"raymond" poems
Mark A. Williams
SEPTEMBER 14, 1962 – JULY 23, 2018
___________________________________________________________
Wow Mark,
Was so, so saddened to hear this news. I haven't seen you in over ten years, but as kids, we had some amazing adventures, didn't we? Partying, camping and swimming at the Hudson lime pits. Mowing down on Pizza and pitchers of Pepsi (and as we grew up, BEER!) at Pizza Hut. (We knew the numbers to ALL the songs on that jukebox by heart!) Hanging out and looking at the stars through Budvido's telescope, listening to Doctor Demento. Laughing hysterically as we ran through Monty Python skits as everyone looked on in total puzzlement because THEY wouldn't discover them until YEARS later!
Building underground forts in the North Woods. You, Budvido, Zeke and I playing pinball at 7-11 for hours and hours. Watching Bands, chasing girls and playing Foosball or Pool at the Touch of Class Teen Club. You gave me my first Imported beer . . . a Lowenbrau. I will always owe my passion for those German beers to you and it was fitting that Budvido bestowed you with that moniker.
All through Jr. High, sharing a seat on the school bus. You, Matt, Tom, Buddy and I cruising around late night on our bikes for hours. Hanging around in the Jasmine Lakes sign with hijacked beer or getting free bags of Burgers from Burger Queen when they closed at night! Jousting with shopping carts on our bikes in the Winn-Dixie parking lot. Sitting up all night in Jimi's room after climbing in through the window or going on endless space cruises with him and Raymond in the Toyota.
(RIP Jimi Carlsen)
Sneaking into the nudest Colony and skinny dipping! Always cracking up at the school lunch table. Swimming in my pool and terrorizing my sister and her friends. (Allegedly) Trashing that crook Fast Eddie's produce stand after he refused to pay us for a full day of picking watermelons!
Good times, indeed . . . Some of my most precious memories.
I can only pray that you know that I wouldn't trade my youth or you in it for anything in the world and you will be sadly missed, Lowenbrau, my old friend.
I hope that where you are, your beers are ice cold and that you and Jimi aren't having to glue the Hookah back together.
Jeff Gaines
July 28, 2018
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
an oval antique photograph
from the century just passed
six youthful brothers
must be sunday dressed
exuding life and promise
facing forward all in line
symmetry pervading
sister mary in their center
on the photos right
a startling recognition
an image seen before
colins great grandfather
raymond often ray
in features and a gaze
seemed as colin
would have stood
photo has a crease
fading but still clear
now with photos recent
privileged to compare
colin next to ray
both fully present
yet a gaze away
rays gaze anticipating
army time in paris
fortune seeking in the west
fortunes to be found
four generations branching
to colin and beyond
colins gaze capturing
a journey now beginning
does he see montana paris
or the stars
repeating patterns forward
reflect photographic truth
music completes the pattern
with colorings of sound
rays trumpet and harmonica
introducing a guitar
which colin has absorbed
thus in his confirmation
new dimensions
now foreseen
confirming four generations
reflecting many more
expanding light and love
carrying our gratitude
for the glimpse
an old photograph
favored us
to find
(poem written for my grandson's
confirmation....)
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
I'm No born free
I tasted the dust of apartheid
My mother was hiding behind the trees screaming for help
No one was there
No time to sleep
We were cursed for struggle
My father never smiled when my mother would say "the baby is kicking"
Cause he knew,it wasn't the kick of joy
It wasn't a sign of being a soccer star
It was the struggle!
1990 Mandela was out of prison
1993 I was born
1994 the Dom's were free
No more Dom-pass,but not uhuru still
Innocent souls were lost
What was the fighting worth for?
I can forgive but never forget
When De klert called black fools
He said they do nothing but barking
We turned to dogs now
This is for Steve Biko
Chris Hani
Hector Paterson
Raymond mhlaba
Let not my skin define who I am
Let not the earth describe me
I know my future because of my history
I was raised in a town of fallen angels
Where blacks were deceived
Whites felt free
Turn the lights off we all the same colour
Don't turn them on
I want my son to know the history
But to not repeat it.
They say follow your leader
How can you follow corruption?
Zuma this zuma that
Its all illusion
I'll only follow u twitter
I want you to retweet all the ish I'll be posting about you,the Raping,The Nkandla part,The Cheating,The Art and the bunch of wives
Yes I voted,I still don't know why I voted
Helen Zille only speaks xhosa in time of elections
Jacob Zuma gives free taxis only to the voting station
Julius Malema will bring apartheid back it is said on radio stations
Mandela spent most time in hospital
All of a sudden his dead
Was he even in jail before?
Oscar Pistorius ran to ****
His now a criminal.
Mandela note on my hand
But valueless
Our economy is dying
Our world is dying
My Dear South Africa..No Power!
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
Her press on nails graced her sunken in cheek
Tracing the bone that seemed to cut like glass
Remembering days of endless driving
Her high heels out the window
The sun whispered sweet nothings
But no one knew how personal those were
And here she is
At the vanity of a ****** motel
Dusting powder across lesions that spattered her skin
****** patches on her skin
Just like holes in her skin
She cries
Removing the brown wig that she tossed for years
Brushing it in her hands
The tears held on as if they didn’t want to let go
Standing
She slips off her briefs
Gazing into the mirror
Horrified at the person staring back at her
Invisible bones now visible
Crevices and cavities too deep
Webs of veins that were colored too brightly
Wearing the anatomy of a man that was no longer there
A body not worth surgery
Wiping sweat off her forehead
Smearing her drawn on eyebrows
All she can hear is
“Your mother and I gave birth to a son named Raymond.
What happened?”
That name echoed in her head
Drawing pleads from her ears
She collapsed
Her thighs bruised from one too many needle-pricks
Tracing each hole with her finger
As if to draw out an answer
She
A forgotten woman
Who only tried to cope
Her t-shirts were too big
“Raymond, Your T-Cell count is too low”
A forgotten woman
Who only tried to cope
“Is this ‘cause you’re a ****** Raymond?”
A forgotten woman
Who only tried to cope
“Raymond, there is no cure for AIDS”
She wept
Mascara staining her pale face
Press on nails clutching her arms
Hugging herself
Because no one else was would
Rayon died alone
She was no longer forced to love from an infected vessel
To hurt from a torn home
To pray on laced knees
This hotel room became a mausoleum
Smelling of death and perfume
Rayon was a forgotten woman
Who only needed to cope
But exiled by a community of people
For loving too much
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
"Have you ever sailed across an ocean, Donald? On a sail boat surrounded by sea with no land in sight. Without even the possibility of sighting land for days to come. To stand at the helm of your destiny. I want that, one more time. I want to be in the Piazza Del Campo in Sienna. To feel the surge as ten race horses go thundering by. I want another meal in Paris, at L'Ambroisie in the Place Des Vosges. I want another bottle of wine. And then another. I want the warmth of a women in the cool set of sheets. One more night of jazz at the Vanguard. I want to stand on summits and smoke cubans and feel the sun on my face for as long as I can. Walk on the wall again. Climb the tower. Ride the river. Stare at the frescoes. I want to sit in the garden and read one more good book. Most of all I want to sleep. I want to sleep like I slept when I was a boy. Give me that. Just one time. That's why I won't allow that punk out there to get the best of me, let alone the last of me."
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
orchids exotic captured
the man's botanical eye
they were so beautiful
in display
with delicate petals
and a scent
of heady romance
the wheelchair bound New York
cop saw defining evidence
of the exquisite
bloom
his heart elated
by the flower's
gorgeous
loom
there under his real
name of Raymond Burr
he established
an orchid garden
on a Fiji island
the climate perfect
for growing
and nurturing
the plant species
arresting of sight
so sublime
its vision's delight
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
The pot-bellied Mercedes squealed
As Meursault withdrew and
Marvelled at the flames
Licking
The air
Like marigolds on Ritilin.
'Raymond would have no reason not to admire this act.'
He stopped by a shimmering sea of Ubers.
The scrape and drawl of siren made no impression on him.
Leaking smoke reminded him of
Snow White’s Cottage
Where he had taken Marie when Lucie was born:
The place where he would go out at dawn to chop wood.
He liked the way her roses played
With the restlessness of children.
Then he thought: 'if only mother could see me now.'
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 6:57 AM UTC
[Dedicated to Raymond Radclyffe]
I am that hawk of gold
Proud in adamantine poise
On the pillars of tourqoise,
See,beyond the starry fold,
Where a darkling orb is rolled.
There, beneath a grove of yew,
Plays a babe. Should I despise
Such a foam of gold, and eyes
Burning beryline, so blue
That the sun seems peeping through?
Did I swwop, were Heaven amazed?
With my beak I strike but once;
Out there leap a million suns.
Through the universe that blazed
Screams theit light, and death is dazed.
In my womb the babe may leap;
Seek him not within my eye!
Nor demand thou of me why
I should plunge from crystal steep
Like a plummet to the deep!
See yon solitary star!
What a world of blackness wraps
Round it! Unimagined gaps!
Let it be! Content thy car
With the voyage to things that are!
Nor, an thou perchance behold
How I plunge and batten on
Earth's exentrate carrion,
Deem torquoise match midden-mould
Or deny the Hawk of Gold!
2.2k
Preparations are gearing up for the iD Dunedin Fashion Show, which this year opens with a tribute to Australasian style on Anzac weekend.
The 120m-long platform of Dunedin's railway station is again the venue for shows on April 24 and 25, which are preceded by the iD International Emerging Designer Awards on Thursday night at the Town Hall.
Saturday night is sold out and about 100 tickets are still available to Friday's show, organisers say.
Labels Carlson, Mild-Red and NOM*d, brands synonymous with Dunedin fashion, were in the original show in a local bar in 2000 and they're still show stalwarts.
Company of Strangers, Charmaine Reveley, DADA Vintage, Storm, Perriam, Deval, GG (from Shanghai), Liann Bellis, BEATS clothing, Jason Lingard and Jane Sutherland are also strutting their stuff this year.
The shows open with a section titled Together Alone, Revisited, put together by Doris De Pont, featuring garments by four New Zealand and three Australian designers shown at an exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria in 2009.
International guest judge Doris Raymond, the star of documentary series LA Frockstars, is also bringing some garments with her for the show.
The owner of vintage emporium The Way We Wore has a fabulous collection of outfits and she will talk about them at an event in the city on Friday.
Six fashion graduate designers from the Otago Polytechnic School of Design will also show their collections in the shows on Friday and Saturday night.
Garments made by the winner of the emerging designer awards are also in the show.
The finalists were selected from nearly 100 entries from seven countries and 14 fashion schools.
There's a strong showing from Australian schools, especially from Sydney, says judge Tanya Carlson.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
He has never been like other little boys
That play so happily with their toys
He is different is young Raymond Bliss
He wants to grow up to be....a mad scientist
While others play with toy soldiers and cars
Or pretend to be astronauts in the stars
Little Raymond is chasing his pet cat instead
Determined he will catch him and cut off his head
He tried getting the dog who put up a fight
Poor Raymond gave up when he got a nasty bite
So he dug up his hamster, who passed away when overfed
He tied the body to a car battery to try and raise the dead
Unfortunately the dead hamster fizzled and went pop
It made Raymond jump in fright, it made him hop
So he decided to dig up the goldfish as well
Then he decided against it, because of the smell
Now there are plans drawn up, to be unfurled
His evil scheme now hatched to take over the world
Raymond wants to set vampire robot bunnies on man kind
It is just a shame because his pocket money he can not find
His mother says "time for bed" so he sulks up to his room
This his prison from whence he plots doom and gloom
He is a very strange boy is little Raymond Bliss
Determined to be the most evil mad scientist
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 1:37 AM UTC
She has a baby, the other has a honey, the last is lonely
three ladies all loving, sweet and independently hot
they all having various mediate metamorphosis
the beats of a Barry white song airing my sensors
i feel like they're all with me in this studio hut
what do i say to get away from this love prone stampede
she has a baby so only a voice like Barry White
can suite her flaring flames of Mother hood
"Believe me , I used to but I ain't a boy anymore
there's no love that can touch me anymore than
all you've given me, My baby carrying my baby..."
exhales in slow paces, how do i survive this longer
the beats of a Usher Raymond song hits me up
**** mama, you're the same girl i saw with him
oh! no i ain't jealous of your man, i'm just sure
he ain't man enough for you like i would
don't call me when he wants you no more
take this i got to go, i really have to go now
i ain't leaving you, if you're going with me
Exhales in heightened paces, i'm getting there
loneliness only brings you closer to your inner man
togetherness brings out the best in you and your man
at the corner of the crowded dance floor beauty sat alone
glaring at all the gesticulations and rigorous body movements
how lonely she looked alone in the corner rejecting all invites
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
Don't ask - If that was there in the 1950's...
Chances are, it was.
Don't ask - Where the Jabberwock is...
It is currently whiffling through the Tulgey wood.
Don't ask - What normal is...
We don't give a Tumtum tree.
Don't ask - What a Bandersnatch is...
We've been arguing about that since the 1950's.
Don't ask - About our Gallbladders...
It's one thing we have in common.
Don't ask - How to get Raymond started on European history...
He'll do it himself.
Don't ask - How to say thank you...
Just flick the cat off you tongue and get it over with.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 9:39 PM UTC
Masculinum Hyppeastrum,
monstrum;
the man eating
botanica,
the endlessly flowering plant,
had enough of me.
Went to sleep,
or worse,
he perished.
I must have said something nasty
about his size;
doesn't flower anymore,
all dried out,
doesn't do a thing,
his onion is weeping.
Christmas roses,
as I call the girls,
lost the will
to live.
All my,
previously green, flora
is pointing her leafless finger
at me.
I've done nothing,
that's the problem.
I forgot all about my green plants;
the environment is wrong,
there is too much acidity,
and that's my fault.
I will search
under the garden snow
for snow drops,
I left to themselves
two years
February,
my snow tears.
For colour,
I have lemons and limes,
green and yellow;
sitting on a traditionally,
blue, hand-painted
Chinese china platter.
River Yangtze
is still running through my mind.
Chai,
Lemon tea and lemonade.
~
Author Notes
*Flowering plants from Bahia : Hyppeastrum sp.
From the 1970s, many plant novelties from Bahia
came to light with the expeditions carried out
by Howard Irwin and collaborators
of NYBG (USA) and by Raymond Harley
from RBG-Kew (UK). This provoked a renewal
of interest, among botanists, in the flora of Bahia*
(3-1-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:43 PM UTC
When he speaks, I hear the sound,
a president who's been around
speaking of the wife with cankle
not that she could care to rankle
Yo, BT, he fights for freedom
Rocky would be pleased to meet him
late at night when lights are lunar
on the road back home, a crooner
fools rush in, no longer Bing
the king of rock, old Pop can sing
a whispered line from any song
but suddenly I'm in the wrong
and one tough stooge I hear he bought a
tommy gun, and "why I oughta"
tell you something you don't know
it's Ahnold Schwanal ** dee doe
and then another voice will join
it's Raymond with his tenderloin
this sailor's gal has quite a name
he cooks his spinach in the same
a wealthy man on distant isle
who's wife is Lovey, makes me smile
Every single voice he's got
is good but when he's best it's not
the person he'll impersonate
but his own voice...it's getting late
but wait, there's more, but I am spent
on telling of the way it went
or so it goes and what'll come
the truth is, well, I love the ***
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:48 PM UTC
If things ever got so
bad that our money became
virtually worthless, it might be
possible to use poetry as a
medium of exchange.
The better the poem, the
greater the value.
A Pablo Neruda or David Ignatow
would be worth something like fifty dollars,
whereas a Rod McKuen might buy you a
candy bar. Maybe.
Richard Brautigans would buy plenty, as well,
but make you question why you were
buying it at all.
A Bukowski poem
would be worth
thousands, but
looked upon as
foreign currency.
Of course, with the current rate of
inflation, one would need more and more Nerudas
and Ignatows just to get by, and eventually a loaf
of bread might cost as much as a short story.
To buy a car, one would need to come up with
two or three novels...good novels...a couple of
Haruki Murakamis.
It would take a wallet full of
Raymond Carver stories just to buy a
motorcycle.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
San Francisco beat lit blues,
got Raymond Carver in my bag
on the train, flipping
through my pages, thinking
of you, my dear.
Soft knuckles, big hands
clumsy enough to take
hold of a pen and write
something beautiful;
paint me a picture with
words when I'm old and grey
stuck in a nursing home
wishing we'd met.
Eating fruit in a distant park,
hardened heart due to constant
responsibility; foolish actions,
little girl in a ford hits
a truck and cries for him.
Man with the soft knuckles, big hands,
beautiful unforgettable ocean-coloured
eyes.
Come into me, I invite you:
Swim in between these open layers
of flesh and take flight
within me.
Dispersed genetics on a dreary hour,
I've got you in my mind
Mapping out the design of your face,
and loving every second of it.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 5:07 AM UTC
CAST:
Dr. Pepper
Captain Morgan Tatoo
Grey Goose & Kalua
M. Raymond Villamor
IN A DRUNK INSPIRED RHYME
And the Doctor takes me under as the Captain begins to sail ...
And my emotions start to drift - shall it be heaven or will it be hell?
And the Doctor tipped the bottle to make shots more and more ...
While the Captain weighed the anchor far from distant shore
So now I sit floating, feeling numb and asking what it's all for ...
Maybe the answers will come tomorrow ... but tonight I'm just not sure.
And the Doctor dripped his happy poison as the Captain cut another wake ...
So I sailed upon the Doctor’s highs and Captain’s choppy waves
The Doctor finally had to quit ... medicine he had no more ...
And the Capt's ship ran aground into the rocky shore ...
So I befriended some Black Russians to keep from being bored.
I just was not ready in sobriety to be moored
And the Russians took me in and in their grip I drifted off to sleep
All my sorrows and all my pain till the morrow it would keep
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 2:51 PM UTC
Changing the channels in the middle of the night
Mixing old plots into a new program
Ugatti sells tickets to an illegal fight
Another quarter for the juke box, Sam
Patrick McGoohan strides angrily into Rick’s
But finds that he has lost his credit card
Vultures, vultures everywhere, Number Six
Ilsa falls for Major Strasser quite hard
Rick’s Place is purchased by Raymond Massey
And Leonard Cohen in his famous blue coat
Emails of transit from Kate Beckinsale, so classy -
‘Tis she who leaves poor Rick that rain-stained note
And Captain Reynaud?
He ends his days pushing each shopping cart
In from the parking lot down at Wal-Mart
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
They were young high school boys at the time
Too young to know what they wanted to do with the rest of their lives
An ill fated night of fun and games with friends in the park
After the street lights had just turned on and it was starting to get dark
Unbeknownst to the boys, a female jogger was out for a run
An unknown man had come out of the darkness and knocked her unconscious
He committed horrific acts of physical violence and left her for dead
After police at the scene first discovered the woman bleeding severely from her head
They put out a call that “black and Hispanic teenagers” were out in the park “wilding” and up to no good
An order was given to round everyone up and to bring them in for questioning
At that point the young minors were beaten, terrorized, and coerced
By the very police force that had promised to protect and to serve
Family members were confused, separated, threatened, and lied to
The boys and their family members were tricked into signing false statements
Framed by police and convicted by the media even before their hearings
The boys didn’t stand a chance despite having the support of their community and good legal representation
There was no true peace of mind the wrongful convictions could have provided for Trisha, the jogger
There was no true justice that could be served in those two courtrooms either
Five innocent boys were convicted and served long sentences for a crime they did not commit
Korey, Kevin, Yousef, Antron, and Raymond now use their experiences to help others who should have also been found innocent
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 5:16 PM UTC
The hearse set off through the mansion gates
Pulled by a pair of greys,
Stepping high, so they’d not be late
For the church’s hymns of praise,
Lord Gordon Knox on the catafalque
Awaiting his final ride,
Just down the hill where the graveyard spilled
And spread on the eastern side.
But staring out from behind the grass,
From between each tree and bush,
There gleamed the beam of a hundred eyes
In a sacred kind of hush,
The word was out it was Gordon Knox
Set to take his pride of place,
And from the woods had come every fox
To afford his lordship grace.
For Gordon had been the Master of
The Aldermaston Hunt,
Had chased them across the countryside
More than a man can count,
But somehow managed to lose the fox
As it turned, became covert,
And often seemed to confuse the hounds
As the fox returned to earth.
Three generations had come and gone
Since the young Amelia Knox,
Had left to walk in the countryside
And found a secluded copse,
The peasants say that she fell asleep
By a well protected earth,
And Reynard Fox had uncovered her
Before she had given birth.
So Raymond was the first of the breed
In a mix of fox and man,
A Knox by name but a fox by shame
When his mother’s guilt began,
And when he had a son of his own
He could see that the eyes were sly,
And every fox in the countryside
Could tell him the reason why.
Gordon carried the bloodline on
Though he rode to fox and hounds,
He ruled the hunt with an iron fist
They were hunting in his grounds,
And every time that the quarry went
He would make a lame excuse,
The scent was wrong, or the wind was strong
Or the hounds were far too loose.
And every time that the Master died
And the hearse had trundled by,
The foxes all came out to see,
In a way, they said goodbye,
But Gordon had left no son behind
Just a daughter, Elspeth Knox,
And I heard they’d given up on her
Till they found her in some copse.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
Le Troquet le Méribel à Croix-Daurade
(Chronique des années de Blues et de fièvres)
C'était un bar de Croix-Daurade,
Dans les années soixante-dix,
Placé sur la route d'Albi,
Près du Lycée Raymond-Naves
Qui lui donnait sa clientèle
De jeunes gens émerveillés
De découvrir leur liberté
**** des regards de leurs parents
Ce bar était dans l’air du temps,
Des banquettes de moleskine
Un jukebox passant les tubes
De ces «golden seventies»
dont les jeunesses s’étaient saisies
Pour jeter les bases d’un Monde
Qui puisse leur ressembler un peu
Les chansons étaient leurs bannières :
Parfois «Let It Be» des Beatles, parfois
«My Sweet Lord» de Georges Harrison
Quelque fois, l'harmonica de Dylan
Évoquant Monsieur «Tambourine Man»,
Et bien d'autres que j’ai oubliées.
Nous buvions le plus souvent
Des petits noirs sans soif ni fin,
Parfois quelques bières pour les garçons
Des diabolos menthe pour les filles.
Nos conversations infinies,
S'enflammaient d'esquisses de flirt,
Et nous étions tous fascinés,
par leurs regards pareil à des aimants,
Leurs les longs cheveux dénoués,
et leurs yeux emplis de lumière.
Les filles nous semblaient belles et douces
Et nous n'osions pas assez le leur dire.
Mais leur présence charmante
Piquaient notre fièvre de «Tchatcher»
Lorsqu'il y eu la grève au lycée,
Suite aux blessures infligées
au normalien, Richard Deshayes
Le café devint un vrai QG,
Où nous préparions nos expéditions,
Des militants vinrent recruter,
Et nous initièrent aux querelles
Qui n'avaient rien à envier
A celles des Byzantins assiégés.
Il y avait le bel Alfredo,
Et des étudiants qui faisaient
Tourner la tête aux Lycéennes .
C’étaient comme l’écrivit Louis Aragon :
«Des temps déraisonnables»
Mais c’était une époque de fantaisie
Ou le demain se conjuguait
Au rythme de notre insolence
Et d’une soif de vivre sans pareil.
Paul Arrighi
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
I'll let my tears blend in with these puddles on the ground.
Sorrow in my heart as this rain is pouring down.
Giving it all up to You, the one who holds the plan.
The Lord of heaven and of earth, of animal and man.
I'll trust in you because I know that You will do what's best
I'll just keep praying for Your will and let You do the rest.
- Jamie
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
Raymond was strapped in grade four.
Reportedly told a kid to **** off.
True heresay.
This happened a while ago.
He could'a been stood against the board,
With his nose in a circle for thirty minutes.
(Lines were always a waste of everyone's time)
Could'a stood him at the back for the morning,
Or out in the hall, or suspended,
Later expelled.
He could'a been fired and unemployed,
****** off and unsocial,
And, again, later, crooked.
True heresy.
Then we tell him to **** off,
Which we should've done first,
And left it at that.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
emancipated, sunken, lost in the fog.
I am in love with an eternal concluder.
no, sorry,
I only love the fact that you took that imposter from this world, it is disturbing that he would even try to impersonate my papa.
cheery, rosy tinted memories, shifted bleak.
you embody total contentment through such a simple life. you are a true treasure, that is now swallowed in the mist of time.
once these remarkable things became shadowed by the empty desolate version of yourself i decided i was in love in with deaths act of nullification, to clear off the gunk that tainted my papa's clean soul.
I love that you put an end to a fraud who tried to make my papa look so far from himself.
I love you, yourself, my papa. before the shadows. before the fog.
-Raymond Pendergast 2018-
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
12-14: Jacob Harris.
14-16: Mykayla Bradshaw.
16: Raymond Crawford.
16: Gin Berry.
16: Mickaela Maxwell.
17-present: Khayllia Harrell.
I gave Jacob my Innocence.
I gave Mykayla my Trust.
I gave Ray my Self-esteem.
I gave Gin my Confidence.
I gave **** my Hope.
I am giving Khayllia my Brokenness.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC