"posh" poems
***** ***** I **** *****
***** get ****** when I **** *****
No ifs, ands, and/or buts!
I **** ***** I **** *****
Nice girls are nice, but no good for nut-sucking.
They'll need a serene night to green-light a butt-fucking,
but that'll be easy with ****** ol' slut-fucking!
Boo to the nice girls! Praise be to slut-fucking!
I have a list. A list? Yes, a list of all the ***** I've missed.
I've never ****** or ****** these ***** and thus my nuts are ******* ******
So when I **** the lucky **** my nut removes her from the list---
another dumb cumbucket struck from my nut-sucking,
**** it, **** slut-fucking bucket list.
***** can be white, brown, pink, or almond.
They can be skinny with big **** or skinny with small ones.
***** can be perky, preppy, or posh,
with their brains and their clothes all shrunk from the wash.
But other ***** are pretty and funny and smart.
They can lift your thoughts from your **** to your heart.
They can talk about science, music, or art.
They can put you together or pull you apart.
But don't trust these ***** Don't! Don't you dare!
They'll force you to trust them and love them and care.
And then they'll be gone and then you'll be aware
of that hole in your heart that that dumb **** left there.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
Slipping stocking on silky smooth legs.
Wanting and yearning to turn people's heads.
Dressing up nice in a posh frock.
Knowing people will judge, people will mock.
Applying makeup like a pro,
But needing to keep the status quo.
Styling a wig to look like a girl.
Feeling the butterflies, head in a whirl.
Looking deep at the eyes reflected in the mirror.
Where is the man? can just see a glimmer.
Feeling for a moment that he does belong.
Takes a deep breath, tries to stay strong.
Feeling comfortable within his own skin.
Just slightly visible, hair growth on his chin.
He will not venture out as he's branded a freak.
But really he's normal, maybe a bit weak.
For if he goes out people think he is guy.
He's just like me and you at the end of the day.
Some think he's bisexuality, it's really unfair.
He's just heterosexual with a little more flare.
All he's ever wanted, is to be accepted.
In this current decade still is rejected.
If you gave him a chance you'd see he's real nice.
His heart is so warm, not cold as ice.
He loves with his heart, is caring and tender.
Look deep within, he is only transgender.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
Mud is good,
Its dead good mud,
It's in me blood,
But where not understood,
Us people of mud,
In the shadow of a gas tank and born on a Mersey bank, I lived on cobbled streets dark and dank,
I played on a ship that sank, and for anything else I wouldn’t thank....... you
On king street docks, girls in cheap frocks, curly locks, time tocks, the boat rocks,
The tanyard smell made life hell for all that dwell, under the bridge,
In Garston L19, it’s the scene, its clean, it’s where I’ve been, it’s not obscene or green, if you know what I mean.
Its community security sincerity and every other word that ends with erity,
But it’s fallen apart,
Don’t lose heart.
I go into town when I’m down, it clears me frown,
I don’t go in me jarmies or me dressin gown,
There’s men with round bellies, toddlers in wellies,
Posh ladies gather in their marks and spencer swagger,
There’s scouse brow teens, sunbed queens,
Hunks and punks, lonely drunks,
Suits in boots forgetting their roots and hens in *****
Big issue sellers, statue fellas holding golf umbrellas,
Coz of all the rain,
But it’s all good, coz we come from mud,
Let’s cheer, why?
Coz I’m here,
I’m me, me names T, and me hubbys P me best friends she..... lagh,
I like coffee and toffee and Roger Mcgoughy,
I like statistics logistics eye shadow and lipsticks,
I like bags and wags and cigarette **** but not beer,
I’m fine on wine if I take me time,
I don’t do a line, unless I’m hanging me washing on it,
I work in a bar, not far, I don’t drive a car, and I don’t say Lar or kid or lad or lid or mar,
I’m proud and loud, don’t live on a cloud, and I don’t follow the crowd,
I’m a mum to some, I’ve got a big round *** but I’m me you see,
I’m not square, I dye me hair, I swear but you can take me anywhere,
Coz I care,
I’m good,
I’m mud; it’s in me blood,
Understood
By Christina Ford
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
*I wish I could be enough for you,
I wish I could be your other half
I wish I could please you beyond
the measure of just friends
I wish I could be on your mind
like my sad image in your eye
and the succulent apple of your eye
I wish I could be close to
your soul as I'm usually close to you
I wish I could touch your heart
like I touch your hand
I wish you could also tremble
in my unnoticed presence
I wish the thought of me
could make you sick in my absence
I wish I was as handsome
as he is, with the cash he has
I wish I could also show up
driving myself in the posh cars
I wish I wasn't a tattered
fabric with patches of scars
I wish I amazed you like a
clear night sky filled with stars
I really wish so much,
I wish you could read my mind
and see the million words left
buried, the emotions left behind
I wish I could be the first and last
thought as you sleep and wake
I wish the little I have to give was
the much you crave to take
I wish you could believe when
I say these feelings started at hello
that I die subduing my passion
threatening to overflow
as soon as I set eyes on your
beautiful breathtaking face
you would laugh at how
nervous my heart loses pace
I wish I had the qualities
you are looking out for
a height, light skinned, courageous,
and quite physically fit
but I lack such a physic, those
qualities are embedded
within the core of my invisible
self, a person you can't see
I wish you knew that your presence
throws me in an ecstasy
I wish you knew that I have
burning flames of desire
fueled by my highly flammable
affection which you inspire
I wish you could consider someone
like me,maybe I would reveal
but even if I do you can never
give me an opportunity
I'd make a double loss, swallowing
my pride, that bitter pill
you can't bear someone like me...
you never will
yet I still find myself wishing
you could for real
albeit I too would never
waste your valuable time
dragging you through this
hell of my boring life
I wish I was something more
than a lover of rhyme
maybe then I'd stand a chance
of calling you "Wife"
I wish things were different,
I wish you could know
how much I wish I could be
someone deserving of you
I do, I wish I could be more*
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
Milk!
MILK!
THERE IS NO MILK!
well I'm not
getting out of my pyjamas,
so the cat will have to go
..........
One p.m, a week's ***** dishes in the sink
mind like a bog
.....
& the new radio
doesn't work
.........
MILK!
THERE IS NO MILK!
.....
& I want my coffee
but my purse
has had enough
of spending sprees
a POUND it says?
YOU WANNA SPEND
A QUID?
You *****
You *****
Forget all about that!
You spent everything
on coffee yesterday, remember?
hanging out in posh cafes
& all for what?
There is no milk!
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
There was a chap called Charlie.
Who lived in separation.
In total world of degradation.
Father left when he were nine.
A raging alcoholic.
Charlie, his brother and his mother.
Sent off to the workhouse.
In the land of Lambeth.
No palace.
The family were ushered into areas of segregation.
Mother and children apart in our apparently grand nation.
Product of shame documented by satirists.
Dickens's favourite topic.
Poor folks made poorer,
In workhouses designed to embarrass.
Those already destitute,
Not by choice for sure.
Only crime being poor.
Dignity stripped.
Destroyed of heart.
Wrecked in health
To reduce their being even more.
God help you if you were not fit.
**** of the earth, you were purged.
We the Brits now get benefits,
Be grateful that we do.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Charlie found extreme success.
When as a film star of the silent kind.
With a plaque on the wall of his once posh house in Vauxhall.
His surname it was Chaplin!
By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
They are silent and beautiful,
gorgeous in in the white halo,
cemented in a beautiful terrazzo,
baring the names of fallen soldiers,
the European soldiers that fell in Wars;
second and first and the heinous silent wars,
i hope this is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre,
only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian.
Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa,
in India , panama , Latin America and europe,
the active fronts in which the allies fought ******
they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas,
in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa,
in Matisi when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar,
They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved
on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires,
which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman
in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands,
he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard,
for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption.
I walk around the commonwealth graveyards,
in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire,
looking for the names of African soldiers ,
who died in thousands fighting for the queen
the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth,
Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with
the second duce Benito son of Mussolini,
fighting for Hitler,for Shintos in the European war,
i have seen no name of any African,
I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo,
who was conscripted into the first world war,
Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo,
Biket back after seven years in 1918,
carrying Wandabwa's Belt,
Wandabwa died in the field,
Where was he buried, he is nowhere
Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries,
I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo,
who was conscripted in 1940,
to fight against ******
he was conscripted on his nuptial evening,
even before he had had the first ***
with his new wife, he went away crying,
he never came back, his name is nowhere in the graves
the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen,
Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world.
you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt,
whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen,
you hear someone is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya,
or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya,
you meet a man that is of the circumcision age group,
Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini,
Keya is subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR
the African sound for KAR is Keya,
in reference to mass conscription of Africans
into the KAR, to fight ******
A child born during that time is Keya,
A man circumcised during the time
is in the age group of Keya,
A simple lesson in regard to our people,
taken away to fight the colonial power
and left to died and rot away in the bush
with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial,
that come along with the death of soldiers,
who passed away in the battle field.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
I See. There is a Channel you Subscribe
And plan your Craft with these High-End Personnel
Promote this Sport; From The Cliff's Humble Dive
And boost Ability you know so well
So does it Groom even more with your Age
And fix your Profile to this Pineapple
Eyes locked perpet; And skipped the Skillful Page
For Economy you chose to Stumble
There are Others below; Watching your Board,
Hoping this same Posh Meal they could Partake
If only they had - Quids and Statues - hoard,
Which in Bankruptcy their Moments forsake.
Only one Word, which will dry their Sore Tears
Flex their Rosy Cheeks; And live-out your Years.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
HE always gets the higher rank,
Not just HIM but any
Of the fall soldiers.
What do they fulfill,
That you are missing,
Are you troubled behind closed doors?
You have a youth of your very own,
Standing right here,
Tacitly craving just a loving expression.
You wound me when you advise tactfully,
that I should vacate,
So you and your vernal pibe,
Can take in abortive entertainment.
Little did I know,
Lounging in the same environs,
Was a taboo in the posh palace.
I would reflect,
Reimagine & rationalize.
If you neglect to
You may find a solitary soul.
My heart hopes for the highest,
But days past tell me otherwise.
Humans argue, fuss and struggle,
But those who,
Value and treat unconditional loves,
Warmheartedly get the real pleasure.
If I ride off from this declining,
Tormenting cliff, like a lost knight,
Know why.
&
When things get distressing,
Maybe then you will understand.
Love & Art,
Offspring
1991-20??
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
Nima showed me
her aunt's apartment
in London. Posh place,
up market. She had
her own key to get in,
and once we entered,
she closed the door
behind us and leaned
against it like one having
found the Promised Land.
So what do you think?
She asked. Lovely place.
Does she live here alone?
No, she has a daughter;
moody ***** has her
own crowd, sort of in-lot.
We wandered around,
room to room and stood
at last in the kitchen.
Coffee? Tea? She asked.
Tea, please, two sugars,
little milk, I replied.
Take a seat in the lounge,
I'll bring it through.
I went in the lounge;
posh place, a settee
of white soft material,
chairs brown, aged,
but antique and fragile
looking. There were
paintings on the walls,
water colours, rural,
country scenes, horses,
fox hunts, red coated
hunters, hedges, trees.
There was a large table,
armchairs, lovely carpet,
and a lampshade in one
corner. Nima came in
carrying a tray with two
cups in saucers, spoons,
sugar bowl, jug of milk.
She put it down on a small
coffee table by the settee.
She sat down next to me
and kissed my cheek.
At last,she said, just us,
alone, no nosey parkers,
no nurses or medical
quacks to interfere or
spoil our fun or lives.
I sat gazing around
the room. You been
here before? Of course,
as a child I often came
and stayed if my parents
were too busy with their
careers or away on the
matters medical. I smelt
her perfume, sensed her
thigh touch mine, soft,
moving against mine.
Why were you sectioned?
I asked, looking at her.
Drugs and a sudden mental
breakdown and attempts
on my life by me, she said.
I see, I said, studying her
closer, each aspect of her
features. Forget that, she
said, lets drink up our drinks
and get to bed and have ***
Whose bed? The spare, not
Aunt's, she said, smiling.
Is it a single or double bed?
Double with silk sheets, so
watch out you don't slip out
of bed while having it away.
We drank our drinks quickly,
then she showed me the bath
and the toilet and the bedroom.
What if your aunt returns?
She's in Ireland with her moody
daughter, won't be back until
Monday week, Nima said.
First a bath together, then
hot ***** *** in bed, she said.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
A woman rests like a bud with poise
Smiling at the echoes of the posh world's voice
She is the cloud that carries the rain
Giving life to man's soul parched from anxieties and pain
Her value is more than all the world's treasures,
Not just the sum of scale's unit measures
To teach her the kiss of fame
And help her bloom in society like a flower
Few steps far to rule the science of space
Some working hard to make it swirl in daze
Some writing books down in the meadows
While some dance like divas casting beautiful shadows
And some are tender enough to tend to sick people
With supreme motherly love and the wisdom of peepal
Some express the feelings by the magic of their paint brush,
Which is auctioned pretty high to empty others purse
In the midst of these successful women
There does exist a fearsome creature we call men
When will the sun rise in the sky
And bring those hidden buds talents to life
To conquer the world with their passions
And make the world shiver in awe by their fashion
To come up in life with a mission
Possessing colorful profession
And one should understand that
A woman is the pillar of a temple foundation
Where a man comes and goes with renewed inspirations
A woman is the flesh that holds the seed
The miracle of birth fullfilling human need
A woman is the mother of a new generation
And only we can be the direction of that aspiration
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
The night becomes you -
hair coiffed in fashion
illuminated eyes reveal attraction,
the scent of body oil
pervasive,
ambient music evolves
persuasive
savory rhetoric,
cabernet erodes my inhibition
no contrition, turn the ignition.
The night becomes you -
you wear it well
an amalgam,
ardor and insouciance -
redefining glamour,
ephemeral moments
dial down the sunlight,
I am slain - voice and accent
weave their spell;
black dust coat, white hat,
a pair of posh boots
they live to tell.
The night becomes you
rhyme scheme - lyrical poetry
sophisticated venue, table for two
ensconced, the
leather lounge,
similitude within difference;
undulation - cadences of
counterpoint -
poise and peril of duality
we inhabit the floor.
Postprandial, conversation extempore;
machinations of intoxicating discourse,
I could drink your words -
artistic milieu- beguiling imagery,
sonant susurrations
penetrate my being.
The night becomes you -
theoretical locutions
phrasing depth and humor,
undiluted amour, tensions resolve
frame by frame,
solidify the affair
and validate the rumor
subsumed in sequence, pulsating,
igniting the sapid interior flame
silver screen ending,
effusive reviews
two hearts collide and form one;
the cherub's arrow finds its aim.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
Let me take you out to lunch
Mrs Bryce said
(she was a middle aged dame
old enough to be his aunt)
o.k if you like
he said
but her friend Lilly
didn't like the idea
(some jealousy
of the lesbian kind
maybe he later thought)
and was quite reserved
as they went to
the posh upstairs restaurant
he one side
and they opposite
Lilly giving him
the cool stare
her pinched mouth
wrinkled forehead
Mrs Bryce studied
the menu
her glasses on
her eyes focused
what you having Lilly?
she asked
and Lilly scanned
her menu and picked out
something in French
and then she asked him
and he said
o the stew will do
and the waitress came
and took their orders
and went off
wagging her behind
which he noticed
but they didn't
being that part
sexually blind
and then came
the small talk
the casual chat
or this and that
and Lilly straight faced
thin lipped
and icy eyes stare
but he knew
what Lilly didn't
she had no idea
about the ***
or how the middle aged
dame had it still
could still turn on the fire
could **** off his desire
but Mrs Bryce
never said a word
not a hint
she wore her middle age
and middle class morals
very well
a mask of gentility
or cultured good humour
good manners on show
but he knew
she was hot
and could go
(her husband
some middle aged guy
with sourness
and boredness
in each greying eye)
and she sat there
giving it the small talk
sipping the wine
one finger raised
her eyes pure
as cut glass
behind the specs
and Lilly listened
in soft admiration
wanting to be nearer
breathing in
Mrs Bryce's scent
dreaming of the two of them
doing whatever in
some bedroom spent
but he had the real
not a dream
and as he watched
Mrs Bryce sipping
her wine
thin lips
on thin glass
he remembered her
that time lying there
bright eyes
greying but dyed hair
he bringing her
to a seventh heaven
of yes and yes
and more
and Lilly sour faced
sitting and listening
to the small talk
but wanting
something other
for sure.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
Small things Remembered
The shop at the corner
Of my childhood
Has stopped selling Danish pastry
Nor has it Coco macrons,
Milk and cheese
The rooms are bare
On its counter cutting cheeses in smaller portion
An old fashion weight
Used when selling butter
Dusty windows
Forgotten, no one says: remember where
We bought our milk?
The bell that rang when opening it door
Will not chime anymore
Perhaps someone will buy it and make it
Into a wine-bar, it is the trend now
They are trying to make us into posh alcoholics,
And I have a sudden hunger for Danish pastry.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 5:54 AM UTC
"unconditional love dinner-dance"
so names the advert for an evening of a
big shot, posh charitable event,
which the glossy Gatsby East Egg magazine implies,
if you fail to attend said soirée, you nobody, will have no way to claim truly understanding the composition of an
unconditional love dinner dance
laugh internally, swirling,
riffing on eat love pray,
this ditty is what I instantaneously say...
*what do these swells,
with their self-appointed importance,
know to probe/defame my claim,
to this poem's title?
these are the factors,
the stepping stones from
my minute to the minute next
love
am I not oathed, bound
unconditionally
by my very own name,
which life bestowed upon me at birth,
to compose of this love
in every etching lineage, signed verse kissed upon our faces,
then, as well, oh so well, so swell,
to kiss our babies
whose smooth skin has no familiarity with
time and all my love
all my love,
uncritically makes no distinction
dinner
she loves me through the silence
of my oohing and ahhing,
these sounds,
escaping willingly,
unconditionally,
as delight unconstrained at the delicate deliciousness her love
has implanted in the dishes she preps,
with which she
preserves us
dance
she love to dine upon
her laughter at
my akimbo'd imitation of
'so idiot, you think you can dance'
hip hop
begging me between crinkling boisterous hardy laughter,
please, not to hurt myself
she, a Martha Graham educated,
Argentine Tango ballet mistress,
a life long dancer whose genes forbid her
to pass by the sound of music
without breaking out, breaking into dance,
in perfect synchronicity
to whatever the composer calls upon her,
to present the music, to inform us,
in body graphic form,
unconditionally
what they intended us to
see within and between each note
I need no tuxedo,
no fancy dress,
no permissions to comprehend
the meaning, the actuality,
the unconditionally of
unconditional love dinner dance*
I dine and dance with love daily,
and yes, to be very sure,
unconditionally
for is there any other kind?
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
When the walls started closing in
and my brain turned to syrup
I slid down into a stupor
My mother makes me strawberry/mango Italian soda
the sluggishness liquefies
my brain becomes active
the bubbles floating my thoughts to the top.
When my vision is narrowed
and the fire is lit within
burning the inside's out
pass me some of that pop
and its the little things that matter
Observant servant to the soul
Not even owning your own body
glitch glitch glitch
all over my face
can't say a word without a fight
stuck in my head, can't get out
Maybe if I keep talking the words
will sometimes maybe came come from my mouth
My thoughts suffocating me
My head aches
Please please no more
I want to step out
looking outside the bagel shop
calmed my mind
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
Delia
once seduced
the house maid
in half term
home from school
some posh place
where she had
with success
oft bedded
the new young
maths teacher
whose glasses
thin wired
she took off
before ***
in her room
for extra
tuition
(her father
from his fat
wallet paid
for extra
maths not ***
then after
leaving school
and the young
maths teacher
(sad female)
and having
bedded her
young cousin's
French nanny
she went to
some college
to study
the cello
and music
she had ***
the first day
with the thin
trumpeter
on the floor
above her
a girl with
luscious lips
and dark eyes
who after
a good ****
could play like
Miles Davis
so cool that
Delia
would play her
cello ****
like lovers
embracing
she and her
instrument
then have ***
to the sound
of Coltrane's
saxophone
and the girls'
******
wanting more
sighs and moans.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
A guy walks into a bar
In a posh high rise hotel.
He doesn't look the part,
He is not a swell.
He's in an off-rack suit
It's not tailored silk.
Orders up a drink,
A tall.glass of milk.
He's tall, dark and handsome,
But his tie is just absurd!
He's got heavy glasses,
And looks just like a nerd!
**Along the bar he heard a snort,
And a drunkard gave a sneer,
"Well, hey there kid,
The school's next door,
You're not allowed in here!"
He laughed aloud at his own joke,
And began to walk and sway,
A gap appeared as nervous folk
All slowly back away...
The drunkard called out to the nerd,
"What's wrong, kid, beer too fizzy?
Or is the truth just what I heard,
You're a no-good, yellow *****
The handsome man was cool,
He didn't break his stride.
He pushed his glasses up his nose
And took the drunk aside.
The enebriated idiot
Looked him up and down,
But followed him to the window
Said, "Watchoo wan' here clown?
The dark man smiled coolly.
Said, "I'd like to make a wager.
Just a couple thousand bucks.
You know. Nothing major.
I'll bet you, my drunken friend,
I can jump out - but then
After I'm out this window,
I'll come back in again!!
**The drunkard looked
him up and down,
And grinned an evil grin,
"If you wanna JUMP, go right ahead,
This bet, I'm gonna WIN!
The handsome man just
Gave a wink,
And jumped out on the ledge.
He took one look o'r the brink,
And leapt over the edge!
The drunkard gasped
In total shock!
"My god, he must have died!!"
When in a flash there came a knock
The man climbed back inside!
The handsome man
Straightend his tie
"It's time to pay your dues!
Unless, of course, you'd like to try,
Or are you scared you'll lose...**
"Scared!?!!" The drunk was livid!
"Well! I'm no chicken, friend!
I accept! " And so he *lept!!!
And promptly met his end.....*
The tall, dark handsome person
Went back to his drink.
He finished his milk quietly,
And tipped the keep a wink.
The barkeep, looking sour,
Said, "Well. More cleanup work.
Superman, I like you,
But sometimes you're a ****
(C) Tryst
(C) SoulSurvivor
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
Every day you see him on the streets
His lifes possessions in his cart
You look at him and turn away
Is that the way you want to start?
He walks around the streets all day
HIs world is only where he walks
But, when he gets too close to you
You find that you're the one who balks
He's never done no harm to you
In fact your lives may be the same
He may just feel the same for you
And you're the one who should feel shame
His life is in that shopping cart
It's full of years of where he's been
He may not have a home like you
He may not have a next of kin
He may live like this willingly
Though you look at him as mad
You see, he's not the issue here
It's you and that's what's sad
He's searching for a better life
Or is he...no one knows
For no one takes the time to see
Just where this poor soul goes
He doesn't want your pity
But a hand up would be kind
A hand out he's not looking for
But they're so hard to find
He lived up in the ivory towers
With a family, working hard
Now he lives among the forgotten folks
With his boots re-soled with cards
You can ask him if he needs a hand
But you wouldn't dare to speak
Because that would put you near him
And that's not ground you seek
Is he harmless, well you just don't know
Is he mad or lost his way
Is he loony, well that's doubtful
He found a cart to push this way
His life is in the boxes
And the bags inside the cart
Next time you see him, don't avoid him
Show him just a little heart
I knew a man, this independent
He showered at a self serve bar
While he cleaned, I'd leave a coffee
And then I'd attend to the next car
He always smiled as he was leaving
A whistle always on his lips
You never knew where he was headed
As he left to go out on his trips
Three times a week, just like clockwork
He would show up just to wash
Three times a week I'd leave him coffee
And each time he'd leave feeling posh
You see him daily in your travels
He's the king of where he's been
So if you see him while you're walking
Give a smile, don't look so mean
For, he's the one who has no problems
Maybe he has got it right
It may not work for you or me though
But it works for him tonight
Each day you see him with his old cart
But you turn away from view
Handicapped...he isn't..but just maybe
The handicapped one here is you..
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 12:04 PM UTC
Zebra-striped cushion covers on soft-white chairs,
cream topped calorie delights, inviting -
this patisserie in Nairobi:
"you're welcome" the smartly outfitted
African girl spoke in flawlessly accented English
as I pore over the menu - a posh girl
dressed in haute denim and a sleeved top
walks in and spoke French in pouted lips
as she found her corner spot, reading;
an Asian couple walk in, wife in hijab
and baby in tow, as the man sneers at me and
answers 'assalamu alaikum' on phone
as I ponder on identity when
the French matron in Yoga tops walks in
saying namaste to me, and calls out for Henry -
her outfitted and bespectacled pomeranian
oh don't we all want to be someone else
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
Never wipe your nose on your arm
the posh people don't like it
they will tell you to
so never wipe
your nose on your arm
it is ok to blow it
as long as it's
in a handkerchief
but never on the arm
and that's why I never wear sleeves.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC
The sense of smell is a very powerful sense.
It can take you back to a certain time, place, and even person.
The scent that I grew up with was Elizabeth Arden Red Door.
I remember it smelling so posh, and sophisticated,
even the bottle looked expensive with the red cap and the gold liquid,
and it was the first thing I would smell in the morning.
The scent I grew accustomed to was Johnson and Johnson Peach Bath,
or any peach scented shower gel.
I remember it smelling so warm and clean,
and it was the first thing I would smell after a nice shower.
The scent that I later grew fond of was Vanilla from The Body Shop,
the whole range from shower gel to body lotion.
I remember it smelling so warm and delicious,
and it was the last thing I would smell before going to bed.
But among my favourite scent that I will forever cherish,
is the smell of your home baked brownies that is made with pure love.
It smells so inviting and welcoming,
and it is the first smell that reminds me of home.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
Girl turns three on a homemade cake
She had candy balloons and plastic grass bits
Toy princesses and marscapone rakes
And mom burnt her finger because she forgot the mitts
Girl turns five on a store bought cake
This time it was shaped like jack and jill
And she wondered if it was a fake
It was the month mom got ill
Girl turns seven on a cupcake
And mom could barely get up let alone bake
Dad taught her baseball that week
She peeped at her parents through the little door creak
Mother.
Other.
Her.
Girl turns nine on a chocolate bun
Mom gave her blessing through the grave
That was the year dad knew no fun
And they kept telling her to be brave
Girl turns eleven on a self made cake
Mom was back but her ******* were fake
Dad was googly eyed, yes
He neglected that his baby was depressed
Girl turns thirteen on a seven layered cake
It was all this posh she couldn't take
This year new mommy and daddy started fighting
And she'd turn up the music and dim the lighting
Girl turns sixteen on a birthday card
This year, dad started drinking
And life felt hard, really hard
Deep down she knew she was sinking
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC