cannot be fixed by alcohol or drugs
So when he realizes Superman isn't coming, I'll make sire he doesn't have to wear the cape all by himself
"And sweetie" I'll tell him, "dont let your head get so big"
I know that trick, I've seen it a million times,
you're just looking to impress that pretty girl on the cheer squad who picks on other kids to adjust her own self worth
Or better yet, date the girls getting picked on, then dump her to adjust YOUR self worth.
But I know he will anyways
So I'll always keep an extra supply of "I taught you betters" and "Treat girls rights"
Even though all boys learn that at a young age...
Okay, most boys don't,
But that's what moms are for
They'll teach you to be amazing husbands if you let them.
When he opens his hands to catch, and drops the ball
When the girl he likes says no to going on that date with him
when it feels like the world is crashing in
Those are the days he has all the more reason to say thank you,
because there is nothing more beautiful than the way the sun refuses to stop kissing the horizon, no matter how many hours it must spend spinning away.
And yes, on a scale of one to greatest, moms pretty much know it all
But I want him to know that this world will throw curveballs that I can't see
And he can't be afraid to put on his mitt and catch it himself
"And sweetie" I'll tell him
Remember your momma is a queen, and your poppa is a king
and you are the boy with big eyes and a willing heart who never stops trying
Your aren't big yet, but don't stop growing
And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip peer pressure and sin under your door and give you hand outs on street corners of druggies and defeat.
you tell them
that they really outta meet
Your Mother
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
This morning, out in lightly falling snow, I heard geese
as flights of them flew overhead. Like a shot
I was ten again, Grammy and I at the lake. I’d sit in the bow
of my canoe, pulled awkwardly ashore, neck craned back to watch the sky.
I was always sad to see them go; their calls so many cold goodbyes.
Ice encrusted water slushed against the dock in slow motion waves.
It was time to seek new horizons, where waves
of Floridian waters would embrace the geese.
My grandmother said that every new adventure started with goodbyes
to one thing or another. If I were ever to have a shot
at following my dreams, there’d be farewells as I reached for the sky.
Instinct would lead me onward to my accomplished bow.
One year Momma and Poppa Goose stayed behind, a nest in the bow
of my boat. The wintery sky turned black with departing waves.
They would call out as the flying ones filled the sky.
Wounded wing grounded Poppa. (Canada geese
mate for life.) Momma would not leave her mate, recently shot
during hunting season. She would not yet say her goodbyes.
This, then, was the winter of no cold goodbyes.
Before school, pony tailed hair with ribboned bow,
blowing in the stiff breeze, I’d take a shot
at keeping ice from the edge of the lake, waves
arrowing out as they swam. The geese,
with an itch in their wings, anxious for a return to their sky.
That summer Poppa introduced his flock to the sky,
practiced formational takeoffs leading to goodbyes.
Clouds overhead gathered gray with unfallen snow as the geese
took flight. My two watching for a moment, dipping heads in an elegant bow,
before joining in the aerial ballet of strong winged waves.
Grammy’s strong hand gripped my shoulder, then-- the parting shot.
Grammy joined the geese beyond the horizon. No miracle shot
or endless love could keep her with me. Heaven was in the sky.
I knew she was watching although there’d been no time for final waves.
Her new adventure started without time for goodbyes.
Outside, snow blanketed as I cried myself to sleep. Her final bow
had been silent, but she’d been telling me, as had the geese.
Overhead the geese are shaftless arrows shot
from an instinctual bow piercing the morning sky
with their raucous goodbyes. Time waves.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC
not since nor silk.
Mother's milk for the generations.. yes she was .
Greeted Lindbergh on touchdown.
Society clone. Rich ************* could not leave her alone. Tall tale teller.Paperback
construct. Stepping into the ball with no invitation and stopped the music and conversation.
Pale skinned poser.
Gettin over.
Her daddy was a man of means.
Hired by the Majesties to count jellybeans.
He loved the local **** to the tune of
Poppa was a rollin stone.
The magistrates and potentates in the republic of bananas. Pinkys up tea sippers .
Could not get hold of collective zippers.
Faded portrait. long dead poser.ball buster. Pretty as crystal.Tough as pig iron.
She was high flying flapper. Cutting a rug. Charleston,Jitterbug. Short skirt flirt. Grandma ?
Smokin hot and smokin when women did not dare. C.O.P.D. and a hacking cough came the pipers toll. The Wages.
Just keeping it real.
Slip sliding away.
Drove a Jalopy.
Aiee Pahpi chulo. Bestin May West with a smaller life jacket.
Turn the century.
Trench warfare.
Over the top.The war to end all ? shiiiit. Great Grandma
was a show stopper. To the very end.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
Low and wide
against the tide
A partisan -
a part of him
un - fascistionable
Poppa's boat -
- Pablo's mujer
Pilar -
for us her story
well told
- For whom
the bell tolls.
r ~ 10/19/14
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
i woke up to the sound of my mother's crying,
i knew that she wouldn't be lying,
she said that my poppa is gone,
i feel helpless like i'm just a pawn,
my heart slowly started to break,
my body then started to shake,
i covered up my emotions,
and went through the motions,
i tried not to feel,
to not be real,
now i hurt,
because he's in the dirt.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
Poppa,
You left me. I mean, you were always there, but in part.
You didn't leave the house. You left my heart.
You left my trust, shattered. You left me angry.
You left me confused.
You claim to love me. You claim you're proud.
But, when I open my mouth you just shut me down.
Am I not that important? Do you care?
If so, could you show it?
I know your 'bride' is important. I really do.
But don't forget, I am HALF of you.
Your DNA runs through me. You made me.
Well, physically.
Emotionally, you've destroyed me. Did you know?
I guess you couldn't. I'd die before I'd let it show.
You say I'm stubborn. Yeah, I guess I am.
You taught me that.
I'm just trying to make you proud. Sorry, I've failed.
But how would you be, if your father bailed?
Bailed emotionally, no support. Just physically there.
Yeah, it's made me tough.
Poppa, I miss you. I know things won't be the same.
But I'm really tired. I'm bruised from this game.
Poppa, I'll accept you back, I really will.
I still love you, Poppa.
{Jo(e)}
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
Poppa's hands are wore and aged
They have seen a century of history
All the wrinkles and scars from the years
Life made it's mark, the world has issued its sentence.
Poppa's hands were once strong and steady
Sweating and bleeding in the fields
Holding the weapons of war, holding the hand of a fallen soldier
Gentle and Hard at the same time
Fighting the evil of a **** Nation
Protecting and Serving with every motion
Struggling to use a pen to write to his love at home
Wiping away tears, all at the young age of 17
Poppa's Hands are gentle and wise
Holding a baby with a twinkle in his eye
Watching the child grow, catching each fall
Supportive and harsh, strict and kind
Poppa's Hands held mine through the years
Guided me through his garden, working with the land
Running his hands through the dirt
Picking the fruit and vegetables provided by our lord
Poppa's hands gave to his fellow man
Always willing to lift another soul up
Poppa's hands supported my Nanna in her final days
Held and stroked her skin until the very end.
Poppa's hands are now to weak to move
Unable to lift his great granddaughter in the sky
Unable to climb a tree
Unable to be what they were once
Now I can hold my Poppa's hand and pray
Pray to guide poppa's hands to his true home
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 4:12 PM UTC
Across town, there’s no across. It’s just the town.
The dogs being fed by master, master toys,
Makes dogs bend, cower, quiver, then shoots dog
Out of the bow. Dog gnaws air through gritted fangs,
Finalizes his stupidity, gives up on his own self-confidence,
And lets it roar with a hand up his ***
The pigeons coo, cluck, **** fly,
Coo, cluck, **** fly,
Coo, cluck, **** fly.
Foxes run around the yard chasing tails,
Motives based in circles,
Saving slowing down and puking for death
as they Yap like pups.
Master watches from a high gallery
of Windexed windows so clean,
That you can see master’s muscles tightening as master laughs.
happiness and darkness.
Cars, trains, automobiles,
Flying machines, high ideas, fulfillment,
Continuation, carbon and all things irrelevant,
Master loves you.
In town, Pop tells the kids he’s on his way,
Mama shatters into a million brilliant pieces,
And Grandad’s sigh comes out his mouth with the care of a habit.
The kids are corralled into the basement to play,
mess with each others genitals, and put on azalea dresses
And heavy suits with black ties.
With all the venom of moths
They let their little mouths flutter in the dark,
as Mama and Poppa hurl everything they can.
Master gets drunk on equilibrium,
High on acid, perks, dipped bud,
Brushes teeth with alcohol
And spits out his/her teeth in the morning.
Way after the dogs were put to bed to tuck their tails in their legs,
The foxes following suit, the pigeons in the middle of the mess, somewhere.
Mom, Pop, Kids, Grandad, finished talking in low voices around 11:16 pm.
As they shredded the charade, ashamed at all its pieces,
Their mouths watered; I have no hope.
Across town, it’s not a town,
It’s a random house.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
Make something of yourself son,
Cause you know daddy ain't gonna.
I know you aren't bitter boy
Wipe them tears from your cheeks
Be the man your poppa shoulda been
Sonny don't cry yourself to sleep
But mom, walk in my shoes
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
I know only this,
With you died my bliss.
Why had you to go,
When I loved you so?
What in my love
Was there not enough of
For you not to see
You were needed by me?
Just a selfish act
Without thought of impact,
Of how it would destroy
Me, your little boy?
I want you back
From your self-attack,
From your self-hate.
Come out of that crate!
I won't let them bury you
Or away let them to carry you
I refuse to desert
My daddy to dirt.
Why did you flee
In a way which would be
Such forever unending a leave
Bequeathing me only to grieve?
Why did you hate me
Leave me, forsake me?
I loved you with all that I had,
Daddy forgive me if I made you mad.
Come back poppa, please
I'm here on my knees
Begging, please don't be gone;
Tell me this is just some con.
I Loved You! I Love You!
I Hate that I Love You!
For now love is only deep pain
From love now there's nothing to gain.
-From the Author-
And hopefully this
Explains why I dis,
And will have no pity
For a 'poetic' suicide ditty.
Just such selfish gusts
From self-absorbed egotists
Playing as the word is a toy
That wrecked the heart of this boy.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 8:59 PM UTC
he wasn’t so much a peddler
(as many had quietly assumed)
more of a rural shuffler
or social inchworm
than a mover and a shaker
but boy
could he dish out those jabs
and ad lib on a whim
and draw sweet melodies
from that broken 6 string
all night long
carving out reflections
oh, those deep intuitive divinations!
steadily preaching
on the breathtaking joys
and fruits
of the vibrant land
*grow your own
seeds to be sown
clean and green
a nourishing machine!*
silver linings (straight from truth room)
clearly seen
from those uncompromised
garden views
casting his baited lines
from softly pebbled shores
(his nanna, and poppa
were there, years before)
giving grace…
and basking deeply
in the bounty of the fenua
his love of life was insatiable
moving from town to town
to nourish his soul
digging way beyond the deep
for that shrouded purpose
that soulful existence
that many spend a lifetime
looking to find
three boats settle
in the quiet harbor
a net shed basking in the sand
peaceful and serene
(with a hint of emerald green)
Sunset red
with crawfish (and lemongrass)
to keep us
bountifully fed
Nov 7, 2021
Nov 7, 2021 at 4:29 PM UTC
Multicolored streamers and confetti
decorate the room.
They hang from the wineglass rack
and family members alike.
Frank Sinatra sings with all his might,
but the orchestra of noise makers and laughter
plays a more beautiful tune.
Eyes wide open and observant
I soak in la fiesta.
Poppa twirls Nenita
around the kitchen,
Uncle plays a tune on la guitara,
some sing along,
primos play Mother May I
in the hall,
and everyone drinks
to health,
to love,
to money,
and to time.
Papo cracks the champagne.
Las tias gather the troops
to prepare for the toast!
Los ninos lift empty glasses
“We want some too!”
receiving the un-intoxicating
alternative instead.
Wishing to be older.
Wanting the real thing.
A toast is said in unison,
for it is one we all know.
It is one that I am old enough for.
“Salud, amor, pesetas, y
tiempo para gastalo”
then we all drink
to health
to love
to money
and time to enjoy it all.
Dean Martin sings with all his might,
But the laughter and merriment
play a more memorable tune.
The morning sun
will take us our separate ways,
so for now we drink
to what matters most.
Salud, amor, pesetas,
y tiempo para gastalo.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
I'm Runnin Jews like Lil Dicky
Run the Jewels, and Ricky
With soso flow of Biggie
Ever since I quit the ciggie
Livin life straight propper
Givin props to Big Poppa
I'm off the spliffs and poppas
Writin riffs for beats that drop ya
Lingerie ladies who have
Curved bodies tight Mercedes
Hot as Hades 420 degrees
Just hot enough to chrisp my cheese
Torchin these trees
Straight from Belieze
Blowin Bolivian keys up they ***
As their friends ends they pass
None of y'all thought this Jew could last
Two days past your last meal
Didn't really know how to feel
Cause I ****** you so raw
Y'all got mistook for veal
That means hyper tender
No allussion to child *** offender
Call me a money stack lender
Back ****** but never a pretender
If I split her in half
God'll have ta mend her
This **** is known to send ya
Into bliss quick
That feeling'll stick
When the tip touch they lower lip
They get oil slick
Just the thought get's 'em hotta than a candle wick
Though you know I don't flow with no trick
Start off slow so we can show each other
Our flame be sure not to smother
Like an over protective mother
Reflect on it while it's lit
Climb inside my mind
See how I visualize thee
Undress and become pantiless
You're sittin on my face
I impress with the pace
I carress your **** with tongue
Spell sinless you'll be a wet well
When you see how well I'm hung (do tell)
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 7:43 AM UTC
That “Grand Idea” of traveling
going with the Snowbirds
as in herds
Changing with the Seasons...
For what ever reasons...
Changed when seven pounds
of squirm and delight
was cradled in my arms-
five years ago that night
Instant Love as from Above
Never to cease, never to release
a 24/7 little boy, Tony Boy,
(and Lucy too)
Filling my life with Joy.
I wondered at times
how it would be...
Retired...
Just my wife
and me.
And when I weighed the cost
Thought of the loss
Someone else called “Grandpa”.
The little voices saying “Grandpa!”, “Poppa!”
Rang louder still, louder beyond all measure
than all the sites and sounds the world could offer.
No other decision was possible to make
Than to spend my life raising my “children”
Building memories, building lives.
Instilling character the only way I know...
Loving and living,
and when necessary -- using words.
My “children” will live their life,
living memories,
giving memories,
creating memories,
of times when they were young
Saying, “I love you Grandpa.”
“I love you Poppa.”
Hearing, “I love you too my child.”
Knowing, “See you in the morning.”
Refers to Heaven.
“The greatest love you can show
is to give your life for your family.”
(It is a paraphrase but
consider the original Author.)
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 8:29 PM UTC
The wharf was busy; it was a Saturday and the sun was high in the sky. Strangely enough, it was hot. She wanted to get to the deYoung in time.
Eliza pulled impatiently on the hand and pulled her toward the circle of people, who were no doubt watching a street urchin or a performer.
“No, honey,” her mother said, “not today.” Eliza didn’t listen and ran up, wedging herself between the bodies of bystanders.
“Look, mommy! It’s a game.”
The man was a con, Marie knew this. She let Eliza gander.
“One dollar a play, ladies and gents,” the man said, “sorry sweetheart, kids aren’t allowed.” Eliza looked up at her mommy and pushed a dollar in to her hand. Not wanting a scene, Marie smiled and put it down.
“Just once, darling,” she said through whitened teeth and a botoxed smile. She didn’t know why she was doing this. It came to her in the moment and so she acted.
The man put a ball in the cup and told her to watch so she did. His hands were swift and mesmerizing. She knew that the ball was under the right one. She pointed. He lifted. It wasn’t there. Eliza wanted to know if she could play and if not why. Her mother told her that it was a big girl game and little girls couldn’t play. Eliza started crying so Marie put down another dollar and let her watch, just to get her to shut up. The man twisted to cups again and she failed. It happened again. And again, and again. The deYoung would close, she knew, but nothing could compare to the feeling of winning. In the end, the man got twenty of her dollars. The museum wasn’t so important.
When they were in the Saint Francis’s elevators, Marie bent down and smiled at Eliza.
“When poppa asks, dear, remember: we went to the museum and had a splendid time.”
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
I've met so many people
In this one lifetime
Befriending faces and so many names
Often only for but brief, moments
A few will stick around for a while
Rarest are for a life time
All with qualities, short-comings
and vis-versa, but none closer to perfect
Devotion from one person to another
is a rare blessing to be had
But from mans' best friend it's a given
To a man that friend devotes all of his attention
Always ready and willing to lather on the affection
Happy with just the pat on his soft head, with it, he is in heaven
Will I ever know another soul like him?
One that will never purposely harm or mistreat me for no good reasons?
In my opinion that answer is a resounding NO
No, not man, not a woman, no human not ever
Because not a man alive could ever handle the heart of our dogs' burden
That of our best friends, of our k9 companions
Unselfish, and unquestioning devotion will never be a humans
No, our burden is simply the curse that we out live them
So that as they pass from where we know and love them,
Into the place that we can not simply look down and pat them
I pray that place has someone just as awesome waiting for them
Someone who makes them a world to live in and celebrates every second they share with them
Asking nothing back from them... And While we all just keep going on...
Heartbroken, but profoundly and fiercely proud to have ever known them.
We might hope and pray daily...
One day, when it's our day... Might just be when,
we look down and again
there we find that beloved friend... Right then,
and realize that heart has never forgotten...
Smiling at us... Tail wagging...
Because this time he knows we'll never separate from him.
As we both walk on as is destined.
When the hard work is done,...
Distractions of living are all gone...
Finally we can pay them their due attention.
And never be mean,.. nor take them again for granted...
Only believe in... nor be separated from them...
It'll be our time together in what surely must be heaven.
Dogs hearts will forever be the greatest love, this man will ever learn to miss so badly...
As I will. I will miss you so very badly Scrappy, and you too Toby. Good Doggies!... I'll only regret every day I must live with out them. Til my work too is finished boys... Till then enjoy your new friends.
your poppa...
Jack.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
Life belongs to Monday morning.
Still, I'm haunted by Sunday teatime.
Scones in the parlour at the back of the house.
With mamma and poppa and sweet baby Jayne.
Toasted crumpets together,and drank hot cups of tea.
The crumpets were toasted upon a huge open fire.
Jayne had been sleeping in the cot by the door.
Too young to eat crumpets and scones, she's not allowed tea.
The baby still sleeping remains in the parlour.
It's warmer in there.
And so to the drawing room with round rosewood table.
Nature of the cloth thereupon changed.
It's marked with the symbols of a, b and c.
A painted on canvass that ends with a zee.
It's crimson, edged with gold.
In the centre a YES and a NO.
Centrally placed a wine glass.
Knock knock on the door.
Now there are five.
Tonight the table may come alive.
They're hoping.
A standard lamp, rather dated stood in the corner.
Had a scarlet shade with golden tassels.
They sit round the table.
It's just what they did.
Fingers on glass.
They're calling out.
"Is anybody there?"
The room becomes chilled.
Atmosphere stifling.
Glass moves around the circle.
A...R...I....E.....L.....spellbinding.
'Twas the spirit of the dark poet,Plath.
Darkness from sorrow, no more tomorrow.
Another spirit in attendance.
Takes Sylvia by the hand.
Into the light, escorted by guide.
Goodbye sorrowed poet.
Walked into the light.
Goodnight.
Sleep tight.
(c) Livvi MMCV
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC
There I see stardust,
in your bright eyes,
spinning galaxies of grey,
while some might say they're blue,
though it's not for them to say,
& all I know right now,
is my sun has gone away.
As I'm your Mother Earth,
& you're my dearest Sun,
you're shining on my heart,
& my relief when days are done,
a satisfying feeling,
in the victories we've won.
I sometimes call you poppa,
as I rub your happy tummy,
guess momma done it right,
cuz I cooked you somethin' yummy,
You are the only magic,
my heart has ever known,
cuz I'm doomed without your light,
I cannot do it all alone,
I am weary,
I am tired,
I'm a quickly aging bone,
You taught me toughen up
say it ain't as if you're dying,
you seem like you don't care,
only sometimes when I'm crying,
I know that you do love me,
but I feel I love you more,
I'd walk across a fire,
& swim to distant shore
I know that it's the truest love,
in this I can't ignore,
Your heart is where my home is,
& I couldn't say it truer,
& I love you more tonight,
as my days are getting fewer,
I see you try to help,
you wouldn't just keep tryin'
it's not too much your sold on,
or them theories that you're buyin',
You helped me see the beauty
now please I ask see mine,
I'm not asking for your sympathy,
or to set up for me a shrine,
I only want your hand,
to walk with me awhile,
down the old back roads,
and then on the longest mile,
you are the ONLY one,
who can bring,
my happy smile.
Cherie Nolan © 2017
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 10:00 AM UTC
Momma,
This isn't going to rhyme like the one to Poppa.
This is simply going to be my thoughts.
My feelings.
Nothing complex, but not simple.
I miss you, and I know it's not your fault.
But who's fault is it? You see,
I can't blame Poppa, or God.
So, who can I blame?
Sometimes, I blame myself.
Crazy, right?
How could I be the one who made you die?
Your heart just wasn't strong enough.
Maybe I broke it one too many times.
Maybe I stressed you out to the point,
it just stopped.
Maybe it is my fault.
Mom, I just miss you so much.
Why can't I talk to you?
Why can't I call you up when I need to?
Most people my age can, and do.
But I can't.
And I don't.
I wish I could reach through the veil.
I wish I could touch your face.
I wish I could talk to you.
Mom, life is a living hell.
And I can't get any advice from you.
I wish I could.
But I can't.
I'd trade places with you in a heart beat.
Then you could help the others with life.
But, that'd be selfish.
You'd be in pain.
You'd be sick.
And I'd be at peace.
That's not fair to you.
I guess life isn't fair.
I guess I'll have to learn to be okay with that.
If that's possible.
How does one become okay,
knowing that they have to live without their best friend?
I don't know.
But I'll figure it out.
Somehow.
I love you Momma
{Jo(e)}
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC
driven to the brink of madness
to the edge of insanity
standing on the corner
bracing for the fall
push me dear stranger
give me what i deserve
you don't know what i've done
you don't know what i've learned
come on old pal
laugh in my face
tell me what you've told me
time and time again
hey little fella
show me a smile
i'm holding still for you
but only for a while
oh momma oh poppa
don't you frown
this is so hard for me
but i've already let you down
faux friends, faux friends
where are you now
you saw this coming
no need to ask how
*i'm not dying
i'm just going away.
a bird migrating for the winter-
but indefinitely,
to-stay.*
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
My summer sweats bloom from a grass rag,
Scratch another hardly blasting out a calibrate,
Can I break, strap out hacker doozy bluemoors,
Caught from an out sound, an out frowned
Blackening the coffin sweet cough lubricate,
Shackle high tops on pipe dream loft shakers,
Clover feelers, four hitter on lucky seven collar,
Depth sin protector, **** I ain't wrath looter,
Nor do poppa sizes on some puke lips locker,
Key switch for gates hellish donor, back loner,
Course you see, I seek seep suckled *****
Not some subtle soul (gap in skirt) poker,
Forever reaching lines, bust knuckle lifters,
Cracked rage like Nile is flooding wealths curlers,
Jewel duplicate for ruby cuts on roofless lust,
Symbolise another and I'll grabble force an honour,
Sober up soppy crotch rummage coper,
Scan cell prison ament Scholar's "repent!"
Mace battle X axel swop blunt round passel,
Cost more on pepper rubber rock relation,
Patient prep operation, cramp dilation,
Dial engage **** sudden blocked injection.
Cast nocturnals ominous above monuments,
Men fall like weak's race for joy's division,
Attend pro's vision, pure as skies probations,
Pack pampers protection tracks premonition,
Flat lines before lap times, clenching half rhymes,
Hop hotter than blues croft in dusks knots,
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
i am nine
and learning
by osmosis
secret women's business or
the art of pie making
production line style
to the uniniated
i sit perched on a stool
in the corner, out of the way
boxed in by fruit
it is a heady place to be
as scents of apricots(bought)
blackberries and apples mingle
sweet woody and exotic,
with the citrus tang
of zested lemon that sits
in an ever growing
pryamid on the table.
ginger and cinnamon motes
float in the oven warm air
and flour clouds the room
and settless in drifts
and dusts the collection of bowls
on the table
my mother aunt
and mrs blunt,the neighbor,
bustle about the room....
my aunts girth designates her as chief baker
and she rolls out pastry with
gusto...fat arms swinging
penduously, humming to herself.
mrs blunt is the pie filler
adept at judging the mix
and making the gelatonious
gooey syrups filled with sugar
and spice, chopped crab apple
and lemon zest.
mother is the friuter, she peels
destones and cores
chopping up apples, apricots and peaches...
leaving berries and cherries intact(sans pips)
and then later she mans the ovens
watching for the golden crust
and bubble of pie juice...
before removing
them to cool on poppa jacks
old oval dining table...
me I sit in wonder,
snacking on fruit,
and balls of leftover dough
swooning with the smell
of stewing friut.
Next year my true apprenticeship will start....
Until then, I listen to the murmer of gossip
the passing of secrets,
the bonding of these women....
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 5:00 AM UTC
And the question is, what would have transpired between Sandy and Danny?
Should their paths maybe not have wandered back into each other.
One hell of a collision, met face to face.
Sandy; cute Sandy, would she have settled with ****** Jo Bloggs?
Manic Danny, a soppy dude with heart of gold, around his revolution of teenage mates.
Did his life revolve?
Must of been his age.
Would Sandy still have been quaint, perhaps sickly sweet?
Whoever knows; after all Grease was just a movie full of teenage dreams and raging teenage angst.
Sandy; would she still have been a corrupted wild child?
What would mom and poppa think?
Gee whizz, if this were real; perhaps her parents , well they might have flipped their lids.
They rode out of the movie on a flying fairground ride, did they stay together, or was it never ever?
We never found out, the faithful audience.
For in Grease two, no mention of Sandy or Danny.
(C) LIVVI
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
my first carriage ride
Departing is the summer's balmy air
to welcome cracking cold and falling leaves.
Before we left my my mother'd taken care
to fasten on my mittens to my sleeves.
The foliage was bright, the air was brisk
I walked between my parents faint-clenched hands
and watched the business people rush and whisk
to work. But we were there with different plans:
My poppa propped me up into the car.
the horses both were brown and standing stiff
but like the whirling leaves of fall thus far
My nerves were buzzing crazy. Then a whiff
of something as the carriage moved along
I could not hold my breath for quite that long.
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
Down at the barbershop where the
upbeat finesse fills the scene,
hypnotic basslines and smoking beats
rise from the radio into the
jazzy air.
Various boys and men come
by to get close haircuts, fresh
fades, and dope designs.
Harmonic flows travel across
the shimmering space, bright
waves of excellent taste, a
thrilling serenity of light,
as the barbers create magic
in the brilliant place.
Biggie’s lyrical anthem, Big Poppa,
blazes around the room,
hip-hopping jams full of
deep spins and breaking booms.
Groovy barbers rap to the beat,
spitting fire flaming diction
in glowing dimension, marching
in glorious rhythms, as the
whole masterpiece becomes
a supersonic sea of incessant
boogying and wavy arms,
snapping ankles and dancing
feet, an engine racing extravagance
moving in high flight.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 12:33 PM UTC