"realtors" poems
It burns in the heart
Of eighth grade girls
Sparkles like diamonds
In the watery eyes of the poor
It is born, kicking and screaming
In toddlers, before they can speak
It slowly dies and sputters
Out in old age
It is the bite and growl
In the dog fight
The motionless upper lip
Of botoxed trophy wives
It is the stacked and ripped
Bicep of the body builder
The clenched back teeth
Of every smiling presidential candidate
It resides in the pits
Of the stomachs of the second place
The money in the pockets
Of realtors
It is the fight to the top
The never give in
The blood boiling revenge in
Every made-for-TV movie
It is the Red, White and Blue
Blood, pumping through
Our country
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 5:24 PM UTC
Oh, to be a tortoise
and never need a house.
No realtors, no mortgage,
never a call for
roofers, plumbers...
or ever to build a shelf!
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
You may see a vacant lot
Where a building has burned down
But I see a garden spot
With flowers growing all around.
And maybe a bench to sit
A take a while to appreciate
What can be done by people
With loving energy to dedicate.
You may see an empty field
Overrun by neglect and weeds.
But, I see a garden here,
And care is really all it needs.
Maybe some cutting back
And of course, a lot of water.
But time and compassion
Is what will ultimately matter.
Realtors may calculate
The money to make from this land
But, I see a garden
That needs some helping hands.
Maybe some cows can graze
Or a pretty little babbling brook.
A place of nature’s bounty
Like out of a wonderful storybook.
Do we need one more store,
Or one more fast food restaurant?
Maybe some serenity is
What people of the world really want.
Some may see a patch of dirt
And not much more than fallow earth.
As for me, I see a garden.
A bit of paradise right here on earth.
(This was written for and about Bette Midler.)
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 8:32 PM UTC
I have long sought quiet.
And please, let me be clear: quiet.
Not the quietus Hamlet desired,
No “consummation devoutly to be wished” for me.
No, with or without a bare bayonet,
UNBEINGNESS is hardly what I seek.
It is not the predicament of death,
But the quiet spectacle of the grave I envy.
Originally a city mouse,
I am familiar with the urban soundscape.
I know city noise, amped up in decibels.
Noise-induced stress, shrill and enervating,
Add to the mix a working-class neighborhood,
Where someone is always hammering,
Using a power tool of some kind,
Repairing, improving an older, somewhat decrepit home;
But a steal as the realtors say.
Or vehicles, like Old Havana relics,
Held together by secular prayer,
And thriving underground Cuban capitalism.
Then just for fun: *"Let’s send the son of a ***** to war."*
Tympanic membranes be wary and be ******
Stretched and perforated,
Compressed and torn,
Shredded like wheat.
Pummeled by shock wave.
I was Lear wandering the heath,
Your ass-cheeks cracked:
*“Cataracts and hurricanes . . .
Oak-cleaving thunderbolts . . .
Sulphurour and thought-executing fires . . .
Singe my white head!”*
Cue Cabaret music (Cabaret (1972) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0068327): “Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome . . . to Indochine,”
First a Weimar-Saigon suckee-fuckee,
Then out to *The ****
Mind-numbing concussion,
Reek of jellied gasoline,
Charred meat,
Assorted red entrails,
Obliteration of thought complete.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
He’s come to ancient plains, again.
Wide and open, high and dry.
Unrolling before his misting eyes,
He feels the tug of ancient ties -
A primeval sorrow,
His gut rarely lies.
Breathing the landscape in ...
He imagines America,
Before settlers arrived;
A life under
Different skies.
Oh, how they tried
To disguise
Their insatiable eyes.
Twisted, and tainted,
By treatises and lies,
Used for desire,
And profit designs;
Parceling the land,
That sour reprise.
But beneath
The ringing cries,
Of culture broken,
And shattered lives,
A wisp of her soul resides;
In stories told,
And countryside.
Places where nature
Remains untried,
And no realtors
Have thought to subdivide.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:48 AM UTC
You, yew and ewe.
New, knew and gnu.
Two, too and to.
Do, dew and doo.
Your, you’re, ewer and yore.
Sower, sewer and even sore.
Pin, pen
Win, wen.
Tin, ten.
Bin, been.
For, four, and fore.
Poor, pour and pore.
Bear, bare and bayer.
There, their and they’re.
Sure, sewer, shore and shower.
Censor, censure, sensor, censer.
Din, den.
Kin, ken.
Win, wen.
Yin, yen.
Shoulda, coulda and woulda,
Wanna, hafta and hadda.
Pitchers painted of pitchers
Ree-lutters instead of realtors.
Pertecting you with protection.
Prescribing you a perscription.
A different kind of differnse,
For instance, gimme a frinstance.
Pin, pen
Win, wen.
Tin, ten.
Bin, been.
Din, den.
Kin, ken.
Win, wen.
Yin, yen.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
reconnected images
toes in rich soil
toiling under the yoke
spatially
fleeting fancy of freedom
fades
pages turn
returning me to the ground
I roamed as a child –
forgotten foothills
beacon
as property brokering
binds me to the earth
monetarily
owning my homeland
by the acreage –
white privilege escapist
seeking grid-less domain
sustainability with a suntan
in the cool Oregon rain
draining the infrastructure
through government backed loans
forever indebted
as the backs of my fellow countrymen
are buying my dream in America –
wrecked inspectors trek Tibet
for the almighty dolla dolla bill ya’ll
signing off on trash
commission driven misgivings
serving up dry rot and mold spots
on a flooded lot
I shield myself against the tide of ********
seeking information
in the age
namesake
heartbroken realtors
dot the horizon
holding contractual obligation
waving it frantically
begging –
seeking perfection
sneaking suspect-tion
any direction
needing contraception
fleeting misconception
leading to direct loans
hearing the same groans
as she is reading the next home
listing……..
throwing fists into the air
I swear
if I didn’t care so much
to handle the deed
I would rent
for
life –
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
I want to thank Ms. Kann, Pat Robbins and Ms. Farley;
the realtors that convinced me to buy the poetry house.
I want to thank Marie and Lynn,
for warming the hearth. Next time, close the door. Smoke damage is a pain.
I want to thank my parents
for lying; the concrete foundation to this house of cynicism.
I want to thank the neighbors,
without the windows I wouldn’t learn anything.
I want to thank Mr. Lynch, Ginsberg, Carlin & Blake
for the fridge. An excellent place to keep my brain food
I want to thank. Mr. Gabriel and Miss Phoenix,
the only two lights in this house.
Aug 21, 2011
Aug 21, 2011 at 1:59 AM UTC
I watch each of them eat
i watch each of them drink
i watch them all sink
i watch them sleep away
while walking,
zombie,
with the same placid easy
expression
ornamenting their face, handing chandelier face paint
a sconce on a wall i am
or in a chair
as they ensconce themselves into another job
another school another group
talk, about, important ****
like a book
a clothes piece
a hair dye
clouds
universe
opening wide
revealing a void of absence
this makes me not closed
no closure
i want all their minds
to be present, i want
a
few people, around me.
they're stumbling off a plank of, mind, intellectual existence into
an ocean of jobs cars new ethics and things they wont get.
i'm trying to jump out of a swimming pool of truth,
out of,
existence.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
rushing mountain stream
grey stones protrude
blackberries hang just above
little splashes cause sparkles
sunshine filters through branches
light dances on the moving promenade
a lonely leaf passes by without fanfare ~
we sit watching
discussing home ownership steps
dropping names of realtors
considering taking the plunge
just over 1050 square feet
spring fed wood and oil heat
tiny cabin off Tree Farm road
future property of Mr. and Mrs.
Samuel Lyman Temple ~
bright blue Steller’s Jay
squawks his arrival
***** a mow-hawked head
and considers us for a moment
three quicks hops and one more call
before he flies off into the foothills
nature gifting us a nod of approval /
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
It is said in time,
That beauty to the beholder is a sensation.
The most powerful statement of forgiveness to a human being is the ability to behold and practice creation.
Ice figurines can’t hold under heat,
Yet their demise creates life sustaining substances,
Like dangerous chemical concoctions,
Company never really felt completely perfect.
We kept masks on when we gathered,
It seemed like my friends could have always made it to Hollywood,
The way our lives were just mere performances.
Highlights of high times,
Quality, picture perfect film reels burned into cyberspace,
But the ladled space between our fingertips became foreign as the next new emotional overhaul was just fingertips away.
Obsessed over why perfection isn’t an issue yet imperfections are celebrated,
Yet not the ones you have.
What is desire if the object sought is someone else?
Elsewhere, the first half of the year is spent trying to remake the second half, pretty in pink,
Only when it didn’t rain.
So soulless, our bond became,
The hollowed Ravens became vultures,
Clearing the pathways to prepare for a feast,
Not caring whether death would actually take us,
But what would be broken would cause the death of our own ways,
Our own souls terrified,
Shocked to the security of a coffin.
Do we merely search for what is rightfully ours?
No,
For we are dream catchers,
Simply grasping for a reality that would be a shame to the creator,
Formed by the realtors,
Sell your self worth for a secular sense of selfishness,
Steal the dream,
And be complacent.
The worst part wasn’t when I lost you,
It was what became of my dreams when I lost myself too.
My first half is done.
I wish no longer to live the second half in misery through.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
Like an expectant batter at the plate,
sitting on the Pitcher’s change of pace,
Philip took the speedball for a strike.
Imagine the surprise upon his face.
Found by a friend upon his bathroom floor,
The last used needle still stuck in his arm,
Philip heard the Speedball called strike three.
Inevitably, the addict came to harm.
Some will weep to see such talent wasted,
while Realtors will inquire on his space.
Philip Seymour Hoffman burned too brightly;
some other star will come to take his place.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
A desolate house
empty, devoid
once filled with life
its wood always warm
a desolate house
deep in the dark woods
taken over by leaves
untouched by a foot
a realtors nightmare
a young man full of pride
who's heart is too big
washed up in the tide
a nice diamond ring
a love never there
a dying dead flame
a head full of hair
bound to another
a small tiny crack
a staircase now fallen
the very same wood
now singed black
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it hungers. it breathes.
in each wall, they seethe.
the victims inside, the ones he cant see
they beckon they call
they seethe and they seethe.
Mar 1, 2025
Mar 1, 2025 at 10:13 PM UTC