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Lambert Mark Mj Sep 2014
The diminutive seedling,
It putters whilst growing
Becoming a robust bark but with decaying leaves
Life then begins to sprout and weaves

We are the seedling, planted in this very soil we stand
We were the sprout of yesterday
But in time shall be tomorrow’s shade
We must be mature but not staid

We then putter over the early years
Ignorance and dreams then arouses
We then become filled with ambitions and fears
Our bodies are then trained

In conditions with heavy winds and rain
Like the bark, resilient and vigorous
Autumn then comes
Leaves begin to fall and wither

Like our worries are untethered
Yet of all, we must not truncate our branches
We must embellish them instead
We must be strong like the Hemlock!

Winter then follows both the sky and land
Becomes tedious and bland  
Problems then arises but shrouded in the mist
Hazy, vague only to catch a glimpse

But warm tears can melt through
The cold and burdened shoulder,
The storm settles and clouds become mild
The vernal breeze then calms our mind

As we continue to grow,
We find ourselves dazed and entwined
Nonetheless we cannot putter for we are a Hemlock!
We stand tall, and keep our roots intact

Summer comes forth, with warmth and life
Radiance into the leaves,
Free birds that chirp with ease

Our leaves which are crammed with wisdom
Our cones that tells our story
Our barks that had endured the calamity
Our roots that stayed firm regardless the intensity

We had all the fun, laughs and sorrow
We were sprouts but it is our time to sow
We are the young and into the hemlock we shall grow!
Will you grow into a hemlock?
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
Her fourteen days $?..........&

And what? And I am losing
some attachments
And____

is this our way
We should say is this my end today
My salvation
(Losing) wed long train
of thought
(Religion)

One day before
She screams!!
Such finesse of refinement
We all fall down 
Like children
of the **** torment
Statues the transformation
so real
Carve the deal on the 13th

Like the Gal Friday
battle Tut
masked out the
Halloween taking
out their spleen

Statuette Tut of
the jurisdiction
The fourteen karat teen
gold doesn't put a hold on me

How our minds
became off-set

My blocks are the key
to his heart mindset
The trade of the marks
her freedom
Her lips
quite a
surgery can blow
those bricks
down like a bullet

How it out knocks singing
over again
we all fall down
like ashes remain

Oh! Gee  V for Victorious Glee

How he couldn't pass
this
opportunity
deliciousness,
divineness
because of me,
there I went to the silent hill
The tranquil of quietness
Her weapon
the bullet dress - --
The coffee in the
King Tut shape
The curvy glass

Like a desert storm fires
Going First class

Not a block party second in mind
          "He" King Glee
Behind her walls, he reconstructs
Cheers of joy bullets one of a kind
Like a setup ploy
Her body fine weight
of gold
Eyes almond he's my candy
Second chances of joy
Her third timeless so hot
Is "She"
He's trying to nourish her heart

"With Glee"

Those love instructions
Like a bullet for me?

The King Oh! Gee

The Queen you
had to see
Like the golf clubs to putter set
The ball whole cup
The whole process stayed put
She was so enticed by his
bungee climbing
Seeing his first shot shooting
wasn't a star

The bricks to the end of the war
Judy the Star was Garland found
a different  time of Era la boom
reborn lady Liza Minnelli

The Empire of the Tut
(Bali Island Hut)
Her best to the
last stone paver layers
Like a Tut mortal dreamers
On her deck Golden Egg cards
King on top of the Queen
blocks bam the bomb ticks
The Joker having his last laugh
The war of fidelity like a plaque
of immortals
"And Please God' let it be over

You're my lucky star
No matter where you are
The ancient portal sip of wine
"All Glee" smile to trust
Come attached with loads of funds
His attache case modernly- eyes dim
Cashed into her twilight blank stare
Head over heels digging underneath her
gold - heavy heart and mind spins
into a migraine

His prayers are working
constructing a force
Something is emerging
racing for hearts
Engaging the space of valuable
objects of time

  We heard of the
one-day creation
the mysterious temple
Kinksters my heroes our fellowman
To the hipbone, those hipsters stick
  together to hustle

She is trying harder to please him
The gold to be seized
Thousand times over
to build
a form of loves the golden touch

The building could collapse
Heart together can relapse
If her love doesn't stand tall
The darkness can come to her eyes
The death of cards handed
like her corpse flying bullets

Such a massive stone block
She loved to be entertained
Let me make you walk my path
Solid as a rock

Like the Sun Gods map like the
Egyptian cat tongue
The strange pharaohs ancient
stolen identity
Layers and layers
Trumpet tower Presidential
Her bullet racer tulips
Lips bloom with gravity
900 feet getting a grip confidential

The ruins the strange existence
every time will there be next time
The new technology reveals
more secrets one bullet at a time
A silver bullet doesn't
compare to her myths Antionette


Her Anniversary all in gold,
to be or not to be
The silver award bullets
His mighty treasure
for poems of the sonnet

The largest space to build
in Egypt
Look up its a plane
King Tut bird
Super bullet giant beams
Going once or twice
70 Ladybird feet
Pharaoh timeline
so many wives

The column layering
checkerboard
She the sweeter cake
Had life sliced itself

Her layers the feed
of his smorgasbord
The name Ramesses 11
To reveal the evidence
stolen identities this
wasn't the (Providence)
Laying bricks in
my stone bed
Like a heart of stone

Building a gold his
mind like a block-freeze
It will take lifetimes
Marlon "Brando"
The commando of the waterfront
try to be upfront
It felt like a hard cement

Two bricks intellectual speaking
The goldrush her heart racing the
bullet of time
So thick-headed 
The Queen just sit
beheaded

The golden bond have
  guns will travel I Glee I pads
  The speed of bullets meet
my heroes what lads
The kingdom was
holding women
Joy to the
tacky glue magnet

Not the carnival of
cotton candy soft gold
The King got his ladies like
The Funhouse King Tut
no detention to have
Like the speed of lightning
never to hold
More love to build intermission
The kings only private
Gold VIP Theatre

All smiles the build-up
   Another mysterious setup palace
Those bricks of brown
warmth orange-reds of fire leaves
Falling over her milestone of
Mink hair
the fairytale of
Rumpelstiltskin
 Are we in to know
  what really clicks

More layer and layers of her
goldilocks of hair 
 stronger than any bricks
King Tut Biblical time so sublime we all need more time the  war of gold roses those statuettes all bricks and give peace  a chance at a glance get a second chance  were the world it's hot and cold you got to have a voice a mouth like a bullet it's your choice
Anastasia M Apr 2013
Delicate things,
And pretty flowers.
Special days with apple pie,
Cinnamon cakes and tea.
Warm weather,
Or a bit of a chill.

Comforting childhood,
Come at will.
Stephen E Yocum Aug 2013
Reading the other day,
an article about some,
Renowned fellow's notion,
On the study of "Human,
Productive Locomotion".

A reputed Authorty,
of "Time Management",
His main proclivity being,
The belief in his increasing,
Other peoples productivity.

Modulating their all too,
common Human tendency,
For naturally wasting time,
and non productive energy.

Him asserting himself to be,
a self styled know it all,
Bonafied Expert in Efficiency.

Now I can see,
How it might be,
That this type of study,
Offers some relevancy,
For the Barons of Industry,
What with them regulating,
The flow, While streamlining,
and furthering the advance,
of all things, relating to commerce.

A purely Scientific belief,
For the primary benefit,
Of the Time Clocks sake,
And all those Bosse's
Emotional financial betterment.

But what on earth,
did that have to do,
with an old retired,
fool like me?  

What matter that,
I merely sit and think,
for hours at a time.
Read the paper,
or a book,
Computer chat,
or cook?

Putter in my garden,
Or gratefully just stare,
at big billowing clouds,
or rainbows in the air.

Or perhaps I choose,
to hug my wife,
Or chase my Grand
Kids up a tree,
Maybe grab a nap,
Or even take a ***.

Pet my dog,
Or have a Beer.
Watch the Tube,
a little bit,
Or congregate to meditate,
with a convivial group of friends.

Maybe take a walk,
Down by the river.
Get out my old,
Bow and Quiver.

Wash my car,
Cut some grass,
Go to my writing class.

Slip on down,
to the " Red Dog Saloon"
Where I'll promenade,
A little Texas Two Step.

Come home in time,
To unwind and,
watch some David Letterman.

What's efficient,
and what is not?
Clearly, that interpretation,
Is completely up to me.
No Efficiency Expert needed.
My day, my future is all my prerogative.
Ceryn Mar 2014
Can we putter away
a hundred and more days
when all we ever wanted
is to be found at last
in this totally murky space?

Do we regret the hours
we spent together
savoring the words
that don't even matter
to anyone, anyhow
locked up hands
among the naughty crowd?

Shall we toss these letters
out our blood-stained windows
and wished for something
that hadn't caused us jitters
like a genuine touch
from a mother that really cares
but 'twas all lust
we just gave in to our fears?

How do I hate what I didn't mean to love?

Must have been wise enough to know
I could've written a better show
Just that mad to have been carried away
by your love that only crossed my way
unfortunately,
half a day.
from my book 'How To Write Pro$eperly

LESSON 18: Marketing Your Product
Get outside and box.

How to Make Good Money as a Poet

Volume
Keep up the volume
Then they have to buy all the books
And go looking
For something good
Self-effacing



More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

*** angles
in relation to women’s personality gauge it
chart it
*** angles
Canadian research grant



More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

Poem-in-a-jar
Ode-in-a-jar
Rhythm-in-a-jar, and it vibrates when you pick it up
or could be handwritten
with desperate plea
send money
fax phoney part
please pleas
should colour of lid
indicate mood of poem
should label
indicate word topic theme
or what of material
metal lid or plastic
* Replace the safety seal so they have to punch cover
*
Note: if freshness seal broken, do not consume

More How to Make Good Money as a Poet
dead poet cookbook
dead poet cookbook



Poem-in-a-Jar

limited edition collector poetry
signed by author
artist proof worth more
more worth more
per line $1 $5 $100 sky’s the limit
capitalism:
self-effacing charity:
give-drop poem-in-a-jar to bums to sell
use as tax write-off full retail + “costs”
have party supporting charity more tax write-off
wheee! thank you, taxpayers
mmmm! tax write-off



More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

Verse libre
Convince public that your random scratch ins
have deeper meaning social import
esoteric ****** meaning
make it plainly oblivious for them
doubletalk and doublewalk
run at them
when you recite
a poem
attack poetry
possible sales to war department
note when publishing do not include how to make money poet stuff proprietary secret
information

More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

Poetry Repair
Fix other peoples poems
Putter with their pitter-patter
Charge per word (or line) no word
Fix their lines
of poetry and charge them for it
Could franchise this idea
Have walk-in shops around the planet
Poetry Repair;
Pete's Poetry Repair; friendly sounding.
Come down to Pete’s, we'll fix what’s the matter with your pitter-patter
Could increase sales by charging for coffee and downnuts
when they bring in their poems for repair
(Making money as a poet is a joke, easy living man)
Pete’s Podium of Poetry Repair
Poetry Repair
There's gotta be money in it somehow



More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

Ads
In the backs of magazines *2007 or spam
Now you can make EASY MONEY AT HOME
With the fastest growingest gosh-**** bestest
Poetry Repair
Can you spot the error in this?:
Twinkle twaddle little star
How I wonder what you are
Yes. You saw it. Easy, wasn't it? And in no time at all
you'll being doing this to even some of the greats:
Romeo, Romeo,
Oh where for **** thou Romeo
Editors pay big bucks for this stuff
Poetry repair
do it at home
Ads

More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

1 book = poems + free towel inside
free towel inside your book of poems
poem and a free towel
could be symbolic message
something about a towel and a poem
maybe the beach
maybe the *****
something about a towel and a poem



More How to Make Good Money as a Poet

poem-in-a-casket
very goth
sort by flavour
poem-of-the-month club (with underwear)
poem *******
poem *******
******* with poems on the ***
maybe women will let me write on their pantied ***
and charge them for it
(I'm voting for poem *******)
***** Poetry
I’ll be rich
fifty bucks a toss
Painted-***** Poetry
for fifty bucks a toss
I'll come to your house
and paint a poem on your *******
We'll discuss each poem
over tea and cookies
so you'll get what you like
get what you like
poem on your pantied behind, painted
fifty bucks a toss
Call now!
DieingEmbers Sep 2012
The tennis player could not be heard above the racket.

The snooker player was so tired of all the cues.

The shot putter threw away all his chances to win.
Ruth Dec 2017
In the small hours of the morning,
Over the putter patter of rain,
There is a girl who hears them speak ,
And gladly does refrain.

She could not see what the world saw,
She sees not in black and white,
But in a vibrant vivid shade,
Radiating with light.

Music was her therapist,
The baseline was her friend,
And the chorus was a fantastic day,
You didn't want to end.

Because even on the coldest nights,
Music was always there,
And even in this mad mad world,
Music was always fair.

It was there from start to finish,
To when the day was done,
Through sleet, snow and wind,
Or on a dazzling island in the sun.

And as this girl continues,
But does not know what to say,
She can just sigh and know,
It is time to press play.
Man Card

You must know that all men have one
That we use when we're in need
I would take mine out and show you
If I thought you would believe

I always have mine with me
But its hardly ever used
Unless I think I need it
When im shopping for new shoes

I will pull it out and wonder
If you will ever think its real
For you saw me walking fifi
My toy poodle with no tail

Now I know I'll have to show it
If ever I am found
Outside planting flowers
When college football comes around

My scooters not a harley
Every real man knows that sound
It wispers where's your man card
As I putter around this town

I have had it for so very long
But now my man card cant be found
I know I dont deserve it
With this pink shirt I wear now

I'm not worried I lost my man card
For there are plenty to be found
All married men have lost one
For not putting those tampons down

Carl J. Roberts
Inspired when I told another poet to tear up his man card.(Thanks Mike) Made me look at myself and laugh. lol.  I have a 300cc scooter and a 800cc Maurauder but at 85mpg I want to ride my scooter more each day. I should rip up my mancard
Sieve Jan 2013
I live my life
for the jolts and tingles
the prickling of skin
and the involuntary wrinkles
I live my life
for instances of bliss and euphoria
the experiences that floor ya
for the moments of clarity
when I make plans with sincerity
whether or not accomplishment,
may indeed be a rarity
I live my life
for the sensular shudder
of the feminine other
for the flashing and thrashing
and skin-tingling flutter
for those shots to be made
without use of a putter
I live my life
for new connections and epiphanies
for misdirections and the mysteries
for all the questions without answers
like, why does life give you cancer?
according to the state of california.
I live my life
through a miasma of sidewalks
and ticking clocks
through drunken walks
and forgotten talks
for the chance of a Win
and the inevitable balks
I live my life
sometimes for him or for her
in sin or while pure
and without hope of a cure
for the human condition
"the human condition?"
you know, when the world says,
"assume the position!"
and your teacher says
"are you even listenin'?"
I live my life
for zoning out and finding Rules to flout
for the workings of my mind
the ability to rewind
analyze the times
and uncover the blinds
I live my life
Shelby Hemstock Jul 2013
It all started with an urge to go to the movie theater
PTA's "The Master"
It was a 35 minute walk to the nearest cinema in Brooklyn
Nighthawks is what it was called

1:10pm, 4:10pm, 6:10pm, 10:10pm, the show times
Since I woke up at 12:45am, 1:10pm was out of the question
4:10pm seemed plausible but when the clock rolled around I was still puttering around the house
I could putter no more by 6:00pm and flew the cooped up den

The air, brisk and crisp
Time fell back
Women's heels clap the sidewalk in applause
All for the autumn on a Sunday frozen in time

I arrive, show sold out
I walk across the Williamsburg bridge, why not?
First theater in Manhattan I see turned out to be live art
So I turned out and left

Manhattans alive while Brooklyn slumbers
I dart down Clinton St toward the old Avenues
November, I could go without the cold weather, but I love the seasons
Pumpkin lattes **** my wallet dry like lesions

Soon I'm walking down 2nd Av, feeling familiar with my surroundings
Funny, feeling familiar, in a city I thought I'd never know, (you'll never know if you don't go)
Got some dollar pizza on St Marks
Followed by a dollar falafel, which tasted awful, (now I know why it was a dollar)

I walked in circles around Union Square, in union with everyone there
Happy that my feet were to the street, where they belong
Freezing, frozen, frigid, shakin' in my britches
Wrapped around my neck a borrowed scarf
Bumping into people, "I'd like to get by now", like Garth

(keep moving, you'll find what you want to find)
In big bright neon light at Village Cinema
"The Master"
(In 70mm)
Huh, 70mm, "Cool", I thought

The theater, empty as a loners funeral
I was the only one there, red velvet lined seats
I missed Halloween
Maybe this is my treat

The world is beautiful
This city is mine,
All I had to do
Was leave my old one behind
Janay Jul 2016
A rapturous delight

I breathed you in as you seduced
My thoughts. You unlocked my mind
Then freed my soul.
My heart burst into
Ecstasy. You had me strung from
the way
You moved inside of me.
Every thought of
You and I; Every thought of you and I together being free.
getting lost inside
Of each other would make my heart
Putter. Every night I close my eyes
and Feel you
inside of me. Moving deeper and
Deeper and deeper.
Tasting your thoughts.
Sensing your touches. Craving what we were destined to create; a rapturous delight.
Makiya Jan 2012
This sleep does not suit me,
this sleep without youth.

Heavy lids and heavy lies the body but
my mind takes shape reminiscent of
waves and the mermaid fins, dreams of
glittering beaches to wake up sweating
mid-winter.

Why is it that I putter and sink into crevices deep, still?
Why is it that I cannot share the moon? Her piercing
brilliance has endured eons alone, and
I feel a comrade in her shivering ripples.

This sleep, my darling,
I will not allow it.
Ben May 2016
There was a particularly nasty looking garden spider
Crawling up the cracked molding of my window
Not that he looked particularly nasty compared to other spiders
In fact, up close, spiders are one of the wisest looking creatures that exist

But I don't have eight eyes like the garden spider
So I can't see that without the help of a camera lens
So to me, he just looked
Nasty

Buzzing from behind my curtain
A particularly nasty looking yellow jacket
Landed next to the spider
I didn't need a camera lens
Close up or far away
Some things are just
Evil

The spider must have sensed this too
With a leap
He grappled the wasp
And they tumbled
Buzzing
To my uneven hardwood floor
Landing with a small
Distinct plink

And I stood over them
While they tussled

As I have stood over a million things

Watching with glazed indifference
While creatures purer in their existence than I
Fought for their lives

I could see that the spider was doing poorly
The yellow jacket was giving it to him in the abdomen
Jamming his stinger in and pulling it out and jamming it in again
Until the spider started leaking white and green
And started fighting less and less

The yellow jacket
Smugly victorious
Save one crippled wing
Started to putter away
But I brought a rolled up newspaper down on the both of them
Like a pillar falling from the front of some great Roman temple
When the Gauls sacked it

Retracting the paper
They had both been reduced to wet smudges
I felt bad for killing the spider
I wish I could have trapped him in cup with a card over the top
And placed him outside on a leaf in the garden
So he could rule where he was meant to

But I considered it an act of mercy
I couldn't stand to see a noble being end like that
And you should always ***** out evil
If you have an opening

I sat back on my bed
Considering it a wash
A bit of beauty for a bit of order
As it has always been
Grace McQuillan Mar 2012
Half-moons turn to full as my eyes flutter open
The white hot light is disorienting.
My fingernails are the first thing I notice
They’re clean.
Clean has been distant for months.
My hair is combed and cut
And I’m all wrapped up in ivory.

But they forgot to bandage my memory.
It’s still oozing and crusted with sickening pain.
And I can remember their cries and angelic faces still.
And then they turned empty,
Like those grown-ups who used to putter around on Mondays.
At least they’ve got hunger for life now.
And as these trailing thoughts leave my mind,
I remember that I’m not alone.
Not all was lost after that apocalyptic crisis,
Where all I’ve ever known turned to a rotting, dead end.

His face will be forever embedded in my mind.
He and I made it out.
We were plucked out of the ground like two white roses in a field of weeds.
Saved like two animals for Noah’s Ark.

We, are all that’s left of origin,
All that’s left of our kind.

So before it was too late,
They rescued our scorned skins.
And we flew up into that blue sky,
And we just left them there.
We left that fair skinned freckled boy,
That lanky knobby kneed kid,
And that dark haired round eyed little girl,
We left everyone that ever was.

God.

I wish there was.
He’d breathe us in and never let go.
Never let those demons touch us.
Never let them sink their rotted teeth into her tiny neck.
Those *******.
Limping around seeking blood,
Looking for lives to demolish.

If you’re reading this now
I hope you’re not running from rotted versions of your friends,
I hope you’re sitting at home on your plush pillowed sofas
Puttering around on Mondays.
Lucanna Aug 2013
The drive home begins with the Smiths
And ends with the Pixies.
I merge onto punitive pessimism
Heading north
Of an unfed need
Starvation, climbing with mileage
I switch lanes
Into loneliness
And putter up through
The Snoqualmie pass
The ceremonial point
Where I disown one contempt
To adopt another
From west to east
From mountainous mercy
To a pathetic plateau
This highway carries yellow lined cynicism
And white striped weariness
These pines hold my pining
For a life I long to know
Fully

These fours hours are my grace period
Of the transformation process
From untamed flight to civilized standstill
Vs. road trip
John F McCullagh May 2013
The American Cremation society
Is offering 'hot deals'” this week.
We get pitches for Pfizer's ******
by snail mail, on Facebook, by Tweet.

Brochures for an all senior residence
litter our nightstand these days.
There silver haired ladies and gentlemen
pop pills for their nightly forays.

There are bankruptcy ads on the radio
to help manage credit card debt.
There are pill ads to help me remember
what drink used to help me forget.

The cars that they hawk to us seniors
Are designed to just putter around
Not for me Candy apple red Corvettes
To race about with the top down..

I’m stuck in the prune demographic
Where ensure and ex lax abound.
I still have my own teeth, and don’t need drugs to sleep,
But my Glasses have yet to be found…..
DAEJR Feb 2013
The frigid air catches between her shoulder blades
winding the wings of the key.
She begins to shiver to life as gears are set to motion.
                                                         ­          The wooden bench shrinks,
her lips begin to part and let out
                                                             ­          balmy breath of steam
                                                           ­                                                                 ­    a smog that fogs his glasses.
She’s wound and bound to kiss him.
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                   He wants this, too.
                                                            ­                                                                 ­     His engine begins to putter
                                                          ­                                                                 ­              as he begins to pucker.
                                                         ­              Their cold lips meet,
and while an explosion in her core smolders,
                                                       ­                                                                 ­                 he feels like a machine,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­    running through the motions,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­             trying to produce magic,
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                   but feeling artificial.
                                                     ­                                                                 ­                  A bolt must be *******,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­                       a wire out of place,
                                                          ­                                                               something is jamming his gears,
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 a rhythm out of beat.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                  He should feel alive.
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                  He should want this.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                 He should want this.
                                                           ­             Its just animatronics.
                                                   ­           Aren’t men built to love women?
                                                          ­          He pushes her face off his.
                                                            ­                            Anxiety fills his pipes and dew begins to condensate,
while the fire in her eyes are put out by the black
like oil streaking her face.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                  He’s sorry.
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                               He’s so sorry.
                                                          ­                   He hurt her.
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                      He hurt a friend.
                                                    Wind so white fills the distance between them
                                                            ­His wet hands grab her red mittens,
but she flinches and protects them like tiny finches
and puts them back inside her cage,
safe in her black pocket,
and walks away, leaking,
busted and broken.
White erases her.
                                                            ­                       He’s left to be a Tin Man who wants to rust in the snow.
                                                           ­                                                        A dent has shattered his almost love,
                                                           ­                                                        and a first kiss he wished he missed.
Just a work in progress like all my other poems. Experimenting with sides of a poem.
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
When He came home from work that day
He said “Enough’s enough”.
“Let others built the widgets,
I have done that long enough.”
I’ll live a life of leisure,
crafting poetry and song.
Perhaps I’ll write short stories
or play my guitar all night long.”
Such boundless optimism
didn’t take Fate into account.
Fate, the foe of youth and love,
was lurking there about.
That man thought that He had years of time
to write and think and putter.
Yet Fate was of another mind,
and a malediction muttered.
A tightness in the chest He felt.
A soreness in one arm.
He was sure that it was nothing.
Soon thereafter, He was gone
A poem about a man who fell afoul of the classic fates. Don't we all?
kat Sep 2014
dad
shoulders squared
putter lined up against
the pink gum ball at my
miniature feet
i know my father is watching
and i know he will swing me around in his arms
regardless if i get a hole in one,
and say, 'i'm proud of you, kathy b'
that loop-de-loop was a real *****

i remember the car rides home
fleetwood mac on the freeway
every time i asked you where we were going
you'd tell me, "to the moon"
hold my hand,
and with you
we went celestial

and in a couple years,
i'll advance and swing clubs against the wind
i begged you to teach me, begging
"how do you get that ball to fly so high"
i'd crane my neck against the sky
even with me on your shoulders,
our love flew so high
and i was terrified of you dropping me

i never played to impress you
i played because it was a part of you
sweetly polished, leather golf shoes
you smelled like grass,
and sunday
and thick tulsa wind
so you and i played every weekend

in aunt melissa's backyard,
i stared at my compromise
when i was thrown off the backseat of the cart
my twisted tiny fingers
dangling
pit pattering against rubber
it smelled like gasoline
and i couldn't stop thinking about
your sweet leather, newly polished shoes

we didn't play golf anymore after that
i stared death in the face, and so do you
because we hold hands in a different ways
you're on my shoulders now
because your occipital is faulty
and you can barely see

i'm hoping one day,
you'll teach me how to hurl pink gum *****
through the wind, so effortlessly
i hope one day you'll teach me
to pick out the perfect christmas tree,
and i hope you tells me you're proud of me,
kathy b
a perfect chicken soup recipe
the cure for all broken memories
zebra Oct 2020
I'm following the red pig
ziggety zag
i can smell her blood **** & *** 
whipped and wet
thick as jelly

bouncy bouncy
belly gut trampoline
oodles up **** hole bazooka

her mind lavishly corrupt
nothing pained her but emptiness
her soul a poem of lust's dissolution

so give it
my red hot pig *****
gag hag
**** bag
valedictorian of kisses

i love the sweat wet
cascading dark waters
that run so raw

your lunch the history
of projectile salad and pizza
over glistening ***** and thighs

the ******* knows 
pain is not punishment 
but pleasure
spawned by unfulfilled intentions

i like it when you close your eyes
you appear so blameless
i pray looking up to your ******
that yields its delicate shade of feeling
like a bomb

blinkity blink puddle and squeeze

come my love for a frantic ****
and flapping jowls
on the frig of treasure
in the land of dungeons and ******

i bay at your ankles for attention
and a toe to kiss

many wish they lived here 
especially the love sick
from whom all is withheld

i know i owe you tenderness
meet you in the bathroom
for a midnight date
where gawking tongues putter
inhaling White Widow Cheese
bound in straps and wide
for a lady business nose dive

neck bone lassoed
mouth gaping
like a twisted black coat hanger
shes out of her rolling marbles
ready to ****
boogie woogie raw
in broken maiden paradise

lovely beast of submission
she wobbles
dead cat bounce
Widow Cheese is a slightly sativa dominant hybrid strain (60% sativa/40% indica) created through a potent cross of the infamous White Widow X Cheese strains. This bud brings on the classic flavors and lifted high, bringing the best of both of its parent strains to the game. Widow Cheese packs a super pungent creamy cheese flavor into each ****, with a spicy skunky exhale that sticks to your tongue.

4.4/5(21)
Brand: Widow Cheese
John F McCullagh Jun 2013
The President assessed the scene
and gave a terse command.
His caddy grabbed his putter
and put it in Obama’s hand.
The breeze as not a factor
The air was hot and still.
The hole, a dozen feet away,
blocked by a small windmill.
Barrack needed this putt for par.
to help him tie the score.
Boehner got a hole in one
in the clown face just before.
Obama gave his ball a stroke-
it veered wide, an inch or two.
It’s a pity folks are watching
Or he’d lie about that too.
That he should be reduced to this;
Playing at the “Pirate’s cove.
The sequester is a right wing plot
likely dreamed up by Karl Rove.
What I imagine would happen if the president's golf game was affected by the budget sequester
J Arturo Jun 2014
If I survive the next few years, I may wish I'd written more about this time. My self is certainly transforming, but it's such a minimal bother to document it. It's 7:10 am. I worked at the bar until about one. Bill came by unexpectedly, and I went to his house and bought twenty grams for five hundred, as well as fifty worth of **** for Gillian. I suppose I've been high since about 11 o'clock.

John says that Bill is certainly the most intelligent man he's ever met. I used to feel that way about people. I spent the rest of the night at the bar, and then at the couch, talking to Sarah and Liz. Liz's last name is Oliphant. Sarah is Croatian. Liz is prettier. I would like to kiss either of them.

This **** may be better than last time, I'm not sure. As usual, as is whenever I get high, everyone leaves me in the early morning. It was around five this time. Maybe five thirty. As usual I thought to watch TV but Andrea looked so comfortable curled up on the couch in reception and I hadn't the heart to bother her. I learned a new word today: gallow, I believe it was... meaning to frighten. Or gallowed, meaning to be very afraid.

As is not usual, this time after I got in bed I did another line. Two in fact. And the largest I'd done all night. Because oddly this is the first time in the last month that I've stayed up all night without having anywhere to be, or otherwise any obligations the next day. I was going to go to the markets and buy pants. But I suppose a day in bed will justly stall that need for another turn at least.

And it had been a while. Actually I can't even remember when. The last time I was high by myself, and not overly drunk, and able to just stare up at the bunkbed slats supporting the German or French or Dutch fellow now above me and feel the unmoderated effect of the dear drug itself as she works through me. I know I'll regret this. I always regret it. But I was regretting it already and so to stall the regret and stare upwards for a few hours, treating myself to a little selfish time, seemed not the lowest of sins.

And I work at four. Four to eight thirty. So even if I don't sleep a wink and even if I continue to defy conscience and maybe do the one more line thing again, I can still power through. Can still sit leeward on the barstool and listen to 90's alt rock hits and putter through the motions of making it past eight. I can do that. And I can spend 30 minutes in this exaltation and then stare listlessly at the mattress above me and all its cartoon moons and stars while I debate the uselessness of my life and all the strings I've severed when I came here to drown.

Because this is a true story. It doesn't wrap up, or nicely. And there's no twist, but ongoing turns I guess. I'm a newborn, dripping with womb in a way and without even language or very many clothes: I feel much like one indeed. And I tried to buy a phone card today because it's something I need but the man told me to go somewhere else, gave good directions, and I didn't really understand. Likewise it seems will fail my dream for today to get out of this room, and buy new pants.

I can accept my grandfather dying. Every time I've seen him I've said goodbye. And he in his humble way, or maybe faith, always hints at see you soon. My grandmother sure. If anything somewhere maybe I expected the grief would take her. Or afterwards the dire space left between caring for her husband's ailing pains. But I always thought I'd know well before my mother would go. And now won't. And honestly never considered but now dramatically realize: I'll never be an uncle to my brothers' sons. Never see my sister find her place. Never see Brandy become the quiet dark eyed schoolteacher she is in my dreams. And also she will die and I won't see that, either. Not even anyone will call on the phone.

So I start with, "if I survive the next few years" because regardless those years will mean loss. Either loss of those loved, or more likely loss of that complex potential of mind... that once made space to love them. Or maybe better lost the own bitter instrument. And I say it all without condolence because each those ways feel, to me, tragic. Each way feels to me like something bright once in the world, that had to perish. I go forth with some sadness into the dark.
I've been trying to find a voice. It's harder in prose than poems. And I can't find fiction in myself, so I keep tormenting my life into the fiction I wish I could create. But every day baby steps I guess.
Logan Robertson Mar 2019
Dare she lies
With a three inch putt
Tap in birdie
For sure
With a **** in her eyes
She looked askance
How can this be
It was a beautiful drive
Straight down the fairway
A pitch and a roll
Fortuitous is the bounce ...  swing
Now standing abreast on the green
Nonchalant
She takes the putter to bed
One under par

Logan Robertson

3/30/2019
Oh my!
Julie May 2013
Five sweet memories,
before I can unwind my thoughts,
before I can calm the world,
And justify my afflictions,
The bullet that heals the wound,
Overly aware of my spine twisting on the crooked mattress,
I count

Five.  We’re sitting on the bench in his backyard.
I’m too nervous to move.  
His words are rushing together in my mind,
but I nod gently anyway.  
Gazing at the night sky as he unwinds his past to me.  
He laughs, I laugh.  
He lays his head on my shoulder,
letting his soft hair press against my neck.  
I try to stop time,
Like a philosopher aching to solve the mysteries of human misery,
I have found pure truth and beauty,
but to no avail, time is a burdenous *****

Four.  
We are hiking in the desert.  
We climb rock after rock, yet my joints feel nothing.  
He points out the best footing for me, and despite being an avid hiker,
I follow along, pretending to be grateful for his instructions.  
At the top of the cliff, we sit on smooth stones.  
Lightning strikes in a far off storm. We ooh and ahh at each blast.  
Flash
Darkness
Flash. A glimpse of his eyes
Darkness.
Flash. His lips
I turn towards him and he turns to me.  Our eyes light with each strike, but the stare holds.
And despite the flashes, we are cast in the darkness of our locked eyelids
Our locked lips
The lightning mixes with city lights and all is bright for a split-second
The numbness wears off, letting us realize the desert has become frigid.  
We race down the mountain, returning to our normal selves.

Three.  He hands me an old putter.
I laugh. He can’t be serious.  
He pulls out another and begins stuffing golf ***** into his pockets.  
Shh, he whispers.  
He grabs my hand and leads me behind the house.  
We climb the fence and land ourselves on the 6th hole.  
He pulls me onto the green and drops two *****.
Ladies first, he chides.
Little does he know, I’ve taken many golf lessons
I win the first round.  
And the second.  
He wins the third.  
Two out of three, I declare.  
He mumbles, what do you want?  
I press my cheek to his, wrapping my arms around his waist.  
Inhale, exhale.  
Our lips touch.

Two.  
It’s six o’clock on a Tuesday night.
I am tired from work, putting the finishing touches on my homemade pizza.  
As I slide it into the oven, I hear the doorbell ring.
My brother calls my name.  
I try to pace myself to the door, but I feel as if I’m doing a full out sprint.  
I open the door.  
Orange roses hide his face, and I am the happiest girl in the world.

One.  The night is bittersweet.  
We spoon on the couch, holding each other as tight as possible.
His soft stomach in the small of my back
I listen to his chest, trying to memorize the pattern.  
I try to take in the small details.  
But no, time has never been my friend, and soon we are standing by my car as I try not to cry.
He places his arms around me and pulls me in closer.  
I know I should go.  
I know this might make it worse, he stutters, but I love you.  
And I love him.
And it’s over.
Once again,
I am trying to fall asleep in a hot, cramped room,
knowing that for every thought I think of him,
I am 1,000 thoughts further from his mind.
nate mattson Jul 2013
Feeling empty like a car out of gas , can't even putter around anymore  , done like like a man in jail , sitting in my ****** apartment letting my mind go in a million directions , I feel as if I'm missing a pice to a puzzle , just gone , can't froget about it like your first day of school , your first kiss ,or the day I first saw you , still sitting in my hell hole of an appartment alone with nothing but memories from the past the " good ole days " to soon to say hi again , still feeling the spark so a hello and good by was the time to soon to say hi the awkward moment of silnce following , as the spark walks away for the fire to be not lit , ,I love you and I can't stop your always there , as a pitied sits on a wall i, I can't get sleep tonight eventhough I know everything will be alright .... This empty feeling *****.
Meaghan G Oct 2012
;
I guess the leaves are on the lawn now,

like Fall always comes and thank God for October

but too many grandparents have died this month, and

on the first day, the rain keeps

coming.

And I have been

obliterated by simple things,

like October or

the coming and going of people.

I have been

shocked silent into this room,

I am still never

sure of what left there is to say;

there are too many people that I have left with semicolons

and no following independent clauses

or independent thought.

Shake me the most awake,

or I will blanch and putter and

scream in the morning.

How nightmares upon nightmares

upon daymares

have thrown me for something—

a loop maybe? A figure-eight?

———

I have always

wondered why we collect shells on the beach.

(I know I do it too, but)

they once held life

and I am wondering why we celebrate

the shell of things.

———

I am not sure how to end this,

but in the ever so common way of ending

without really an ending at all.
mark john junor Oct 2013
the hall walker slides along the wall
one hand brushing the cheap paint
his thin vacant face
etched in a shallow gasping for breath caricature
the hall walkers drifting steps
are across the carpets patterns
but no one objects
his neat and clean golf pro outfit
still clings to its filthy rich beginnings
suede leather faces
and the disdain they project

the hall walker has paused
to announce his desire to be on his way
to the blank wall
a poster nearby grins down at his madness
with a fateful message about condoms
lest the madness spread no doubt
he raises his voice
but to no avail
the wall remains ignorant

but we are far from alone
me and the hall walker
a stream of faces
the tight lipped impaired people
come in waves through the hall
like a strange tidal basin of the medical world
the floaters and driftwood
the gathers of shells
and thouse who seek to hide inside them still
this odd place of the infirm

a dozen bent forms
pushing canes
and mounted on wheelchairs
slowly fold the hallway
with the repeated ebb and flow
of their travels
the low electric sound of their hover-rounds
like meat grinders digesting a daily dose
putter past in steady stream
a nightmare vision of what awaits
the hall walker stops to ponder
the fate of his domain
his hall is no longer his kingdom
and they now shoo him into rooms
or out the door
rather than let him walk the line
between dark and light
that is the way the world decides

the hall walker
pressed his golf shoe
into the soft dirt of wet night
and smiled clean and real
recalling the scent
and releasing his grip
he follows the young nurse to bigger and better halls
to walk the wall
kj Foster Sep 2014
Rise up little fire.
Can’t you feel the great heat within you.
You’ll never be missed in death if you never start to live.
The sparks scare me too.
We can’t control where we grow.

It wasn’t an accident.
It was out of necessity.
The universe needed our presence.
It has a service,
just one thing it needs from us.

In return, we live.

That in fact, is the requirement to live.
Loud. And with great force.
Crackle.
So that even the coldest phantoms can feel it.
Don’t be afraid to melt them.

It will hurt. But what other choice do you have?
Sizzle. Putter. *****.
Never.
Build. Burn. Blaze.
Isaac Sands Jul 2012
We all walk along
The path of life.
Some choose to hurry
On, rushing ever
Forward to a goal
That is never guaranteed.
Others putter along,
Looking ever backwards,
They only remember
What they've done
And don't see whats right
Before them.
Does a moderate pace exist?
Balancing the past
With goals for the
Future?
Mary Jul 2012
Porcelain astronauts waltz across the cosmos
they gather stars in their skirts
and twirl to the beat of heady pagan drums.
Filmy petals unfold beneath their pastel feet
and chanting begins as the heavenly cords quiver,
with manifold breaths.

The respirators hum
surrounding engines that putter along
with the crashing of wagon wheels,
who carry these fragile seraphs,
these willowy cherubs  
- no longer cherubs but voyeurs -
along stardust trails and porous bone bridges.

Enormous broken knuckles swell to cages,
dust marbles the starry effigies,
and a slightly hallucinatory green glow pervades it all.
Jeg tager det stille og roligt denne gang,
jeg forventer intet af fremtiden,
men jeg forventer troskab og ærlighed, hvis jeg skal blive i det.

Jeg vil være der for ham og støtte ham,
men jeg vil hverken kontrollere ham eller bestemme over ham,
jeg vil stole på ham og lade ham nyde sit liv med sine venner og veninder, men jeg forventer han kun vil have min kærlighed og det er nok for ham.

Jeg kan virkelig godt lide ham, jeg er stolt af ham og elsker hans personlighed, han er helt sig selv og han er ikke bange for hvad andre tænker.

Jeg elsker når han kysser mig når vi vågner, nusser mig og putter sig helt op ad mig, hele natten, ligemeget hvor varmt det er, er han altid helt tæt på mig hele natten.

Han er fantastisk og han fandt mig og omvendt i en svær tid, men den tid har ændret mig både fysisk og psykisk. Jeg elsker mit nye jeg og det er sikkert også derfor det her er rigtigt denne gang, fordi jeg endelig har fundet mig selv og jeg elsker mig selv
Patricia Waldron Sep 2014
Do you revel in the smell of the Earth as the seasons change?
And ice patterns that form on windows in winter?
Do you like holidays and Sundays and Fridays?
Do you like to have your face touched?
And your eyelids kissed?
And the tip of your nose?
Do you like to lie on your back in a field of wildflowers?
And watch clouds move across the sky?
Do you love storms?
Can you feel their power?
Do you like soft, gray days?
And bright sunlit ones?
And walking in a summer rain?
And fireflies?
And butterflies?
Do you like to receive brown paper packages ******* with string?
And having your ear lobes nibbled?
Do you like to cook over a campfire?
Then sit nearby and watch the flames?
And sleep under the stars?
Do you like stones and herbs?
Do you drink coffee?
Do you put too much salt on your food?
Would you allow me to watch you shave?
Do you sometimes like wine with dinner?
And eating by candlelight?
Do you keep a glass of water on your bedside table at night?
Are your keys on your keyring in order by size?
And do the teeth all face the same way?
Do you put the cap back on the toothpaste?
Do you like rainbows?
And waterfalls?
Do you have to touch moss?
And dandelions gone to seed?
Would you like to chase me?
Do you like to hold hands?
And the touch of a hand reaching for you in the night?
Do you like to fly kites in spring winds?
Against a bright blue sky?
In a field of dandelions?
Do you feel a special joy in things that grow without your intervention?
Like wild strawberries and thistles?
Do you like the spongy give of pine needles on the forest floor?
Do you like the salt taste on your lips from the ocean?
Would you like it on mine?
Do you like the sound of a boat gently rubbing against a dock in the dark?
And the sound of tree branches rubbing against each other in the wind?
Do you like stone steps?
And covered bridges?
And walking through soft, thick fog?
Do you get 'high' on sunshine?
And making love?
Do you like to have someone tag along behind as you putter about?
To provide you with an extra hand?
And make you laugh?
Do you feel awe when you look at a mountain?
And a valley? And trees? And water? And every living thing?
Do you believe in God's Magic?
the initial purport
     this literary effort delivered atchew
to reed constitutes hazmat tocks sin
     within White House blew
per, viz thee president be

     getting a Hollywood love story
     with "Stormy Williams" despite brew
haha murmur, now dapper Don in deep doo doo
thus, this garrulous married pro LIX prone papa flew
off (like a bat out of hell)

     to his Macbook Pro laptop presenting myself
     implicating Trump as po' faux guise Mister McGoo
affiliated, confused, and explained
     being on par with Winnie the Pooh
especially stuck right tub bear arms in grr...

     Rabbit's House, now he doth stew
nsync, nonetheless this path a logical
     rhyme stir on the straight and true
composeing grist sill for ye to view

now, nar hating, hit ting
     private links provide attention turned toward
two thousand twenty presidential election campaign
     no Iron nee, anno putter opportunity,

how he diplomatically strived, and nearly scored
     to boast asthma, overt braggart, stalwart
     asper ideal consistency of cement poured
affiliation, aggregation, and attestation moored
prevails ma (Jack booted - magical) lord

     rolling back to Timbuktu progressive liberal
     Democratic initiatives star Apprentice
     sans ("NO LIES") being linkedin, he almost ignored
with voluble chattering class hud hoard

hobnobbing (with the likes of Missus Muir's ghost,
who resort to Matthew Scott's turf brand),
reconstituted, recycled, and repurposed, gourd
nonetheless Trumping protocol necessitates me bing bored
predictable feigned "FAKE" non accord.

— The End —