Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ayeglasses Aug 2013
Please don't be like your actual father, please don't go down that path.
Born to unmarried parents, found by a party some beer and some laughs.
You are my first cousin, small but tough.
You take the craziest falls, no matter how rough.
Though your father is old, not in age, but in soul.
He has not enough water to fill up your bowl.
As for hope, you'll need a source more than one.
So, I'll do my best.
To help you grow strong.
Help you stay away from what's morally wrong.
If I can teach you these things along the way.
While you run and laugh and, without worry, play.
Your potential is something you can't outrun.
I suppose you're like my practice son.
I love that kid.

I hope that he goes far, so badly. I'll do what I can to help him along.
Robert Ronnow Mar 2017
Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy.
Obsessed with self, there is no answer
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
So what if nothing rhymes and I don't
bring my life into an expressible state
or fight purposelessness, anomie. No one writes.
Running the gauntlet alone. A good day to die, the Apaches say.

For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. We're not talking to you.
Really, it's a perfect day. Every leaf is out
that's coming out. The grass is high
and unidentified yet another year. Being knowledgeable
is the best defense against your insignificance.

Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing
about the effects of your anger unless
you want to be an angry man forever.
Coming from the funeral with friends,
talking on the telephone. OK about being alone.

Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
This house could use a good cleaning,
dusting for ghosts. I should subscribe
to the local newspaper, do my job well,
do less until one thing's done well.
What would that be? Old, and yet so young.

There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.

There are certain indicators, undeniable,
inexorable. Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
Although we cannot make the sun stand still
yet will we make him run. Brave revelers.
Signed engagement letter attached.
Attachment to self and to things to do.
--with a line by Andrew Marvell

www.ronnowpoetry.com
nosipho khanyile Jul 2018
habits are a different form of story telling

tell a good story.
Eyes ache with loads of uncried tears
As my chest caves with the weight of
A heart that can't live freely
I just want to live
I want to be alive
I want to be free in this life
To have one at all
Because I'm so stuck right now
Trapped behind my own mind
And I'm grateful that it's protected me
But I am safe now
I don't need such high security
I don't need to be on guard with everyone
It's ok to be afraid and to not trust
But it doesn't help if I can't open up
I feel so alone
Yet I maintain that same state
I have people that truly care and love me
But I don't let them see me
My mind doesn't want to be vulnerable
It thinks others will see it as a weakness
And the weakest are the easiest to break
I'm afraid to get hurt again
I can't handle becoming another target
Which is extremely ironic considering
I'm the one the aiming the gun
At the most genuine piece of my soul
John Stevens Jan 2015
(c) 01-25-15
The cold has come
What once was green , now brown.
The air is cool
Promise of Spring to come.

Boys are gathered
Practice begins
for the games
to see who wins.

The ball is passed
Ball aloft at last.
Through the hoop
the points are cast.

They finesse the ball
as they pass and trick.
To out wit the opponent
as the clock does tick.

They win they lose
this season thus far.
Led by great coaches
has been better than par.

When the games are done
whether lost or won.
It is all in the fun
As they have a great run.
Basketball is upon us. The bleachers are hard but the fun is great.

Has been 6500 reads.
11-18-16.   16,100 times
12-21-16.   17,200 times
07-28-17.  28,300 times
05-18-18.   42,400 times
10-15-18   48,400 times
Who in the world is reading this?

Version called "Baseball"
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1583323/baseball/
shamamama Jun 6
everyday?
really!  Yes.  
choiceless.
I'm tired.
I'm sore.  
I don't want to.
Show up.
Be present,
do your best,
breathe,
wake up,
practice
and
life moves
through you
in the most
extraordinary
ways
I wrote this poem to bring positive attitude around daily practice.My special needs son has a daily 1+ movement practice to help him develop his brain and to become masterful in his life.I have a strong commitment to help him with this neurological reprogramming.
Dark Fjord Nov 2016
called to practice, poetry is like a war machine
living in the trenches.

building the front line looming
giving into its generation, it is.

a one cause of structure.
make progress
Seanathon May 14
Pencils pray not to be picked
Brushes roll away and hide
Conversations intentionally aim and miss
Ivory keys pretend not to be alive
The original concept grows wings on the wine
The original truth tries it's best to lie
And I am the one who is for want of all practice
Never let it be said that I never tried
Practice
Cydney Something Oct 2018
When the carrot finally snaps,
And covers the world in mushrooms,
And the thoughts and dreams of billions cease-

We'll be where that sacred spore takes hold,
Waiting for it to bloom,
Patiently waiting while making love

Sacred spores with sacred purpose!
Find your targets well!
Find us! Find us!
We are fertile soil!

How delicious would it be,
For spore and seed and egg to meet?
A life beginning,
And ending
In one spectacular flash and roar!

****, we'll go down swingin'
To every movement swayin'
Your hips and mine, sweet slammin'
You know what I'm sayin'?

And as the flash and roar subside,
We will be mushrooms
And tar
And ions
And eons
And eons
And eons

We will be gone <3
marianne Oct 2018
If love is a dovetail drawer
I will turn my curious eye to the
dark inside
under ancient flowered paper
dust bits and lockets, or my mother’s
twelve-piece china
doesn’t matter
nor whether Shaker or Bauhaus
retro or rustic
how wide, weighty
or improbable

No, the corners hold secrets—
fingers that catch
the places that touch

And require practiced hands, sober skill
and a bit of glue—
to build a join of tensile strength  
to bear love’s blow
Seanathon Feb 3
The sound of thunder
Long since heard
Off the grain of a Louisville slugger
Shakes the sleep from the eyes
The dawn from the air
And puts dangerous respect
Back into these young lives
The January Lasts

I can't write lengthy stuff. Next pitch.
Amber Lynn May 7
"Take me back to Jupiter" the little girl cried.
Tears in her eyes, releasing a sigh of....
something.
A release of a subject, something not quite in the relm of love but that of loathing.
Losing by the tail feather of cupids arrow.
Grazing his cheek.
Pricking the skin in her chest.
Planting a flower of heart petals which blooms in her eyes-
Mid blink.
When her eyes open. She sees you.
And you let that feeling,
The dopamine feeling.
The chemical experiment which runs through your veins,
Pounding in your heart,
Fluttering in your stomach,
Pressing against your lips
Without realising....
She also saw someone else when she opened her eyes.
Instead of a monogamy of romance youve invited yourself into a competition you can't win since she'll always love the both of you...
And there's nothing you can do about that.
Colten Sorrells Dec 2018
A comment and a couple likes
is something, but it won’t suffice
there’s fruit down here, it’s free to take
but it’s too ripe to suit my tastes

this ain’t the place that I wanna be
at the bottom of this poet tree
as they all ripen, heavy fruits
come down and knock me for a loop

but still I sit, knots on my skull
can’t find a branch to get a hold
the bark’s too smooth to get a grip
so every time I try, I slip

a couple scrapes, some minor cuts
they sting, but I don’t give a ****
because the place I wanna be
is further up this poet tree
An absence reversed
Beheld
Belonging
Fuming lush greenery seemingly
Between the frothing
Soup and lather twinkling
Speaking
"Tradition may act dishonestly"
All and sundry
Trails along merrily
For traditionally
All is how it should be
Belonging to one and only.

Binding
A trade between the thin lines
A baking sheet made sprayed messy
Artists in threes
Shakers of mountains for invisible ease
The truth is simply
Things done traditionally
All-in consuming historically.

Flesh
Released
Is fresh
Relief
Hidden in the fabric's sleeve
A gaping passage of air and breeze
Racing electricity
Breathtaking silk from worms
And worms eaten by birds
Tradition
Sewing the dresses of Empress the third.
Halt
Her plea worth salt and sugar
Still
Like the skater's
Minted odour
Hope
Distances the valleys low dipped to the everlasted rivers
Where a time arrives for eternal celebration.
The embellishments of
Unwavered tradition.
© Teri Darlene Basallote Yeo
What is your tradition?
Next page