"racks" poems
Road trips with old cars
With ski racks and kayaks
Park and open the sunroof
And we can fall asleep
Gazing up at the stars,
Or at eachother, whichever
Who's up for a long escape?
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
Fat people have no heads.
They end at the shoulders,
they are clipped off at the neck.
Never talk to fat people.
You may talk to an expert,
to a dietitian or a doctor
but never to a real live fat person
because fat people have no heads.
Use the word Epidemic
at least once, especially
if children are involved.
Children are always involved,
so use the word Epidemic
at least once. Fat children
still have heads, usually;
only fat adults must be
d e c a p i t a t e d.
Because he still has his head
you may talk to a fat child,
especially if you offer him
a box of chicken nuggets.
Entice him to say Alarming Things
with a box of chicken nuggets.
After the word Epidemic
segue from concerned anchorwoman
to stock footage of fat headless girl
browsing the racks at J.C. Penny’s.
Segue to fat headless mom
walking with her fat headless son
on a sidewalk populated by
fat headless pedestrians.
Voice-over Alarming Things
about fat headless people
not getting enough exercise
and segue to fat headless man
stuffing his fingers into a box
of McDonald’s french fries.
Fat people eat only McDonald’s
french fries and we will be right
back with more on this story
after a word from our sponsors.
Cue McDonald’s theme song.
Pretty people Golden Arches
laughing with their heads
as they eat McDonald’s french fries
with their heads
and never gain a pound.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 5:58 PM UTC
[Intro: Honey *******
You ******* ******* stink
Go take a ******* shower
Schwag. Asian *******
[Verse 1: Honey *******
****** I ain't got time for a stupid broad
Cause bro I'm 'bout to beat a ***** and probably lose my job
**** I'm a bubble
Listen, ***** I tell you cool it off
Cause acting smart'll get you deaded
***** I rule the spot
Now, homie, I ain't ******* down to catch a charge, bro
Now her body found the same place she had parked, bro. (Whoops! [x3])
I forgot my ******* ride for me
Cause these ******* that drive for me
Are these ******* flying for free
I gain mine. There's a difference. You remember that
Cause I'm always hungry for the **** that I ain't never had
This here is baby food and be all like, ***** **** a snack! "
See ****** who said I'm crap is asking me to hit 'em back
***** **** that!
[Hook x2: Honey *******
Now, I ain't got time for ********
If I ain't getting mine, then that's ********
Why you all up in my face with this ********
Ew. ***** you smell like ********
[Verse 2: Honey *******
Oh, here I go. There they go in this here game again
Now these ******* praying they gon' never hear my name again
But look, I'm a stay around even although they acting like I can't
I don't sleep at all cause it'll always be my time again
That means I work hard, homie. I don't play around, dawg
Better cut this ******** or your face'll meet the ground, dawg
But after all, it's for the haters and the groupies, though
Find me at the studio
The smart ***** with a stupid flow
**** delivery. Got fans who in the dance
Now my enemies got plans
They just searching for a chance
**** friends cause I'm married to the music
***** cause I gained the world and die before I lose it
So cool it
[Hook x2: Honey *******
Now, I ain't got time for ********
If I ain't getting mine, then that's ********
Why you all up in my face with this ********
Ew. ***** you smell like ********
[Verse 3: Tyga]
***** back, back. Why your *** so flat?
Tell your best friend I want that
I don't pretend, ***** and I don't act
Why you all up in my chat?
Telling people that you know him
If I lend you all on my back
Criss-cross, you wiggedy-wack! (Aghh!)
Duplicating my racks
Introduce you to my life
Yeah, my gold heavy metal
You can't rock out on my level
Yeah, yeah. That's a red Ferarri
And I'm dancing with the devil
***** testing me, you get answers
**** a ***** quick fast, like cancer. (Aghh!)
(Well, well) Make a ***** rubbin money on my **** till it swell, swell
And ya money, money shorter than a elf, elf
And I keep cool J's like LL
(Hell yeah) I don; t wanna start nuttin' ***** lemme finish
All in a ***** net ***** mouth like a dentist
(Dennis) Rodman. Come on, come on
***** is you with it, with it?
Cause I ain't
[Hook x2: Honey *******
Now, I ain't got time for ********
If I ain't getting mine, then that's ********
Why you all up in my face with this ********
Ew. ***** you smell like ********
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
Cigarette smoke
Wheels no spokes
Board rollin down alleys
Late night skate
Let me escape
The life I never planned
Never on time
You best lower your expectations
Snortin molly in the bathroom
Chuggin ***** in the hall
I could be anywhere at all
But I’d still crawl
back to the clutches of dependence
I forfeited life's race in the first lap
Yet I'm still trapped
Coughing up blood
I strive for nothing
I don't want to feel
I long to be free
From society
Our culture has maxed out
So now everyone wants to shout
for help because what the world wants
Is unrealistic
We try to overdose
And become comatose
To drop all worries of material success
Those
Stacks on stacks on stacks
Racks on racks on racks
We forget
its just paper
Not what defines us
The rest is up to the people
To rise about the atmosphere
Of atoms and mold supportive molecules from the elements we're presented
Not corrected like a sent typo
To your mom
Or boss
Control
Is unattainable
Fathom the slack of a slacker
Loosen your ropes
And walk the plank
With no hopes of disaster nor triumph
Determined
To just be
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
It was hard to miss Jerry
in the corner
holding court
over the bran muffin.
Flurries of judgement and wisdom
flying across coffee dappled pages
as he sentenced a large cup of
Paruvian Dark Roast
to be ******
7 am Dan never flinched
steeling his tenured chair at
a spot one section of stir sticks away
calculably just out of reach
of the regularly scheduled tantrum.
An auburn-haired newbie
fanes camoflage
peeking over two pages of Obituaries
she never intended to read.
Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows
hover above the dateline like a magic trick.
And on every table fall
scattered leaves
of press print trees
unsorted and littered with intent
by careless absorbers of trivia.
Disconnected
ear-budded
footnotes of humanity
see nothing
hear nothing
using the disarrayed World News as
enormous coasters
unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives
pushing panic buttons through
desperate quests to uncover
one alphabetically organized set
of local news.
Of the papers not strewn
the remnant holds anxious
on a distant wall
a throng of flopping
rabbit-eared
step children
dangling precariously
from unaccomodating magazine racks
like smoky orphans from
windows in a fiery building.
Disordered.
Disrespected.
Discarded...words are
Jews in the holocaust.
Death of a voice.
We are irreverent in our silence
diminishing genius through apathy
put off by the imposition to be challenged
choosing disposable principles
above responsible knowledge.
Everything is disposable - cameras, cars,
relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom -
crumpling Pulitzer prize authors
and discarding WW2 veterans
just to get to the cartoons.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
So many years,
These hands, now old,
Have worked at the table,
kneading and rolling dough,
Testing texture,
Adding raisins,
Walnuts,
Sugar,
Sprinkling cinnamon.
Warming the oven,
Waiting for the dough
To rise,
Sliding trays onto hot racks,
Marking time....
She sits on her walker's chair
Looks up into the camera
"Oh, don't take my picture!"
But how can we not?
Adding these images
To the memories,
To the moment.
The scent of baking bread,
Cinnamon,
Raisins,
Fills the room,
With 40 years' remembering...
Time stops,
Time reverses.
The ones who stopped in...
Dad,
Brother,
Sister,
Gram,
Hired Men,
Grandchildren,
Neighbors passing by...
Some now long gone...
After all, they were
Only stopping in...
"To grab a bite"
On their way to the barn,
On their way by the farm,
On their way to fields,
On their way to the phone,
On their way to town...,
But really to stop
For cinnamon, raisins, walnuts
Twisted into fresh, hot bread,
And a cool glass of milk.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
Beat the rhythm
empty hand,
Iron cast chains
rattles command.
Ol' Boss Hogg,
baton raised
Self righteous fool
has need of praise.
In order that
he gain acclaim,
thinks with hate,
acts with shame.
Human beings,
commodity,
ships hold stacked
with those once free.
Bodies piled
upon high
you will not see
the strong ones die.
Scars embedded
on their backs
chained and shackled
to the racks.
We deal in branded
breathing stock,
Unload black vassal
from our docks.
Beat the rhythm
empty hands.
Iron cast chains
in far off lands.
We keep our skivvy,
wired hair blacks.
We work them hard,
we score their backs.
They do for us,
they work the field.
Grow the cotton,
pick the yield.
Keep the body,
take the mind.
Labour whatever's
left behind.
And if demeanour
does ever flinch.
We'll introduce you
Willie Lynch.
Beat the rhythm.
Empty hands
Iron cast chains.
Unfair demands.
Beat the rhythm,
shackled feet.
We take their worst
but can't be beat.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
Soft shapes touch a child's finger,
Memories of their sweetness linger--
Helping grandma roll the dough
In her kitchen long ago.
I like the shape your cookies take
When they spread out as they bake,
Like the changing shapes of crowds,
Melting snow or summer clouds.
Oven-hot and placed on racks,
Lined up , lying on their backs,
Coming from a single batch,
But none of them a perfect match.
Toll house cookies, soft, convex,
Each perfection, like the next:
Chocolate chips their surface grace--
Freckles on a child's face.
Pecan ball aren't perfect spheres,
But they're gentle little dears:
Bottoms flat, sides dented slightly,
With white sugar sprinkled lightly.
Sugar cookies cold days cheer,
Shaped like angles and reindeer
Glazed with frosting sweet and white,
Decked with sprinkles all delight.
Santa's Whiskers, coconut rolled,
Long fat logs of sugared dough,
Cut in portions smooth and round,
Pecan bits, cherries abound.
Molasses crinkles' faces lined
Like old men's--the friendly kind--
With lines like back roads on a map,
Dunked in milk before a nap.
Oatmeal cookies, shapes amorphous
Juicy raisins budge enormous,
Semi-blobs, their texture rough,
Sometimes packed with nuts and stuff.
So many cookies through our life,
Since we became husband and wife,
In their sweet aroma and taste
Years rushed by like cars in a race.
Looking at their shapes diverse
Reminds me of our love at first:
We weren't sure just where we'd go
And all we had was cookie dough.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 11:05 AM UTC
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead mean naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Through they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
3.5k
There's a big deal made these days
About ****** harassment at work
And quite rightly so
Who needs a heavy breathing half-wit
Slobbering over them at work?
Or anywhere else
If it comes to that
But I remember a time
Oh what a time
When I started work in the sixties
As a bobbin boy in the mills
And when mill girls
Were wild wild women
And we were their targets
We became swift of wit and feet
Very quickly
And I remember clearly when
Dear old "Make 'em 'ave it Phil" Doris
Grabbed Dougie Hibbert on his own
Hiding in the bobbin racks
She put his **** in a milk bottle
Then horned him up so he couldn't
Get the **** thing off
Then shouted everyone
To come and see
By Phil Roberts
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 5:35 AM UTC
That tapestry,
Red, Black, Gold
A Celtic Circle--
silently bearing witness
to the proceedings
of that smoky room:
The aquariums--one with
the large eel who seemed
to barely fit the tank
that took up half the wall;
and the smaller, vibrantly
colored fish in the
aquarium with the eggshell
colored coral.
The remixed music played
at a comfortable volume,
by the DJ we knew
so well, together;
as many times
it hardly seemed like
he was working at all,
as he just sat down and
talked to us, for hours.
Looking through
those over-sized books of
old advertisements,
and explanations of
historical artwork;
discussing the contents
with strangers,
who became friends
in the process.
Smoke billowed, enveloping
the atmosphere and filling it
with the smell of many spice
racks, pleasantly rolled in a
shell of a soft breeze
flowing from the oscillating fan.
The smell of joy,
of a relaxed sense of mutual
understanding; that it was okay
not to say a word, because the
atmosphere did the talking
for us.
We just enjoyed sitting
on those red pleather couches
that your **** sank back into,
not allowing my feet to touch
the floor; so they often just
dangled, legs swinging
to the tempo of the music.
As I took a hit
of the hookah,
I manipulated the smoke
into O's, puckering
my lips, trying not
to laugh as you
gazed at me in a
shy sense of wonder.
That face always made you
want to kiss me.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 3:38 AM UTC
a single momentary lapse of memory in a noisy skull,
just bones, flesh and a shaky consciousness.
slipping awareness and slowly
swimming bloodshot eyes. you're the teenager, the
sleepy head that angrily paces the room. agitated and
stressed out - to the maximum. tightly
balled fists, ready to fight the oncoming storm.
*'so long and good night. but before i go you should
know that if you carry on like this, you'll surely do yourself
damage.'* 'what of it?' taunts the little voice within the
closed in, confined walls of the skull.
**'it's too late.
you're too stressed. forget it.'**
and then there's the shouting now, not taunting, **'for the love of god,
bite your tongue and SHUT UP!'**
and again, from within. whispering, but maliciously forceful...
**'you're desperate and pathetic.
stop crying, you idiot. you're being so ridiculous. no one wants
to hear your ridiculous whining. choke those words back down, they don't matter'**
the violence that racks through your bones makes you
stressed and scared as hell, your eyes bloodshot and makes your
chest so painful that even breathing hurts.
unable to stand anything, at all. wanting it all to STOP.
it's not enough, screams the voice. that's another
sleepless night. another night lying awake, tormented and ridiculed
by a voice telling you *you'll fail, you're **** give up now before
it gets so much worse*
scream at the top of your lungs, tear yourself apart, if the voice
inside hasn't already stripped you bare of confidence and
everything that once made you, you. it's nearly too late.
and the voice still spits hatred at you.
always.
selfish.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
Of ***** roasting pans and racks and island fog!
*if you love me, then you know poems wright themselves when standing, driving, bus riding, ********** and especially when
doing manly battle, ******* ***** dishwashing midst island fog
a passing remark goes noticed and summoned to a
Friday night feast, roasted fowl, wild rice with golden raisins and mushrooms, English spring peas, was it a Montrachet?
for dessert the washing up is obligation mine, a traditional desertion,
separation of church and state, her cooking a church in which I worship, she states eloquently:
“Unto Caesaria , Render Her the cleanup”
this is hand to hand combat, no dishwasher mechanical
can scrub like the human hand, and with body english,
water hot, but no gloves employed for this is ***** man’s work,
not for sissies, cleaning roasting pans and roasting racks
that are at least twenty years burnt and crusted with a blackened
finish, residue of other lovers and dinners P.N. (pre-nat)
array three kinds of sponges and some human & metallic *****
no one asking which came first,
the scrubbing away of life feasting residues,
or the poem writing that comes with pre & postscript sleepiness
when I say the dark stains and the grease buildup are
flavor enhancers, am beknighted with starry stares of
“how stupid do you think I am?” and sadly return to the
Battle of Agincourt, the one the American lost….*
but they do source poems that flavor life
2020
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 11:54 AM UTC
Customers have torn open the Christmas
chocolates. Shoving it in mouths,
shopping bags, children’s eyes.
Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family.
Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system
hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing,
sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets.
The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg.
Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children
into them.
Turn on the light Jimmy.
The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They
have turned the clearance divans on their sides
and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement,
the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’
cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static
sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers
have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror.
A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead
for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing
down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing
upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes
into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags,
they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources
are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers
have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming,
Escalators are jamming. Children scream
I want to see Santa.
Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over his protruding
belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired
feet. An inhuman voice garbles
The store will be closing.
Families grab onto shelves, racks, other
families. Employees pick up the registers and slam
them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating
doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 5:16 PM UTC
I talk about my struggles with her Sister
While she bounces lemonade in a jug The old fashion-way
And serves me some in a champagne Glass
She hangs her clothes on department Store racks
With Picasso leaning on a wall
She doesn't have a phone
And neither does her boyfriend
They never met on one
But she uses one to call me on a Friday Night when I'm
Alone
We drive downtown to Wazee's with Two punk rockers
They order a pitcher of beer
And tell us they'll be back in a few - A few is a long concept to them
We pay the tab
And walk up 15th street to Colfax to Grant
Where she decides to see her boyfriend
She says she'll buy a ball so we can Shoot some hoop
Jazz on Jeanie, Jazz on!
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 4:57 PM UTC
i have to inhabit this planet of panic
to stand among man and practice it's habits
i can't understand this plan of the manic
standing in line to be trampled by havoc
a mad dash to the racks and cabinets
their drawn to a status as if it's a magnet
pressed against glass, madly and frantic
planning their route to the plastic gadgets
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
Outside, but not so far away,
Missiles are falling;
Early snow has settled
Beneath gray overcast....
Sirens in the distance
Send their low moan
Across the miles...
Echo faintly in our canyon.
Too cold for lightning,
We turn away from light
Flickering or flashing
Upon the bellied skies...
Don't want to think
About the thundering
The light implies.
Muffled sound and muted light
Confirm our living
Away from town.
Perhaps we are
Far enough....
These days, though,
Places to run are few,
And war is moving out.
At least the news has stopped....
Was sporadic
Then...
Stopped altogether
Now.
Almost a relief....
The coal oil lamp -
Her mother's mother's -
Burns a reddish glow...
Diesel's charring smudge...
Comforts us
In a growing dark.
Roast potatoes,
Rabbit stew,
Pickled beets...
No bread this time
As I uncork chokecherry wine...
And it is summer 1999....
We are standing in tall grass
Somewhere between Red Lodge
And Laurel along the road,
Ice cream pails echoing
With plopping chokecherries
Near black and hanging thick
Like miniature clusters of grapes.
We are there to beat the birds and bears,
Knowing choke-cherrying
Is the hurried work of many races,
Some wearing claws upon their heavy hands,
Others flitting in with beaks upon their faces.
And then the kitchen smells of cherries boiling down
For syrups and for jam,
The old ten gallon glass fermenting juice and sugar,
Stands waiting in the corner,
Later to be filtered off and corked away
In twice-used bottles....
Other years and other picking times
Lie bottled in wooden racks below,
But we have chokecherry wine tonight,
While storms we never thought we'd know
Blow hard against the world.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
Oh won't you butter my squash?
Clean my seeds
Like the sins of my past
The baked passion inside
The oven racks
Racks
Racks
Stack the inner radiance
And peal me
The smooth orange paste
Will feel really zesty
Stay here on my cutting board
Send knives of kisses
Be merciless inside the sink
Blinking boiling stink
And watch as I eat your intestines
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
When you are gone, there is nor bloom nor leaf,
Nor singing sea at night, nor silver birds;
And I can only stare, and shape my grief
In little words.
I cannot conjure loveliness, to drown
The bitter woe that racks my cords apart.
The weary pen that sets my sorrow down
Feeds at my heart.
There is no mercy in the shifting year,
No beauty wraps me tenderly about.
I turn to little words--so you, my dear,
Can spell them out.
2k
Took 287 South
to a Borders
Goin Outta
Biz Sale.
Books may be
anachronisms,
relics from
yesterdays
analog age,
but literacy's
bankruptcy
does have
advantages.
Take an
additional
30% off on
any orphans
pleading
release from
the discount
racks.
Snooping down
the literature isle
Samuel Beckett's
somber face
arrested my
roving
eyeballs.
A stern stare
printed across
5 spines of
his shrink
wrapped
oeuvre
commanded
my arm to rise
to liberate the
face from the
dismal shelf.
In mid flight
my reach
was hijacked
by a Kris
Kringley red
snow flaked
trim tome
standing
open face
next to
earnest
Beckett.
It was "The
Christmas
Sweater"
by NYT
Best Selling
Author, Glenn
Beck.
Clasping at Beck's
book, it inflicted
a nasty paper cut
to my ring finger.
My mind recoiled,
thinking, "serves
you right. Like
Martha, I shoulda
chosen the better
thing."
I'll never
make that mistake
again.
Borders Books
Riverdale
2/20/11
jbm
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 3:50 PM UTC
I'm so self aware now.
No hiding anymore.
No more pretending to be someone I'm not.
I'm free.
Floating through racks of once forbidden clothes in every color of the rainbow.
Touching lace and chiffons with tears from years of it being taboo to even look.
I used to want to so bad.
Browsing women's shoes with sparkles in my eyes.
I know my size now.
Just knowing makes me giddy.
No more looking over my shoulder in case someone sees me.
Look at me now.
I'm completely self aware.
I'm free.
I'm me.
I'm who I'm supposed to be.
by Lj Mark 2015
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC
So lost, do I feel...
That what I once knew, will no longer appear.
Terror racks me deep inside,
Forever yearning what once stayed close by my side.
Desperation has bloomed beside my feet...
Screaming...
Pleading...
For what I most need.
With pen and paper taut by my side,
Shall my will continue to thrive,
Afore the ink in my pen dares to dry.
This mere extension of myself,
Paints the colors of my soul.
Of what one will never know,
'Till the new becomes the old.
Too long have these words gone unsaid,
Tainting the many pure thoughts, that have swam through my head.
Trapped deep within my heart so dear,
All of my passions, now contorted with fear.
Curiosity forever sealed within its cage,
Fighting,
Crying,
Desperately wishing to be saved.
A key-less lock hangs loosely,
Taunting those it may.
Holding the door of my prism open, yet preventing any escape
As my lifelong dreams bitterly scream my name.
I cringe,
Shying away from the guilt.
For locking away my desires
And abandoning my will.
Will you ever forgive me?
For leaving you so alone
To gather up dust and grime,
And wander without a home.
Will I ever forgive me,
For deserting my only hope.
Locking it deep within my soul,
Till my hand moved once more.
Spreading my blood across the parchment,
Forever earning my own name.
Holding tight onto reality,
Unwilling to look fantasy in the face.
Creating the key to my own prism,
Will I protect this sacred place.
Sword and shield,
'Til infinity fades,
Do I vow.
© 2013 SparksLC
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
From shelves and racks, or lying in stacks, Books,
Of all ages and epochs—adolescents and youths,
Aged and venerable, and e’en those in decrepitude,
Much eloquent, but in all silence, share with us
Experiences wide ranging, emotions well pent up,
Passions, love and hate, and joys and sufferings,
Triumphs, failings, histories, biographies and maxims.
A pat or stroke, or appeal in awe, or in supplication,
They’d unleash to you, in varied moods and temper,
Their stories, in letters, words, phrases, sentences;
In prose or verse on folios, or in acts and scenes,
Of Helens, Quixotes, Falstaffs, Holmes and Othellos,
In the highs and lows of their pleasures and pathos,
Of Lears, Tristans and Isoldes, and procrastinators.
Of the plucks and spirits of Arjunas and Achilleses,
Of the failings of the ill-fated Kareninas and Bovaries,
Of the unwavering faith of Jobs, Noahs and Abrahams,
Of the lovelorn Sakunthalas, and Sitas under Simsupa,
Of God’s Garden, and of the wisdom of the Himalaya,
They speak in silence, of the real and the imagined,
As mighty godlike genies waiting for our summons!
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
While deep you mourn beneath the cypress-shade
The hand of Death, and your dear daughter laid
In dust, whose absence gives your tears to flow,
And racks your ***** with incessant woe,
Let Recollection take a tender part,
Assuage the raging tortures of your heart,
Still the wild tempest of tumultuous grief,
And pour the heav’nly nectar of relief:
Suspend the sigh, dear Sir, and check the groan,
Divinely bright your daughter’s Virtues shone:
How free from scornful pride her gentle mind,
Which ne’er its aid to indigence declin’d!
Expanding free, it sought the means to prove
Unfailing charity, unbounded love!
She unreluctant flies to see no more
Her dear-lov’d parents on earth’s dusky shore:
Impatient heav’n’s resplendent goal to gain,
She with swift progress cuts the azure plain,
Where grief subsides, where changes are no more,
And life’s tumultuous billows cease to roar;
She leaves her earthly mansion for the skies,
Where new creations feast her wond’ring eyes.
To heav’n’s high mandate cheerfully resign’d
She mounts, and leaves the rolling globe behind;
She, who late wish’d that Leonard might return,
Has ceas’d to languish, and forgot to mourn;
To the same high empyreal mansions come,
She joins her spouse, and smiles upon the tomb:
And thus I hear her from the realms above:
“Lo! this the kingdom of celestial love!
“Could ye, fond parents, see our present bliss,
“How soon would you each sigh, each fear dismiss?
“Amidst unutter’d pleasures whilst I play
“In the fair sunshine of celestial day,
“As far as grief affects an happy soul
“So far doth grief my better mind controul,
“To see on earth my aged parents mourn,
“And secret wish for T——! to return:
“Let brighter scenes your ev’ning-hours employ:
“Converse with heav’n, and taste the promis’d joy”
1.7k
Scrabble was more fun to play
When we both used the same board,
Long distance rules we now use,
As it's all we can afford.
Playing Scrabble was more fun,
When you used to live near Grand;
We could snack during the game,
And we took care of one hand.
Playing Scrabble using phones,
Is twisting the Scrabble rules;
But since we are far away,
Telephones are needed tools.
When we're playing phone Scrabble,
Face up letters need to be;
Where they're in Scrabble box lids,
To make them easy to see.
Two letter racks we both use,
Two by you and two by me;
During the game if tempted,
They help us play honestly.
Mary Anne, my Scrabble friend,
With words you're fascinated
You've sculptured many poems,
So craftily created.
I like the way you keep score,
You keep track of it so well;
You make playing Scrabble fun
I thought this you I should tell.
Mary Anne,, Do you have time,
For some phone Scrabble with me?
When you've time for phone Scrabble,
Let me know when it can be.
Nov 28, 2020
Nov 28, 2020 at 11:06 AM UTC