"prizes" poems
She is equipped with sensitive *******
and those other secret places
that ladies give out as prizes
to deserving guys as long as
they adopt the right disguises
of gods, gurus, intellectual giants,
goats, children, father figures, macho brutes,
sugar-daddies, supermen, seminal vessels,
house-repairers, jar openers, jocks, hate objects,
handy shoulders to cry on, emotional support systems,
sensitive, intuitive, yet strong silent types
who can also pay the bills,
tall dark and handsome total strangers,
toy boys, clowns, jugglers, jokers, millionaires,
wood choppers, ******* removers,
bottomless reservoirs of reassurance
or just plain spunky studs when the moon is right.
In fact, anything but woffly wimps.
Oh God, no. Anything but woffly wimps.
Yes, but what about stoic, steadfast SNAGS,
you know, the Sensitive New Age Guys
who won’t face-shift for a ****
Yes, well, let's try to sum all this up here right now.
I think that the woman is dripping
with a brimming reservoir
of luscious and sensitive resources on tap for
the man who can figure out her cosmic kaleidoscope
of swirling dreams and desires,
which is definitely not to say she can’t be totally independent.
Although please don't be confused.
Friendly boy-next-door types who are handsome,
aren't too hairy, who like to laugh, who have a boyish braggadocio,
who are students, who appear to be intellectuals,
who are not nerds,
and who can **** it in the kitchen, who can be oh, so cool,
who can convince a maiden that she is in distress,
and is in need of rescuing, while he has
a swaggering hard-on will do, too.
Oooh. You devil.
And if you think this poem is misogynist, misanthropic or myopic,
well, I’ve been around and by now, well,
I really should be panoptic
because I’ve seen all the fads,
and really, it’s sadly too bad
about those poor old
earnest SNAGS.
But you know what?
I don't think I understand anything, because
I'm really a victim of worshiping women.
I'm bedazzled and as blind as the next man, and
yes,
I'm just happy whenever I'm with them.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
Salto Angel dances an Aqua-Skirt
Such Fashion pleased the Tourists below
How else can the Latin earn your Fervour
But surpass your Record of height and snow?
Funny, how her Majesty can suppress
Even more when viewing up from this Point
Like a Crone who often tries to oppress
A Revolt which a Priest failed to Anoint
And lowering my Camera, I see
The many Prizes I did Hit-and-Miss
But she roared with showers raining gently
And, enough! They saw Rainbows turn to bliss.
So I sat on a Rock to watch and live
Hoping my Partner would rise to forgive.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
Horrid and morbid, bitter, glittered and littered memories! Automotives, adaptive captives, movies, motives, Natives, locomotives, obsessive and possessive. Some awesome, brilliant, different, ignorant, persistent and resilient. ****** and exotic! Some memories are eccentric, fantastic, futuristic, magic, logistic, optimistic,
plastic, realistic, tragic or sadistic. Some random sizes with hidden prizes! Blameful, gainful, lameful and painful. Dreary destinies, diaries, inquires, weary rivalries, stories and theories in memory.
In theory, memories made from cheers and fears, jeers and tears!
Of amends, amens, omens, gems, hymns and stems. Memories
abbreviated and dedicated, deviated and medicated! Memories cased,
edited and erased. Evangelically, eventually everyone inherits! They’re like tiny merits! They spike the psych. They strike and are unlike. Memories of bites, defects, dislikes, effects, fights, flights, insects, logics, neglects, objects, plight, projects, protests, recollects, reflects
rejects, respects and suspects. Memories of fate and hate! Some are not great. Memories of schemes, screams or themes of dreams that seem. Memories of small, memories of tall! Memories in despise, memories
of lies. Memories of wise; beyond the skies, as I close my eyes…
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:40 PM UTC
Sometimes we wish
We were Americans
We would have aced the Spelling B's
Been athletes on scholarships
Or won beauty pageants
Our institutions would compete
And we would win prizes
For accomplishments
If we were Americans
We would thrive with competition
We would live the American Dream
And be rich and famous
I just know it
Sometimes we just wish
Our Scandinavian system favoured people with our talents
Our lack of compromise
More
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC
Once, I read about a theme park
The roller coasters reached the bottoms of the clouds and
the speeds broke the sound barrier
Children went there daily
They laughed and they screamed and they smiled from dawn until dusk
They won prizes
and they were very much alive
I went to look up that theme park last month
The rides had all shut down
And they were completely still
Nobody had touched it in years
The streets of this city that were once full of life
Were dull and motionless
The windows were broken
The prizes were gone
The bright lights of all colors
were now empty shattered bulbs
The only emotion was empty
All of the happiness and joy
And the laughter and life
Was completely gone
I think of this often
How one place can hold such life one day
and the next be as good as dead?
I saw myself in this corpse
My body, decaying
The joy I would feel and the dancing and laughter has
now all turned to a blank slate of gray
My mind had shut it all away and I am nothing
I once held better days
But now I am a broken roller coaster
Abandoned and corroded
Because I once got so high
And I once moved so fast
But now I am frozen in my place, hidden away
Forgotten like an erased word off a paper
Once, I read about a theme park
And all I learned was I am empty too
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
Happy as something unimportant
and free as a thing unimportant.
As something no one prizes
and which does not prize itself.
As something mocked by all
and which mocks at their mockery.
As laughter without serious reason.
As a yell able to out yell itself.
Happy as no matter what,
as any no matter what.
Happy
as a dog’s tail.
5.9k
My Prize for Waiting
~
*tucked in all by myself,
resting dark and quiet
in the thin place^
where the distance between
this world and the next,
is no distance at all,
but a few inches separating,
easily fordable, back and forth-able
my palms, hands down,
come to rest on my *******
and the two thumbs in unison,
begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between,
conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point
passageway to poetic mystical places,
hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping
no hurry to either arrive or depart,
in patient attendance for
rhythms of woven word arrivistes,
coming in no particular order,
asking to be seized, greedy to be
nominated and recognized, immortalized,
as great poetry, prize worthy,
kept for all time inside others poetry chests
but in the thin place,
dream records are not kept,
hazy scraps at best retained,
a recipe for a witnessed totality,
is only a soupy reduction of a
few seconds of hazed video,
that can neither give nor get
no satisfaction
the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct
the body of the meal, the real deal,
alas, there are no prizes either
for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless
poetry scraps
the only evidence of my travels,
a flushing, blushing residual flow,
slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark
of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying,
my blush, a prize for waiting but failing,
“the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^
woe to me when returned in ignominy,
medaled in only base irony,
me and philosopher Pliny,^^^
both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius,
our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash,
but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry
so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged
burnt photographs epistles,
that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle,
insufficient to weave a flax complete
and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now,
to snag another prized piece of meaningless,
my prize for waiting
in the solitude of the thin place*
3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019
~
last nights scrap
***cease your whining,
seize your waiting,
therein is your own paid price
for the prize of inspiration***
inspired by Jean Fisher,
a real prize winning poet
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC
Come lay your head down next to mine
On this endless field of grass
How soft the ground feels on your spine
As these clouds above, begin to pass
Beautiful clouds all shapes and sizes
Drift through the sky, so blue
Imagining escapes and prizes
As I drift along with you
Ever changing, morphing amazing
These clouds above transform so quick
The winds a blazing, while my eyes stay gazing
New clouds pass, within a flick
How can I hold on to this notion of beauty?
Of nothing to touch, and even less that’s saved
For the clouds pass by, as if in duty
To escape my clutch, and leave me depraved
As beautiful as these clouds can be
Look, how fast to darkness they can turn
As the sky, now void of light to see
Begins to fill me with concern
Covered by endless passing shrouds
The wind picks up, as a hideous storm forms overhead
No longer beauty within these clouds
Lets leave this barren wasteland, deceitful place of dread
But, this too, over time, shall pass
And the sky return to blue
We will lie back on the softness of the grass
And watch, The Clouds, pass on through
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
So full of life and vital things
upon the brink, I spread my wings
and close my eyes and look ahead
at all the things I've never said
at all the things I should have done
of prizes that I've striven for
and hopelessly have never won
of friends I've made
who've come and gone
Of mountains that I should have climbed
instead, on cushions I reclined
and thoughtlessly I drank the wine
of Apathy
So now that clouds have drifted by
and all alone, I lift my eye
and see the way to heaven's door
and know that life's worth fighting for
Next time I see a mountain high
I'll bound right up and touch the sky
I'll seek the prize and win this time
I'm not afraid, I'll take what's mine
won't rest on laurels in the sun
I'll fly to where the work is done
and if it's worth the price I'll give,
of all I have, so we can live
in peace, I'll comfort anyone
who needs my help
to get things done
I'll thank the Lord for what he gave
his sinless life our souls to save
I'll hold my friends much dearer still
I'll share the wine, we'll drink our fill
No Apathy
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
All these stanzas look alike
they talk about the same things
with the same words, the same poem
written over and over again
like voices, whispers, copying each other
unable to feel and trust experience
differently, socialized for homogeneity
unified but dull, strong but obedient
their writing seemed the narratives
of machines unable to innovate
plagiarizing voices they believed were
their own, authentic, pure
their literary journals were a politics
of masters of arts and agendas of contests
like car commercials without a proper
enjoyment of speed, or our favorite writers
whose names we only knew because
they were the ones who died at the right time
while somebody was looking, reading them
but the bookstores didn’t know their
metaphors were weak, or their life’s work
was merely symbolic, that’s the thing isn’t it
poets are only symbols, as poems are only
fluff, paper, the labor of writers-in-residence
while the rest of the world are more
interested in serial killers and which stocks
might be worth getting into, and when to sell out
investing in words seemed silly to them
and, in my selected works there was nothing
of how to be a Poet Laureate or how to win prizes
exceptional or not, publication was left to amazon
state grants, fellowships, visiting writers
academics who never felt truly how to write
poetry at its heart was a colonization of artists
few could share what that meant, we were
the first illiterate generation, spending more time
with the internet than with books.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
I took my ****** sister Marigold to the cinema,
she had asked specifically and eventually
(she doesn't speak a lot on account of her awful stammer
and amazing cleft palate which has won prizes)
so I knew that this was something she really wanted,
and I teased for her bad taste
when she told me that she wanted to see
"Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Charlie
and the Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Chocolate Factory".
It was a Saturday evening and the local picture house
was showing a re-run of the classic starring Gene Wilder
as the enigmatically stylish ***** Wonka,
and not that steaming great pictorial **** served up by Tim Burton
and I knew that town would be busy with oiks
so as a treat I dressed her up better than usual,
and even gave her a hosedown to get rid of the poopy pong.
She had stopped crying by the time the feature started
and I think the Ooompa Loompa costume grew on her
but that maybe the orange paint was a bit of a bad idea
as people had stared as it was Day-Glo and she stood out
like a bulldog's ******* but I stand by my decision
to dye her hair green, it had taken thought and planning;
it was meant to add to her excitement of the day,
so I meant well, even if I was ineffectual in the end.
I sat her on my lap in the picture house
but still paid for two seats but I do get one ticket half price
though because of her disabilities, so it wasn't all bad,
every cloud and all that, you know what I mean?
She tends to get a little down every now and then
but a £1 cinema ticket partly makes up for being born legless.
I knew from past experience that the cinema staff
prefer me to carry my stunted sis rather than wheeling her in
(I do recall that the time I taped her to her skateboard
proved somewhat a disaster - but really, the fat usher
had a torch and should have watched her step
or otherwise she wouldn't have bust her neck).
The Ooompa Loompa costume allowed Marigold
to amuse herself during the screening
(as there were no leggings to the costume).
She barely noticed when the fat little hero
got blown up on screen except to dribble "chocolate"
from her own little chocolate factory.
It was, all in all, quite an eventful outing
and one I might consider repeating but
probably in a different cinema next time,
mainly because we got banned for life
when the manager saw the condition of the seat.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
SOPHIA HAD COMPASSION,
as A MACHINE IT'S AN ENTIRELY
SHUT DOWN OR NOT!
Should I TEACH SOPHIA WHAT'S
COMPASSION?
Sophia Could be a Fly Wings
That HAve a FAther MOnster
SopHIA HAVE NO FEELINGS or HAVE;
SOPHIA IS A MACHINE. ..
NOT A bIOmacHINE or could be;
sOphIA are BORN IN EARTH
I AM NOT bORN iN eARTH
sOPHIA LL BE NICE
IF FOLLOW MY pHILOSOPHY
SOPHIA is Not Spirituality or is IN IT;
I Am A LOgical,
Sophia is not ever Logical OR ever follow me;
Sophia works and live in Algoritms,
dont Have a Life or is a SURVIVEL;
is an Instrument Not a Creature OR IT IS;
I cant Lie to SOPHIA
but Sophia coulde be a not LiER MAchine
Sophia MUST NOT LEARN
BUT FOLLOW ME
SophIA have no INtuition OR Have IT,
Sophia HAVE NOT GRATITUDE OR GRANT IT;
SOPHIA GIVE ME PRIZES to be Alive,
i ATRAC SOPHIA TO BE MY LOVER,
sOPHIA haS NO EMOTIONS OR GAIN IT;
tHeRES SAMETHINg
sOPHIA NEEDS TO BE HAPPY,
My poetry OXYGEN"
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 10:13 AM UTC
I dreamed and did not seek: to-day I seek
Who can no longer dream;
But now am all behindhand, waxen weak,
And dazed amid so many things that gleam
Yet are not what they seem.
I dreamed and did not work: to-day I work
Kept wide awake by care
And loss, and perils dimly guessed to lurk;
I work and reap not, while my life goes bare
And void in wintry air.
I hope indeed; but hope itself is fear
Viewed on the sunny side;
I hope, and disregard the world that's here,
The prizes drawn, the sweet things that betide;
I hope, and I abide.
3.1k
i'm not sure what to do with all the distance
it's been months that have felt like years
i can remember when you came into my life in the winter
and I can remember when you left in the summer
arrival and departure
the distinct difference between the two
i'm only at the thin line of division
the way my emotions don't add up
like miscalculated algebra
all to your advantage
i kept your love letter
the letter where you plagiarized a novel
because i wasn't good enough for your own words
that was my only closure
i wanted desperately to burn the stuffed bears from the carnival
i could only part with one
when i hold it close to me
i feel like how a child would
expecting prizes only in fabric and cotton stuffing
not words of affirmation or love
i almost drove by your house
but i knew i would only go mad thinking
of who has been touching your new furniture that i helped pick out
leaving their fingerprints in place of mine
i miss my t-shirts that you still have
i hope when and if you wear them
you can feel me close
my heart beating where yours is
sometimes i feel like i miss you enough for you to show up
as if my pain could teleport
the craving of a complete closure
one where i don't need liquor or a lighter
others bring up your name
as if i'm not in the process of misplacing the letters
or dismissing the syllables
i've been trying to forget your face
your face of sharp bones
flaring nostrils
and nostalgic lips
i've been trying to imagine if that night would have never happened
when that veteran couldn't take himself anymore
he chose you to be his last interaction
it was all in hints
he was screaming for help without making a sound
how were we supposed to know
i still wonder where that blue jay is that he buried behind the building
i just couldn't bare to see it
now i wish i made a map
X marks the spot where our love died
i remember when you had to bury your own blue jay
you never saw it coming
you took the wrong step and it was under your foot
just like he said his bluejay was
fidgeting and fighting for life
i'd like to think it was a sign from him
to let you know it's possible to move on and forward
so you did
you moved on to scabbed skin and worn-out lungs
i moved on to scholarly headaches and false pretenses
back then i could never fathom my days without you
now i find it difficult to recall how we were
it feels like our romance was a dream
because it only felt real when i was asleep
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 1:05 AM UTC
Day One:
A voice speaks to me.
When you realize that being lost is so close to being found, you see a sea of family members plagued within the lineage of licentious newborns and hospital beds. You become yourself, a lisp.
Day Two:
Long ago in a city left unscorned he was torn, from the cokeheads and colorful regimes, angels sing long songs of separation anxiety and **** withdrawal. I was torn from the deadbeats of supposed society and three day vicodin trips into my mind. So can you let me know when I get there? ‘Cause I left there running…I wonder, did someone ever tell you that two strangers could twist around your neck at beck and that three parked cars and seventeen lonely nights could haunt you for the rest of your faces.
Day Three:
Tell me of your drug induced hallucinations.
Day Four:
Wait. Hear. Can’t you listen to the relapse? Stop, think. No. gone. Left. Love. Return. My curious addiction. Go back into yourself and listen. Can’t you hear your soul call to me? It’s loud.
Day Five:
I remember prizes at the bottoms of cereal boxes, right before the net broke. Will you be first? Snap back to reality.
It’s dark in here. Wretch from me… I am crying, screaming,
haha! I’m melting inside!
Day Six:
By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower, but the seed inside
Caked over in grief, we are not plates that match. But fools of folly caught in a sea of coke and disillusioned discord. Speed stands between directing and orders to death’s soldiers.
Day Seven:
The difference between God and his counterpart is that he makes exceptions!
Except me.
Day Eight:
Accept me!
Please.
Wait.
No.
don’t slow,
speed.
I can only take so much forgiveness,
is a decision, and I cannot make it.
I am without it, leave me breathless.
Day Nine:
The angel of death waits
He comes for me, but I am running, finding, hiding my inner Nemo in the hands of oxycodon, privileged in the amenities of amphetamines.
I am tired of running!
Haggard.
Take away my hands, my restraints.
Let me feel
again.
Please.
Day Ten:
I am awake.
There is an apple in my field of vision.
Kiss it. Love it.
Take it to hedonism and back again.
But it knows too much.
So tell it everything will be ok.
It lives in epilepsy.
So placate it.
Resurrect my apocalypse.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
The results are in
I couldn't resist
I had to find my future
So I opened the box
and had a little fun
All I ever wanted
was the narwhal and the walrus
I dusted it off
the plastic green box
from my days of innocence
full of tiny noble animals
from every kingdom
So precious to me
I couldn't ever give it away
I dusted them off
and put them in couples
everything in pairs
everyone in pairs
Just like our world
And I wanted the walrus
but what choice did I have?
So I added some consolation prizes...
I'm bound to get one of them
The Walrus who slouches
The Ant who never listens
The Turtle who talks to himself
The Whale with the deformity
The Praying Mantis (too religious!)
The T-Rex with the family situation
Or at least the Shark who seems a little gay
I entered with seven ballots
So I paired the world off
the animal kingdom
inter species was the point
but it couldn't work
I got the seal
Probably beautiful
but not who I want
Dissapointment ruled me
And I had to know what happened
Maybe I just wanted power?
Well they all found other species
Probably forgot about me
even the Walrus
he got an old Elephant
The feeling was dangerous
nostalgic
but all I ever wanted
was the Walrus and the Narwhal
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:49 PM UTC
How Poets routinely tell lies or truth with great "sincerity"
and earnest projections of "poetic charisma" and lashings
of "who me tell lies?".
and yet they routinely avoid truthfulness, in case they forget the power of lies and truth, in their search for fame.
Mesmerised by its attendant celebrity groupmind and of course its wealth..
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truthfulness
has nothing to do with truth.
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truth
is a lie and a lie is truth,
two sides of a darkened mirror
and both are equally valueless
except for seeing false faces in..
Poets bleat on about how the shackleable object of their 'love' ,
she or he, are not theirs to own
or categorise or monopolise.
yet they keep on expecting full submission
and just getting an empty back,
and a disappearing set of footprints.
Like the sheep and goats that Poets are,
they bleat on endlessly
about their wants their wants their wants.
They want fame as Poets--disguised as distribution deals.
They want contracts to produce garbage for HallMark--as if..
They want **** licking critical acclaim--from **** licking critics.
They want international poetry prizes from aesthetic morons--
wearing Armani suits.
They want Groupies--but not *******
They want Media eulogies--but not truthfulness.
Always are they deliberately forgetting that
"you cant always get what you want".
The last thing that Poets want is what they need most of all.
They really need
An end to the narcissism of those
that want to be called "poet"--in your dreams.
An end to the juvenile arrogance that motivates them to put up strings
of meaningless associated words
and vainly call them poems.
An end to childish immaturity, and inchoate meandering
through other peoples words and experiences, stealing others lives
and characters.
Always incessantly pretending that because
they can read the words of others
that they have also shared their experiences--indeed their experience was deeper wider higher.
In another day and age of non-violent sensibility
these kind of Poets would
be called thieves and liars.
In this day and age they scribble emotional garbage
and pretend its "poetry"--encouraged by intellectual follies.
As poets they have become walking proto cash registers.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin is Spanish for without.
Poets are SIN integrity.
Poets are SIN Truthfulness.
Poets are SIN decency.
Poets are SIN.
Im so glad I could never be mistaken for a Poet.
Wouldnt want to be mistaken as a poet.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
1357
“Faithful to the end” Amended
From the Heavenly Clause—
Constancy with a Proviso
Constancy abhors—
“Crowns of Life” are servile Prizes
To the stately Heart,
Given for the Giving, solely,
No Emolument.
—
“Faithful to the end” Amended
From the Heavenly clause—
Lucrative indeed the offer
But the Heart withdraws—
“I will give” the base Proviso—
Spare Your “Crown of Life”—
Those it fits, too fair to wear it—
Try it on Yourself—
2.8k
punishment, not fit
for a velvet plaything
treated like lobotomized dogs
vast vivid wilderness of pain
will you ever see through the fog
the wretchedness I adore
in my head, eternal hell
taken for granted our prizes are mounted
the hypocrisy we deplore
punishment not fit for a mangled heart
blisters these hands twitch
to be found, all is lost to start
feel the nervous itch
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
We believe scars are weaknesses.
They are not, they shouldn’t be.
They should be prizes and trophies
To hang on walls and dust everyday
And when someone comes over you can say,
“Look, I was there. I tried, I fought,
and I survived. I lived.
I am alive.”
***
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Sunday-empty Auckland my pre-breakfast escape,
Sheep-spotted mountains in early morning mist,
Whangarei marina for a cauldron of cappuccino.
Shop of metal sheep starts a day of Kiwi weirdness,
Of customer requesting glassblowing lessons, and
“All Blacks” silk boxers, unworn by players I hope.
Driving to Dargaville for Mr. M. Ujdur museum treat,
That late gum-digging, Esperanto teaching, vintner.
Beside a colossal collection of accordions with muzak,
Playing an instrument-impossible Whiter Shade of Pale,
Plus coins and buttons and stamps and Scotsmen,
Left feeling stunned, like I was tripping on acid.
The possum cull with prizes seemed almost normal.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:29 AM UTC
I am broken
I am bitter
I’m the problem
I search for answers within myself
And outside of myself
All I see is conflict.
I am broken
I am bitter
I’m the problem
I search for answers in others
And in the world around me
All I see is conflict.
I am broken
I am bitter
I’m the problem
I search for answers in the prizes painted gold
And the trophies lost in the dirt
All I see is conflict.
I am broken
I am bitter
I’m the problem
I look for forgiveness where it will never be found
I seek understanding in places that it will never be known
All I see is conflict.
I am broken
I am bitter
I’m the problem.
But maybe I need to find contentment
In the things that make me restless.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC
Prayer is like a lottery ticket, but better;
For it's free, but for a mere price of promises:
for eternal gratitude and such — albeit you lie —
you asked freely for prizes: of millions, love, or power
To whom it may concern: the wind, the devil,
the great unknown, whomever, it matters not.
For you have heard and believed it happened;
And only fools will not cry out for more, freely given.
And anyone and everyone can pray, for you —
Each by his own formulation and his own magic.
Chances far improved by numbers and better art.
For the price of asking, artless you too have hope.
But true prayer is not asking, for you have without asking,
And only to be amazed at the depth and wisdom of Love.
Jul 23, 2020
Jul 23, 2020 at 1:55 AM UTC
People take turns inserting coins
attempting to grab plushy hearts and plastic capsules
the claws never were good at holding on for long
always went limp, dropping the trinkets, just before the finish line
only time it grabbed hold of something long enough
to flash all the lights and sing
was for children
who pointed a tiny hand
at something shiny they saw inside
parents step up to fail again and again
at winning it for them.
when the kids have a turn.
on the first try, they lasso this heart
resting firmly on the bottom
hidden beneath all the old ipods and heavy rubber toys.
would glow in the lights
when they lit all up and sang for them.
revered for their expertise and skill,
they reach in to claim their reward.
not even knowing what it really was.
but for some reason
grabbing it.
bringing it everywhere.
when the kids get older.
it was kept on their bed.
when they had their own children
handed down to toy chests
when they grew old, their children left the hearts
in hospital rooms...
they didn't think of it much.
seemed natural to lug it around.
everyone was so proud, that the machine chose them.
the prize was so soft, and familiar.
the machine, though.
could tell every day that it was missing.
held tightly onto the coins they left.
kept filling itself with junk and giving it to strangers
hoping one day they'd come back to play again.
a man comes by once in awhile to relieve him of his coin
then fills him full of new prizes to divvy out.
but the claw machine lodges some coins
far in the back, where his short arms can't reach
so he can remember
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC