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Natalie Nov 2014
do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.
somewhere between the fourth and fifth

load of laundry,

sometime after breakfast~lunch,
now served in the USA at home,
as an all day meal, per the edict of Mcdonalds,
start fixing dinner, take a break, walk to the mailbox,
retrieve the post and quick retreat back inside,
ah that Texas sun, bilingual chili hot,
toss the unopened on the prior weeks pile,
cause everyone loves company

the home-cold-brewed ice coffee needs a filling
for the fridge has decided not to help
by automatically refilling the pitcher

even if it could
I, busy folding,
needing two hands
and all my teeth
for folding my master’s rocket ship

sheets

my master observes with one of his alternating demeanors,
this one, super silent watching, announcing that  I need a nap:

“don't you always say, baby,
take a nap when you can, baby,
for when you need one, baby,
you probably won’t be able, my baby”


with selected-hand-led fingers,
he lays me down to sleep,
bids me to slow slide to dreamland, dinner will keep,
curling inside my frame, hands a-cupping my *******,  
telling me a drowsy tale, inherited from his mother’s womb
and his granddaddy’s tongue, mindful of his family’s history

there, is where, they find us,
dinner fixings burnt,
me and my five year old baby boy,
still sleeping fast, around 5pm, bodies enwrapped,
tied by blood and entwined in old nursery rhymes,
Texas tall tales of Pecos Bill,
me and my very own

nap-ster master

<•>

p.s.  and they call me by my other name to wake me, momma
always filling

      and emptying

                and refilling

                     again and again

                                   like gas tanks
               to get to our destinations
                          like bank accounts
                 depleting from bills and
                    replenishing from moil
                                 like our bodies
         with stress on the weekdays
                 and relief or excitement
                             on the weekends
                                  like our hearts
          with love in tiny little spaces
   like bottles of cleaning products
                   under our ugly vanities
               like barrels of toxic waste
                      dumping into the sea
                             like porch swings
              on lazy spring afternoons
                like pews of worshippers
               at Sunday morning mass
                   like stuffing our bellies
              with 99 cent hamburgers
                  and draining our *****
                              down the toilets
                        of the unconcerned
                              like spit suckers
                        at the dentist office
                      like pills of seduction
                                   relieving pain
                  like centuries of people
                    and trees exchanging
             carbon dioxide for oxygen

                                                 ...and
     it’s hard enough just to breathe
                           but how lovely is it
             to prattle and wail through
    wasted time and non-existence
        and laugh at our faces hiding
                   behind troubled masks
                   because we don’t care
                        to know who we are
               or what we’re doing here
      just keep on filling and refilling
           our embodiment with a sun
       patch of numbing resentment
      

                     it’s just easier to wisp
                        through the willows
                 than to empirically plod
                       through the bogs of
                                    self-reliance.
“The love betweenness^ a mother and her son”
when it’s healthy strong and ancient,
like this, is for me, and it seems,
for you as well, almost a supernatural force in certain ways.
I know many other women who understand this.
It’s been probably the best surprise of my life.” Medusa

sometime, a poem commission needs a quiet time rumination,
a seventh inning time out to birth a perfect game,
a mental stretch mark,
did your know your commentation was a commandation,
write me up, punch my ticket and jump back into murky waters,
where a hu-man boy child only gifted me a tertiary imagination, comprehensive incomprehension

this look upon differing and different, parenting parts of me,
with the bright den mother’s sun gazing eyes of a new motherland,
promotion to an incessant guardianship,
an ordered mathematical centrality,^
a forever buck private’s uniform shoulder stripe pointing to mom

maternal rhymes with eternal

for children go off and go on about their lives,
occasionally glancing backwards,
but a mother’s eyes are an all encompassing, an all white canvass painting that the artist continue-ously slyly forward refreshes,
forever white repainted with each perpetual glancing thought added

this mother woke, sensing her make-male creation
is a gender separate separation,
a mystery needing learning, genes requiring a crisper adult education, a breast refilling is a sharing, eye to eye,  
****** to mouth, transferring a transformation,
between a new meaningful, an analogy of understanding that
swims in both directions, across a uniting natural division that unites,  better called an open boundary

daughters are different but the insanity~same,
a poem for another day

a supernatural surprise that occurs daily,
that you rightly appel it, as ancient  is correctly unsurprising
for the knowledge is in every cell recorded, time immemorial

apologies;
my insufficient words
can’t explain this
dotted line division,
only that, I too am a student driver mother,
my son, a teacher,  a natural scholar,
the understanding we shared is instantaneous and confusing,
as we go back and forth together,
travellers tween the dotted line spaces,
absorbing his milky ways,
informations that were not obviously ****** in me, or if they were,
awaited this suckling’s coronation and education, invitation


our differences are not a true division,
but a new manner of best embracing

which is why with good humor, our private joking, is that he
is my very own  nap-ster master,^^ we are an ordered centrality^
march 31 2019 9:37am
^Definition of betweenness
: the quality or state of being between two others in an ordered mathematical set

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2714533/texas-my-very-own-nap-ster-
master/
ALamar Oct 2015
Onward and Upward
Trending on mind-bending signals that send you on a trip to perfect love making
For the sake of awakening the inner child making a bad girl go wild
Letting her inner child out on her worst behavior
Save the Christian values for later
For now live in the moment of every lover’s dreams
Let your inhibitions roam free
Lets heat things up with rose pedals raining from the ceiling
On this cold crisp evening go see
What cupid has left you under the tree
Wrapped up in a bow
It’s time to let go and release the thing you’ve always been afraid of but wanted to be
Exalt intimate thoughts to heights beneath where the Holiest of Holies and great *** meet
Close your eyes
Follow each of my fingers on a ride
Each pushing electrical impulses pulsating until your body convulses and goes into a frenzy
Each one
Precludes the width and the tip of my tongue
And turnpikes all the way down until it touches the inner sides of your thighs then slides…
In and out
In and out of the walls of your gateway
Just point me in the direction of the pathway
The cove the place where I lay my suitcase and we make our case to fill the atmosphere
With rotating, rewinding, refilling
Our empty glasses with wine and no fear
A cycle of love making on relentless rotation being made...right here
Kewayne Wadley Sep 2018
To a point
We over promise too much of ourselves.
In spite of how high we value ourself,
We actively listen in effort.
Refilling how much of ourselves we spill.
I am not ashamed to admit that at times I need help.
But it is in these times where I fully understand.
That there won't be another you.

You smile and help me realize that I never want to lose
any piece of you.
Stopping the spill to see how much you effect me.
In reaction to a sudden action of silence.
Most beloved.
It is especially important.
Where we don't have to prove anything to each other.
Just knowing that you are there is enough.
Just know that your love is enough.

It is in these moments.
I stop to think.
Where would I be without you.
Unimaginable
Nat Lipstadt May 2014
~ ~ ~
Adieu!
My Crew, My Crew!


this, our first trip,
our longest voyage,
nears completion

eighteenth of May,
a terminal date,
date of destination,
upon it commenced,
upon it,
our commencement

a terminus nearing,
a degree of latitude given,
a degree of longitude observed,
by you
mes méridiens,
witnesses to my zenith,
a degree of gratitude granted
and lovingly recv'd

adieu, adieu!
this sole~full rhyme
beats upon my lips
repeats and repeats,
endlessly looped,
Adieu, my crew!

sailor, voyageur,
scribe and travel guide
for four seasons,
a composition of one long
anno sabbatico,
muy simpatico

in the spring of '13
I sprung up here,
a Mayflower,,
a May flower,
a floral ship,
annual for a single year,
annual for a single circumnavigation

hearing now once again,
refreshing sounds,
hinting noises,
here comes his paul simonizing summery spring again,
rhyming timing reminding dylan style,
it's all over now, my babies blue

t'is season to move forward,
back to old acquaintances renewed,
sand, water and salty sun,
three lifelong friends who,
Auld Lang Syne,
never ever forget me

we get drunk on their eternity,
their celestial beauty,
and they,
upon my tarnished earthly being,
unreservedly and never judgingly,
give inspiration unstintingly,
we share,
never measuring a captain's humanity
by mystical formulae of reads or hearts

for
grains of sand, water wave droplets and sun rays,
all
only know one measure,
immeasurable

respect the
never-ending new combinations
of an old nature,
even the impoverished words he speaks,
words as they exit the
brain's grand birth canal,
whimsically announcing their poetic arrival with a:

"been here, done that,
but happy to do it,
one more time,
just ever so differently"


the only counting
that satisfies them and me,
the clicking sound be,
the sound of a
a pointer-finger tablet-clicking,
heartbeats a metering,
individual letters being stork-delivered,
and

yellow lightening
when it comes,
signifying family completion,
a poem,
a family,
comes
crackling real!

here comes spring again!
happily to shackle me,
shuckling me back to and fro,
to whence I came,
and from
whence I once
and always belonged

memorial weekend,
memorializing me,
orchestrating a prodigal son's
two edged tune,
a contrapuntal contrapposto,
a "fare-thee-well, man"
and a
"hello son, welcome home!"

that empty Adirondack chair,
by my name,
with your names
in tears inscribed upon it,
awaits

the breezes take note,
singing a duopoly:

this ole chair
needs refilling,
Rest & Recreation for your Rhythm & Blues,
your busted body boy
healing with our natural scents,
calming with common sense

with it,
will and refill,
the cracked breaches,
by phonetic letters frenetic,
drinking, then purge-spilling,
a speckled spackling paste of comfort food words
given of and given by,
given back to,
the bay's tide
and beaches
and

you, crew,

let this soul captain briefly lead,
spilling too oft his new seed,
he,
selected but unelected by a
raucous silent voice-vote...
of an unknown,
impressed-into-service crew

some of you
impressed upon
the skin of this captain man's sou!,
a cherishment so complete,
yet has he to fully comprehend,
its miracality,
the golden epaulettes upon his shoulder,
worn ever proudly

the nearest ending,
one of many.
a course of waterfall and rapids survived,
yet invisible shoals fast approaching,
a single bell tolling, warning,
here was, here comes,
yet another,
close calling

sirens shriek
forewarning,
can't abide a moment longer thus,
desperate longing
for a refuge of language loved,
not lost in lands and a sea of
ranted bittersweet journaled cant
and hashtags of sad despair

can't lengthen this sway,
grant a governor's stay,
cannot

heaven schedules our lives,
completed a time out
in a day,
twenty four hours of fabulous, fabled
and of late,
a shopworn, forlorn existence,
three hundred and sixty five times,
circularized on these pages

now
no forevermore, no forestalling,
only the truth,
a grizzled, unprimped,
mirror'd recognition

flutes,
sad low whistle,
trumpets,
wild maimed moan,
violins,
jenny jilted wailing tears, groan,
and harps and guitars,
each pluck single notes plaintive,
long and slow their disappearing reverberation,
but end it must

none can deny or fail to ascertain,
port of our joint destination,
pinpointed on maps as
"the last curtain call,"
just over the nearby horizon line,
demarcating the finality
of the days of glorious,
and the quietude of
a storied ending

my crew, my crew,
forever besided,
forever insided,
bussed, bedded, and bathed,
with me,

wherever I write most,
wherever I write eyes moist,
my crew
of all captains,
whose fealty I adore
and to whom,
my loyalty unquestioned sworn,
upon righteous English oak
an oath unstained,
an American bible, an American chest,
blood sworn here forever to
my
brothers, sisters and children
many who by title me addressed
this man as,
grandfather,
yet friends
from foreign-no-more-lands

this is only a poem,
this is only the best I have

This to me given,
and now to you returned,
encrusted with trust

for
we together,
were
a new combination
all our own

my crew, my crew,
for you:
my seasonal Yule log-life burns
every day,
all years of my life shiny shiny
copper-burnished teapot whistling
you, your names
a tune of the past,
and the yet to come

I care,
burdened more
than than you ere known,
dare I bear
to bare-confess

for and by you was I,
my restlessness lessened
my unrest less,
so comforted by an out-louded,
deep-welcome-throated reception
let it end thus,
no whimpers or cries,
no misunderstanding

in a Wilderness of Words,
sought you out,
your name and lands,
yours, purposely hidden,
disguised and unknown,

while I placed before you,
my name
my birthplace,
the poetry of my truths,
the jagged laughing,
the cryptic crying,
at myself,
foibles, pimples and the
the insights inside,
mine own book of revelations
all clear in the
drippings of my clarifying
cloudy tears

stranger to friends to chance,
all by chance,
sharing nodules, capsules,
even tumors and ill humors

your affection and simple heroism,
left me both gasping,
and leaves me now,
grasping

your hearts sustain
and are sustainable,
in ways the word,
organic,
not even remotely
adequate, sufficient

in ways
that can be secreted here,
in sharing,
private messages,
snippet exchanges,
that are valored above the rubies of
public hearts that
claim attention
but are gold bonded hand cuffs,
nonetheless!

my left, what is left,
to your strong right,
by rings married we are,
you and I,
a secretion on our kissing lips,
a perfumed essence called
No.365
"secrets of us..."

Wit I were a man
who could advance
his essay further,
but this voyage,
closed and done,
but a steamer approaches
where they need a third mate,
no questions asked,
no names exchanged,
no counting the change in his heart and the,
holes in his heart pocket

asking not,
are you friend long term true,
or just a fly by night,
short-winded trend

so onto
ports that are nameless,
needy for discovery,
perhaps,
they will have a fruitfulness
unripened,
awaiting verbal germination
so yet again,
when he wipes away
with back of a hand,
his fresh fears,
moistening those dried,
those crack'd lips

underneath will be yet found
a perhaps,
a
fully formed, yet to be shared,
new poem,
that gives value
standing on its own,
and perhaps, rewarming, reawakening,
his gone cold and pale,
yet quivering moving,
his almost stilled silenced spring,
but not quite,
lips...


--------------------------------

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
                            But I with mournful tread,
                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,
                                  Fallen cold and dead.


                    
Walt Whitman
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And the words that are used
For to get the ship confused
Will not be understood as they’re spoken
For the chains of the sea
Will have busted in the night
And will be buried at the bottom of the ocean

A song will lift
As the mainsail shifts
And the boat drifts on to the shoreline
And the sun will respect
Every face on the deck
The hour that the ship comes in

Then the sands will roll
Out a carpet of gold
For your weary toes to be a-touchin’
And the ship’s wise men
Will remind you once again
That the whole wide world is watchin’

bob dylan

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We'll meet beyond the shore
We'll kiss just as before
Happy we'll be beyond the sea
And never again I'll go sailing

I know beyond a doubt
My heart will lead me there soon
We'll meet (I know we'll meet) beyond the shore
We'll kiss just as before
Happy we'll be beyond the sea
And never again I'll go sailing

No more sailing
So long sailing
Bye, bye sailing...

Jack Lawerence
looking for me in other names, other places
an explanation someday writ, not yet complete....but my poetry no longer gives
no satisfaction...
Hibernating in the summer, not merely resting my voice, but more than that, much more...will repost older stuff only...
take care of the newbies
~~~~~
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
And surely you’ll buy your pint cup!
and surely I’ll buy mine!
And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

We two have run about the slopes,
and picked the daisies fine;
But we’ve wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.

We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine†;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand my trusty friend!
And give me a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.
harlon rivers Jan 2017
Gathered pieces of a great puzzle ;
refreshed perspective like ocean riptides
foment at the confluence collecting dark rivers’ flow
Repurposing back-eddies ,
rejuvenation of stagnant brackish waters ,
inherent buried soul-shine purging
from the ancient core of earth mother

Light arising from the hidden depths
of inner stillness as if a refilling wellspring
burst forth , reawakening muted sighs unspoken
Forming poetic constellations of black and bright
to lighten afar the nebulous darkness ,
a sea of swirling ink transformed into poetry

A sage opus renewed
by the muse of a migrating flock ,
striving to discover new sacred grounds ;
yet there is an undeniable song sung
in the howling winds of change
An incitement from a higher dialect
that empowers a restoration of spirit
Oeuvre uplifted by rogue waves
of summoning winds ,
arousing that which time erases

A manifest renaissance
among the rousing nuances
of poetic continuum ,
judicious to rediscover
the enthralling vastitude
of every breaking wave
in a boundless sea of poesy

Where prevailing currents
stir oceans of verse eternal ;
provoking a verve revival ,
the magnitude of an unbroken circle ,
ocean swells merging singularity
with the omnipresent colour
of uncharted depths

As if thoughts are assuaged
by a union of intimately touching souls
with words of intangible spheres ,
sparking subtle shades of meaning
spanning poetic immortality
Transcending barriers of unexplored lexicon
to manifest the immensity,
enkindling rhapsody of hearts and minds
  
Deeply rooted soul replenishment
harvested from the tree of humankind ,
willingly sharing without regret nor intention ,
with deference to the soul of one-blood,
one-love enabling an enlightening
metamorphosis of the human journey ...


© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2019
The Deepest Twist

<>
for my friends who know that when HP says this my 1300th
poem, it’s off the mark by hundreds; nonetheless
1300 is worthy number to celebrate your affections
nat
<>

you return back my older children, fully grown,
my eldest word babies who never ever visit,
blessing them anew, lavishly, with special wishes

I,
take them,
with both hands, a reacquainting occurs,
the old words, deep twist, now hurtful hurt because
reimagining when and how easy they came to be birthed and
how the replication of that process is now a
practiced impossibility

how they burst forth, in purple majesty, wheat waving,
wholly formed, bathed in holy water, leaving no stretch marks,
only just an empty sac inside instantly needing,
needling me into auto-refilling right away

even the twenty four hour, hard deliveries,
long and arduous, were so easy created faust-fast,
that the errors of typography contained,
became lasting hall marks, iconic nomenclatures of
passionate loving-nonpareil

now, well past point of urgent addiction,
unlike then every glance, each sidewalk cracking,
lamppost shadow casting was
a sea story for a deep dive delving asap

I,
supplied answers for the internal badgering incessant
happy ****** need, mine, to go, spill the words,
cab or bus motion nursing them,
now they come slowly strolling,
semi-formed, needy, inconclusive, reused,
and feeling as trite as a cloth coat from an old thrift shop,
so wanting for tender loving care,
which is to provide when you are
four score

wondering how easy it was in prior times when inspiration
fell like a deciduous tree’s fall colorings gifts or
as little children’s nightly multitude variety of dream tales,
when whole worlds uncovered, nay, universes,
hidden between summers green grass blades,
or in unique snowflakes

the semi-forgot love affairs that parented poems
by the score of scarred orchestral scores,
now love circle-turn in holding patters in the
crowded skies above nyc,
awaiting for a trafficked man to give permissions
to “run-away”land that rarely is granted

once, poems in turbulent fluid born, noisy ripping of skin,
****** by the emitting of  constant calming tenderous words,
wonderful drippings, so many multiple births in a moment,
even the OBGYN is complaining,

give other poets a chance at parenthood!

the awesome anger of human tragedy is now so shopworn
from over experience,
even god visits less and less, for it is written,
nothing new under the sun*

though soon his annual visitors day approaches (Day of Atonement) and god will require new
words of human comforting,
a new poem acknowledging that being godlike
is ******* hard work,
for humans are annoyingly capable of incredulous kindness

how can one justify allowing unlacing acts of insane violence to tear
the hand stitched lacing fabric that’s ever ready
to bring us together in an instant elegiac joining

the truth is every one of todays poem are clawed,
shovel dug out from cavities and crevasses,
your new words of recognition of the oldies but goodies,
iron of irony, make it hard, hard, painful to write
without an epidural to numb the painful
dumbing down

when I am breaching my waters, I am hard to spot,
we ancient humpbacks live beneath the deep distanced,
cold waters for many more minutes
than we need surface for breathing,
the show-off fluking, less and less,
and when we birth,
every two years,
must bring the calf-poem to the surface instantly,
to breath, lest it die,
all the while repeating to ourselves:

what was miraculous writing is now nearly invisible,
to blinded fingers that arrhythmically cane tap,
words difficult to recall, recalculate, recalibrate
into a wholly poem

only the **** tears,
that same shameful violin permanent-accompaniment,
they laugh at me when now, they alone
come first quickest, all too easy,


appearing nataurally,

without a formal
written
invitation
“He says, "Son, can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"

Sing us a song, you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright”
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2015
oft on bus seated next,
every one of your senses
adjusting, modulating,
to her unpredictable
solar flaring

you don't ever risk
that first missing
           misstep,
your entirety is
sun bursted
        (un)/consumed
in unhappy joy of her
consuming presence

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you laugh
years later
re the topic of
your first shaky
foot in the mouth
a classic misstep
first bow shot,
opening one liner

and each storied retelling  
is nature!s
snow and rain
refilling
the love of your
groundwater table
welling up

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you love her scent
the silly hats she wears,
her short skirts arouse,
that last open button
a misstep invitation,
angry it incenses,
her every solitary everything is
incense,
pervading a daily
co-riding
passenger's
oxygen? starved soul

~~~~~~~~~

her umbrella is a wet
selfie stick
accidentally opening and dousing
an un random next door
seatmate

just another unlucky misstep for
someone sitting next store,
oil on the fire of
happily ever after

two selfies are last seen as
one
un selfishly
toweling each other off and
on
with wet kisses

~~~~~~~~~~~

you eavesdrop on her
earbud music,
weep internally you do with
crazed jealously

The Temptations
are so unfairly
singing to her
"Ain't to Proud to Beg"
and neither are you

you heart is misstepping
to every beat,
your fingers
thrumming,
you idiot, not quietly enough
humming
in the next seat

the first,
will not be
the last

smile exchanged

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

poem writing on the tablet,
amidst the groaning awful
no moving
city traffic

overheated bus
combustible with
winter snow dampness,
wet dog sweat smelling people clothes

all you want to do is get home
shower off
the daily dirt

the poetry writing pastime
is the place
where you put yourself
to better to pass over
your sour surroundings

her finger rattlesnakes,
misstepping over,
noisily invading,
the invisible boundary
constructed to hold up the
eye-averting
Keep Out sign
to momentary,
too neighborly
strangers

her red painted
pointer finger
smudge prints on your tablet,
accompanied with
bespoke words
"try this"

that smudge suggestion
won't come off

insisting on crediting
a shared authorship,
you ask for her
email and cell,
so you can share
her
forever

co jointed tangled
bus and bed sheet first efforts
on writing, all about
what you play~argue
what should your entitled poem
be titled

you think

endless short love story bus poems

but she prefers,
with red fingers persuading

the first misstep is the best

both see the merit
in each other
I love this poem. I do.

Lyrics to "Ain't to Proud to Beg"

I know you wanna leave me,
but I refuse to let you go
If I have to beg and plead for your sympathy,
I don't mind coz' you mean that much to me

Ain't too proud to beg, sweet darlin
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Ain't to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please don't leave me, girl, don't you go

Now I heard a cryin' man,
is half a man with no sense of pride
But if I have to cry to keep you,
I don't mind weepin' if it'll keep you by my side

Ain't to proud to beg, sweet darlin
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Ain't to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go

If I have to sleep on your doorstep
all night and day just to keep you from walkin' away
let your friends laugh, even this I can stand
cause I want to keep you any way I can

Ain't too proud to beg, sweet darlin'
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Ain't to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go

Now I've gotta love so deep in the pit of my heart
And each day it grows more and more
I'm not ashamed to come and plead to you baby
If pleadin' keeps you from walkin' out that door

Ain't too proud to beg, you know it sweet darlin'
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Ain't to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Baby, baby, baby, baby (sweet darling)
refilling the shoes
of truly great men
is a task not
within lesser men
the shoes too large
for them to comprehend
a depth and breadth
so extraordinary of rend

these shoes are super
in their magnitude
of which a menial foot
could never altitude
to think other wise
shows no aptitude
fittings of this calibre
require plenitude

trying them on
for size why do that?
a cobbler would laugh
off his Dorset hat
knowing full well
there's a gauging bat
where men of capacity
are expansive of tat

shoe filling takes
much adroitness
just ask they who
possess its smartness
tis a gravitas of such
encompassing vastness
as quoted by the
sagacious George Furness
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
Fed me an omelette for dinner, oven-roasted tomatoes,
Smoked mozzarella, my fav, sliced so thin and layered in.
A focaccia roll, watermelon dessert.
It was her poem for me.
But that love devil kept refilling my glass, with her beloved
Summer rose wine.

I cleaned up for that's our deal, the one she never asked for, but is only
Fair in love.

Made it to the bed and Pandora.

About 30 seconds later, someone took my tablet from my arms, from my closing eyes, kissed me, and when I awoke at 4:00am, I recalled this from my sewing box.
Now, the poem*

There are kisses to keep

(Oct. 2010)

as I am laid to sleep,
there are kisses to keep,
gently placed on my
neck and head,
as I am tucked into bed,
travel packed,
well stored,
like important facts, safe kept,
as into the nether world
of the subconscious I am swept

Mid eve, tween nine and ten,
this runner's forward motion
is stopped short of the goal line,
but his mates, second surgers,
carry him on her shoulders,
his body do they extend,
victory celebrated with
eyes shut and
body prone,
his dream skills
well honed,
with kisses to keep,
he, dispatched to the battlefield,
Poetry Gods to meet,
daily actions,
submitted for peer review,
and perhaps!
promoted and gifted a daily add-on or
perhaps! Death's tenure secured?

Unwavering to sounds of song,
ancient paths retread,
till the front edge
of danger reached,
the TSA soul search commenced,

the child of ten times six,
drugs taken,
memory enhanced whispers of
revolution(s), circularity,
in headset stereo whispered.

his comrades George and John,
wounded to the death,
nighttime friends
greet this nightly stalker,
sojourner to the middle nether-lands,
with water and refreshments

Doth he survive,
Doth he return?

Of course he does,
dear friend and **** fool,
this nighttime essay,
his just reward
and another curse for
your forbearance

His safe return,
wounds
In need of tending,
kisses he receives from a
grateful nation of one,
kisses to keep safe as he
forwards on into
daytime battle of
interest rates,
to multiple fronts dispatched
and in ten long hours
he passes thru Ontario,
turns round, heads down
to samba in Rio De Janeiro,
and on his way to
New South Wales n' Sydney,
stops for herring
on the wharves of Oslo,
washed down with a pint
from his favorite pub in London town

He is short and caught?
He is long and wrong?
For sure he is stressed,
head messed, and when the whistle blows,
the words of his
prior excursion, the night version,
call and comfort,
for he attended again with the relief
of fresh and new
kisses to keep

Words of this ilk
have been penned before, by me, I am sure,
but too bad for you
and me too,
newer versions will continue
to appear, in order that
I may deserve
fresh kisses
to keep.

This will end when one of us dies.
August 2013
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Let me explain.
This poem is about sleeping, dreaming,
the failure of my inadequacies in poetry to heal.

Three years after its birth, it is exactly what I am feeling this day.
It is long rambling and you won't stay for the whole movie.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Erudition is perdition,
dreaming in words, accursed,
death to the visionaries,
release from visitations
of over-staying, unwelcome guests,
Johnny Cash, Jesus,
Forefather Jacob, Bobby Dylan
and their whiny,
smug-smiled missives
on behalf of the
all knowing, dream invader powers,
who
just-happens-to-be-know-it-alls.

These guys,
sub rosa angels,
electioneering,
hand shaking  
you into dreams
that make you wonder              
unceasingly  

I have renounced chants n'
dreams that
wander                              
meaninglessly

so if there is no
repeal of the stupification
of the human condition,
just invent words that  fool
willful and mostly please
nobody

don't ask and don't tell,
then we can agree
that a life,
its peculiar
Hallmark Card of grief,
cannot be
disambiguated

yours is yours,
different from mine,
single poems cannot solve
multivariate equations,  
un-blow mind sensations
that circumnavigate my mind    
as I edge along the
borderline tween the
United States of self-realization,
and a State of Mexico
drug-induced, seductive and
self-administered pat down,
a colorless, tasteless, dreamless
evening in the company of
a rest-once-and-for-all,
sleeping pill

Repudiate yourself,  
privately you
hyperventilate,
but others willing to borrow
those surfeit of rapid
misunderstood breathes,
stored in brown paper bags,
that will be divided
most ingeniously by the
Misappropriation Committee
for wordy oxygen tanks,
desperate for refilling

Recant, Renege,
Renounce, Repeal,
Repudiate, Retract,
I herby foreswear
all previous poems, please
Return them

Back, send them,
so, I can end them,
desist any new arrival of vaniloquence,
direct 'em to  the trash box of inconsequence

My wrongful w-rightings
are now cashiered,
my cool is in mourning,
my plateau is flat but
upsided downded,
words drownded,
both sides now, spring silent

Tried to swim to safety,
to Spanish Harlem
but no hablo espanol,

In Miami, they done me in
for the crime of
insufficiently thin,

In Ghiradelli Square
they deemed me too blond
not 'ciscan enough
yet, in Frisco fairness,  
done deported me,
making me to choose
tween Los Angeles and/or
Orange County

So, poet poseur, where you gonna run too?

My better half sleeps,
my left half weeps,
so conditions normal.

Satan laughs,
offers me ***** or poetry,
knowing full well that having
foresworn, addictive wordmongering, liscentiousness
that a single letter
would stupor me into a
drunken poetry slam at
St. Paul's Church,
into Satan's collection box
of wordy sinners,
where lost souls, ex-poets,
prevaricate
vainly, in hopes
that anyone will let them
transubstantiate
in order to avoid their
expiration date
on Stub Hub

surrendered the master key,
turned in my ID badge,
opened inner sanctum no more,
poetry boy is ratiocinated,
peril dispatched, swear that I've
excommunicated the voices
determined to disintermediate

the compromise I've reached,
help is contraindicated,
ex-officio is my new grace state

please, devices decontaminate,
otherwise, poems disintegrate,
excoriate them, don't wait,
to disassociate'em, insufficient,
remove them from hard drives,
yank'em one and all!

let the diet begin,
no more food for thought,
no more dreams
wrought and recorded,
permit the ambient calm
of the still of the night
that engulfs,
to harmonize with the flatline
dreamless sleep that the
mind monitor machine
etchingly, quietly records

let hours of research
be rewarded,
by my imbibing the product of
laboratory pharmacological
fine tuning

***** S.,
what outrageous ego
let me suppose that in
mine own words,
I could improve upon
your lovelies,
with now bland homilies,
recitations of my anomalies

What id sexed my brain,
was I completely insane,
to imagine that I could
improve upon:

"and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the
thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,
'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.
To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream:
ay, there's the rub"

Finished: Nov 27, 2010 4:44 AM
the same mood haunts me, three years on...six months on this site today
Javaria Waseem Nov 2014
They ask me,
"What are these holes in your heart, darling?"
I tell them,
"I am a writer and my pen always needs a refill."
Leah Rae May 2013
There Is A Reason ihop Is Open 24 Hours A Day.

It's Like A  MmMmMm. Pancakes!
Like A Mouth Watering & The Sound Of Fork Scraping Plate, Kind Of Morning, Isn't It?

Sunny Saturday Morning In April, With NPR Playing Over The Radio, And The Sound Of Bacon Sizzling, Kind Of Morning.

Take It From Me.
Watched A Heavy Hearted Seventeen Year Old Sister, Ask For Breakfast Ar Midnight, And The Hours Spent Talking Away Her Heart Ache With Mom Was Just A Side Effect Of The Full Stomach.

Stumble Into This.
With Bloodshot Eyes, And Ripped Up Jeans, 5am And Hung Over.
The Waitress Will Always Take Care Of You.
It's Like Her Duty, Along Side Taking Orders And Refilling Empty Coke Glasses, She'll Serve You
Blackberry,
Blueberry,
Chocolate Chip,
Strawberry Strung,
Bananas,
And Whip Cream Shaped Like A Smiley Face,
Without Any Questions Asked.

Pancakes Are The Breakfast Of Champions. So You Remember This. Your Fork And Knife Battle Weapon, Ready To Turn This 15 Minute Meal Into A Valiant Reawakening.
And Remember You Are King Today.  

Staff And Stone, And No One Can Destroy You.
Eat Up, And Be Strong.
Smile.
I Dare You.
Lick Your Fingers, And Ask For Seconds.
This Is Life, And Asking For Another Helping Has Never Been A Bad Thing.

Bite Your Tongue, Drink Back This Moment. I'd Ask You To Taste It, If Your Mouths Weren't Already Full.

I Know, There Will Be Tequila &Wine; Bottles You'll Try To Drown Yourself In.
But I've Learned Something Sticky Sweet Seems To Heal The Broken Edges Just A Little Better.

Daddy Always Said There Was A Reason The Light On The 'Waffle House' Sign Never Went Out. A Warm Plate & A Smile Is Sometimes All You Need To Make A Place Home.

The Next Time You Get Offered Pancakes, Consider It A Token Of Appreciation.
Always Say Yes.
Even If You're Not Hungry.
Take A Bite. You Won't Regret It.
I Promise.
Lawrence Hall Jun 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                 Refilling the Hummingbird Feeder

Now here is a bee
So anxious for me    
                     to be
Far away from it
To bee, or not to bee...
Jon Tobias Nov 2013
It's on them nights I drink alone. Find myself thinking of home. These beers bottle bones empty and shatter. Liquor lung sigh. Chest heavy like a white trash wind chime. Like a six pack of bud ice hanging from some fishing line. Hear them low notes bouncing of the lips in the wind. And maybe you worry, but ****, I'm fine to drive. And on those days when my gut isn't a gas tank for beer refilling at a pity party pit stop, I drive on love. Write love poems on phones before the ***** knocks me out. And sure, maybe my love makes as much sense as the words I slurr. And maybe my love is as unique as the crackheads needle in the haystack, but I'll still love you serious as a heart attack. Like a stroke... of genius... an epiphany about the realness of God. That maybe the story is flawed, but you're welcome to believe. And maybe I'm drunk right now, but I never meant to deceive. So kiss me with your break lights, while a pray to the slow light that I can live life like an old man feeding birds on a bench in the park. Got nothing else on his mind... just love... you maybe. And whatever you might think. I promise. I'm fine to drive
carminayasmin Apr 2018
As if I’m going to wash my sins,
by finding a substance so viscous - to annihilate the acid
that seeps through me.

Perhaps it’s you refilling my first glass,
which is dried up by 11,
and replenished by 5 past.

Must I keep forcing it down my refusing gut,
so I can bare the stutter drooling,
crumbling, out your teeth.

Till I’ve sipped needlessly on your lies
and fell drunken on your delusional fables.

Now I’m slurring in my nights,
awoke, still high on your acid.
Eyes are bulging, bloodshot
from you firing bullets of your decaying  burden.

-

As I walk I stumble,
diverging around solum streets.
Crows peck at my skin, to prompt me at sunrise.

Now and again I revisit
the morsels I had collected from the bottom of your chalice.
Savouring as I gulp down my regret.
Desperately urging to be hungover your reveries
one last time.
11 April, 00:31
I’m preparing myself for it all one day
Jonny Angel Sep 2014
She scooted along the checkerboard floor
collecting ***** plates
& refilling sweet teas.
I placed a double-order of fish tacos
& sat right next to the buffet of hot sauces
just to watch her toss her brown hair about
from under her pink pussycat hat
& lithe body covered
in delicious ink
& piercings.
Left Foot Poet Aug 2020
they hit you everywhere,
bruises, slow faders,
pretty much all over,
spaced out, body and time

some, they come back,
months, years later,
enticing, devising,
with revelations perfect,
you melt with helpfulness

some claim they are born
with only questions and an
insatiable quest for knowing,
but line in the soil tween rows
is there for you not to cross

some proffer their pain,
asking for ablution and absolution,
from demons they wish to share,
but refusing the smoke of my offering,
that could cleanse both our inhalations

like highway men of yore,
they hit everyone, below the belt,
stave breaking into the heart,
slow bleeding, with answers
received in absentia and silence

until the till needs refilling, and they
renewed, reappear, reformed, with
perfect words, even better questions:

my portfolio of replies mostly go/grow
old, noting the obvious, we are socially
distance by age and geography and
degree, I free and clear to provide while
they just free to hit and run, one more time
if you think this poem is about you, then it probably is…
KC Hoye Aug 2010
It's the nonesense that haunts me. The bits drifting in that don't add up. I'm gagging on the bits, it's killing me.
I am all the far flung dreams in me, the hopes that drive the need in me, the need to wake. Motivated.

I'm draining out the ***** water, refilling from purer streams. I'm working my way from right to left, pulling levers. Pressure's building, dust sifting from my imagination. I'm driving myself forward, pain no longer a distraction. The bits of me not fitting, will be drifting. I'm moving off, sailing out into the galactic tide, all the valence specks, frozen in space.

I am an extension, the ultimate manifestation, the unending arm of the universe. I am the cosmic Katana.
(c) KC Hoye 2010 cargohold.blogspot.com
AJ Robertson Feb 2013
It had been 2 weeks
She assumed the kids were asleep
Because he entered
He must of thought seductively
(making sure to shower first)
with an air of cool calmness
a scent of beer with a new thirst
for another type of refreshment
not fulfillment
but refilling

not romance
mere maintenance

she sighed & looked up
    through her glasses at his swollen frame
like a balloons tied to a clothes horse,
    left there for a day
so they sagged and lost their colour
    & the frame had become visible
  but only at its peaks
through the sheer power of gravity
his bones became seen
  through his collar of his van huesen shirt
he thought so debonair (had a classy air, sleekish air)

she smiled acceptingly
as he pretended to be sincere
  when he told her that he loved her
    even after all these years
  she was still a **** momma
she tried not to laugh
when he kissed her on the neck
& rubbed
her breast like he wanted milk

she spread her legs
when he pushed them
  & waited for the steering
of a trailer into a garage
in reverse
at midnight
  under influence
with the subtlety of a steer

it reminded her of years ago
when she had laughed at the austere
teachers that had enraged her
with their frigid sneer

& she smiled to herself an thought
of her *** like a rare fruit
only to age and watch it be eaten
by a once charming now savage brute

who turned into a blob of sorts
& she aswell had sagged
at least they sagged happily together
there's some comfort to be had in that
so she waited for the ******
with an image impressed in her
   of a smirking withered teacher
arms folded & a smug grin
with a look that proclaims
     ‘here u are
     it seems we’re on a par
     an existence so far
  from what u saw in dreams u had
  of supple limbs & knowing grins
  to dry skins and droopy things'

a flower wilted & smelling a bit funny
the faded colour of pale brown

in the end she felt lie a jug of sorts
he rolled over & went to sleep
she eventually did also
thinking about wat to cook next week
Montana Roberts Oct 2013
Side Effects Include Hallucinations,
in the way your words make me believe
that we will get that apartment on the 22nd floor with the designer kitchen and the giant windows and two dogs sleeping at the foot of the bed
when we're All-Grown-Up
but i try to hold your hand and it isn't always there
sometimes i reach and all that squeezes through my fingers is a wisp of green dark smoke
and you are suddenly 500 miles away

Nausea, Sickness, Vomiting, and Pain,
like when i wake up with tears already carving scars into my face
and the walk to the front door seems like the farthest walk i've ever taken
and invisible shackles as ancient as the roots growing underneath my head bind me to my nest
(kind of like when you tie me up)
the thorns crawl up the rusty metal and twist into my stomach
wrap themselves around my molten core
spreading shoots through bursting veins
knees buckle, hit the bathroom floor

And May Include Death
you are the perfect drug
an addictive pro-zac that makes me convulse from withdrawals
if i ever dare to skip a day
i have to have more
an self-refilling pill box and all it costs is every last inch of my heart and soul and energy

that's all you ask
cleann98 Apr 2018
I know a girl who won't give up.
The strongest woman in the world.
She will smile
Without biting her tongue.
She will laugh
Without sadness on her lips.
She will soar
She will fly
In time---

Every single night.
She pains.
She pains.
She dies,
time
til
time
in every single
drawing breath.
Needlessly.
She cracks.
She wounds.
She breaks.
She scars.
Scarily.
Killing herself
Just to fall asleep...
Before she prays.
Makeup---
She pains.
She pains.
Yet she stands.
She tires.
She tries.
Makeup---
She smiles.
Fractured.
Yet still smiles.
Tearless.
Wearless.
Tireless.
But not painless.
Makeup---
She talks.
She pains.
She smiles.
Makeup---
She walks.
She pains.
She runs.
Makeup---
She's strong,
yet her strength
it needs refilling.
For she stands,
it aches,
yet still she has,
anaesthesia.
Makeup---
She succeeds.
Yet it pains,
walking away.
Makeu---
She goes home
Alone.
It hurts.
It hurts.
Yet she drives.
Make---
Cooks food.
Instant made.
It burns.
It burns.
Yet she eats.
Mak---
Brushes her teeth
Looks at a mirror
Seeing herself,
Smudges.
Blurs.
And yet she still
has the power
to close her eyes.
Ma---
And she lies on her bed.
With all the pain in the world.
She doesn't even
have to wash off
the makeup on her face,
she just cries it off...
M---
Before she prays.
Just to fall asleep...
Killing herself
Scarily.
She scars.
She breaks.
She wounds.
She cracks.
Needlessly.
Drawing breath
in every single
time
til
time
She dies
She pains.
She pains.
Every single night.

In time
She will fly.
She will soar.
Without sadness on her lips.
She will laugh
Without biting her tongue.
She will smile,
The strongest woman in the world.
I know a girl who won't give up.
Challenge--- Makeup--- by Imai.
For you, or Cherry, or any girl who cries herself to sleep. Wet pillows won't drown you :) Don't be afraid to cry. You'll be able to stand proud and smile without your makeup soon.
**** the weather !
It always seemed when you planned ****.
Things always turned to ****.

I had been fed the **** up far to long.
No I was more like hand me a gun and get the **** out of my way.
the ride had been the boiling point  the conversations were as mundane as the Oklahoma  
landscape.

It's sad when you see a tree and you want to get out the car and kiss the ground.
I had to distance myself and the nearest bar called me like a ship to shore .
And maybe after a few stiff drinks I could somehow convince myself the trip was worth the burden of putting up  with half the ******  I listened to out here.

The show was going to be hell dealing with some lame *** ******* with there family friendly *******.
Hopefully my set would be over fast.

Get up there talk to the deadlights crowd and get the hell off that stage before my drink needed refilling.

Hey so what's your deal?
The strange looking guy had asked me on the way up.
Just prefer silence to a ******* chatter I guess.

Whatever man.

He didn't seem to enjoy my reply and his leaving me alone for the rest of the trip was a pleasant reward  indeed.
Little early don't you think?

Another had asked as I broke out my flask and mixed the first of my drinks I like to think as
******* tolerance serum.
Well honestly being it's already ten in the morning I'm actually running late.

**** he's going to be wasted by the time we get there how ******* unprofessional.
I had met far to many of these self righteous ****** on many trips across the states and they all were the same.
To busy watching other's to even realize they had no place being in the company
of actual men  they were more like a annoying ex who nagged the **** out of you till you either said  shut the **** up *****!

Or just walked away silent as she rattled on a mental tornado in a self absorbed existence.

I rarely gave people like this my time let alone my thoughts.
For empty minded ******* could look to other halfwits to fill there heads.
me I had a hard enough time believing my own ******* to care about anyone else's.

It was a hour till my set   and as I knocked back a  luke warm beer in a first class *******
I had to think man I really should have chosen a less interesting career path.

But hell there were like almost ten people in dire need of some saving from the clutches
of candy *** humor and Lord help them if a improve group was around.

I staggered from my stool towards the door as the barkeep said.
Hey buddy need me to call you a cab to get home.
Home hell amigo I'm getting ready to clock in to work.

Maybe I could have chosen a more easy path.
But the drinks seem awful watered down driving a school bus.

Besides who would save the bored few from the family friendly
joke tellers of this world.

Till next time.

Stay crazy.
calm Feb 2018
oh snap.

guess who's back?

I'm one step closer to a heart attack.

these flashbacks drawn from a cutback, turned me into an insomniac,
twas only a matter of time until I had a cardiac

arrest me now, officer. I've done you all wrong.

'cause my heart lying in my breast no longer plays a loving song.

I'd love to play the rest, see who else would try and sing along,
but I best not cause more distress, I know where I belong.


this girl KC.

man, she's killing me.

thoughts grilling me, yeah they drilling me!
this thrilling feeling's chilling me to the core, like it's refilling a sea

that just won't quit. My anchor's heavy as ****.

my head's split a bit, teeth grit cause I'm full of these images of misfits, and culprits
whose crimes I didn't know they could commit-
they're all me- I'll admit I don't have a permit to

park my *** in this waste of mass class.

just mind the sass, my ego's thick as thick glass, and I don't have the strength to be harassed (rn).


hold up
>>Boi

I don't got time for this.

I need help, man, tell me what to do, I'm ******.

this story's this; I miss the abyss in which I could hiss at KC's every bish she brought home,
reminisce that shish in whish I could blissfully talk about french kissing her.

but now I got me a man.

but now she back I've got no game plan.

tell me can you show me again how life is more than her?
I have a bf yet I'd still **** for KC. Wrote this when I was wondering what to do.
*EDIT* when I copied and pasted this from Notebooks it didn't post fully! Full piece is now here.
Anna Falls Jan 2015
I'm scared. I'm scared of being in a relationship.
Just one word that shakes my knees
And brings tears to my eyes.
I'm scared of a relationship.
And who could blame me?
After what I consider a relationship,
No one would want to even spit the word.

I'm scared of being tied down.
Of giving everything up for Someone
Who can take what they want and leave.

I'm scared of being Numb.
Of falling so deep into depression
That nothing but sweet pain
Draws me out of the Abyss.
All of this
because of a relationship.

I promised myself I'd never let someone
Affect me like that Again.
To let him scratch, burn, cut
Deep enough to leave scars.
To give everything
And to do so freely upon the will of a
Boy.
So destructive in his own thoughts
That even I could see him fraying at the edges.

To let someone hurt me in their own Game.
To fall so deep in love that you
Can't see what's going on all around You
dying at the hands of someone you love.
yet no one knows.
Not even him.

For he is too stricken with a somber, anger, and his own demons
To notice what he does to you.
Excuses upon excuses you make for him
Until the day it all goes up in flames and you thought
It couldn't be worse.
Than this.

Since then I've just been floating.
Recovering.
Refilling every crevice of my heart with the glue of a new life
In the hopes that with the starting of every day it will hold,
Being scared still has never left me.

Please understand why I'm scared.
I write this because at one point in time it was too hard to speak a word of what had happened. It hasn't even been a year since. Now moving to a different state it's hard to let my past follow me, but this is something the people who care about me should know. I was in an abusive relationship for a year and 4 months. He was my best friend all through out high school. After trying to end the relationship multiple times I finally had enough when I found out he had cheated on me with one of my friends on New Year's Eve. Writing it out in such plain words makes it seem so simple. I suppose the simplest terms could be the most dramatic in this sense.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
Fresh Direct

Exit

I used to sleep
With pen and paper on my nighttime table.
Nowadays, my iPad tablet rests upon my chest,
Not only does it keep me warn,
It takes my poems from within, Fresh Direct,^
Edits, credits, and delivers them to your door,
While I'm still sleeping.

Which is why they come at all hours.
It is also why they call them,
Love's Labour's Lost saving devices.

Refill

My woman, my number one fan,
Grabs her pillow, mashes her face
Into my iPad warmed chest,
Without asking permission,
Thus fulfilling her mission critical.

Restoring the balance, refilling the tank
With high octane mystical, thru skin umbilical,
A first edition of the day blended mix named,
All's Well That Ends Well.



7:45 am
July 14th, 2013
^www.freshdirect.com/
Online grocer providing high quality fresh foods and popular grocery and household items at incredible prices delivered to your door in the New York area.

Tho I have lived centuries, long and well,
Have no fear, in prior life, my name did not complete with speare.
But t'is not the first time I fiddled and diddled  old *****'s work,
When they called me Nahum Tate, I usurped his tragedies,
Pre-HP, I was one of England's Laureate Dunces.
If thee be of faith little, truths here be spoke,
For it was then David's Psalm 57 I refreshed:

O God, my heart is fixed, 'tis bent,
      its thankful tribute to present;
      And with my heart my voice I'll raise
      to thee, my God, in songs of praise.

Awake, my glory, harp and lute,
      no longer let your strings be mute;
      And I, my tuneful part to take,
      will with the early dawn awake.
He called her a **** at dinner
Told she could be thinner
Played the part of being an ***
Voicing opinions deemed crass

A waiter wandered up
Refilling a cup
Gave the girl a wink
But was more of a sporadic blink

Her date stood tall
And turned his fist into a ball
Told the waiter to **** right off
A comment muddled by a cough

Then, in an act of violence
Came a brief respite of silence
The waiter was struck in the jaw
Knocked on the floor captured in awe.

He was then beaten ‘til dead
Over inferences read
The woman screamed
At her date, the blood coated fiend

Police were brought in
The man simply grinned
Cuffs were attached
As the man’s might was matched

A month later
Due to the dead waiter
The man had his day in court
A bailiff acted as his escort

The man was sentenced to 15 years
The woman, in attendance, shed no tears
The man was taken
He appeared visibly shaken

Taken to a cell at Briar Field
A place all go to yield
He was beaten for days on end
By prisoners looking for time to spend

Searching for a sense of hope
Utilized in avoiding a knotted rope
The man found a friend
With a helping hand to lend

Then one day talking wasn’t enough
The man’s friend got rough
After a quick stich
The man was anointed a *****

Sitting for dinner he was called a ****
By his friend, who had become quite blunt
A guard came by and batted and eye
The friend asked if he wanted to die

Said this man was his slave
A poor ****-******* knave
The guard retreated
Victory conceited

But the friend pressed on
Until the guards life was gone
Then walked back after the stunt
And called the man a fat old ****
Dawn of Lighten Nov 2015
Note: this isn't my work, but a work of one of the poet named Haron River ( currently go by H A Rivers) in this site who is currently MIA! Time to time I would scour poet's work, and allow them to teach me with their wisdom with their penmanship.  This was a poem Haron River gave me as a memento, but all his work is golden, and should be shared!  Hopefully new comers would check his work out! Without any further ado, here it is!

Untitled

Refreshed perspective gathered words
Like the ocean riptide gather
The rivers' flow at the confluence
Repurposing back-eddies,
Rejuvenation of stagnant brackish waters
Inherent soul-shine purging
From ancient core of earth mother

Light arising from the depth of inner stillness
As if a refilling wellspring burst forth,
Reawaking sighs too deep for words
Forming poetic constellation
To lighten the nebulous darkness,
Like sea of ink transformed into poetry

A sage opus renewed
By the muse of a migrating flock
Striving to discover new sacred grounds
Yet there is an undeniable song sung
In the howling wind of change
An incitement from a higher dialect
That empowers a restoration of the spirit
Oeuvre uplifted by rogue waves of wind
Arousing that which time erases

A renaissance manifest
Among the rousing nuances
Of poetic continuum,
Provoking a verve revival
Judicious to discovery
The enthralling vastitude
Of every breaking wave
In a vast sea of poesy

Where prevailing currents
Stir oceans of verse eternal;
Provoking verve revival,
The magnitude of an unbroken circle,
Oceans swells merging oneness
With the omnipresent of color
Of uncharted depth

As if thoughts assuage
By the Union of distant touching souls,
Spark nuances spanning poetic realms,
Transcending barriers of unexplored lexicon
To manifest the immensity,
Enkindling rhapsody of hearts and minds

Deeply rooted soul replenishment
Harvested from the tree of humankind,
Willingly sharing without regret
Enabling a metamorphosis
Of the human journey
Once again not my work! This was given to me by Harlon River, and seeing as I haven't seen his work for sometime, it must be posted!  Currently he goes by H A Rivers, and if you want to be inspired, read his stuff! I know I do, and makes me want to be a better writer!
I finally picked up my refill
And finally stopped running uphill.
I'd been out for days,
And was in a haze
That nothing could fix but my refill.

I finally refilled my meds, guys.
Last week I ran out of my supplies,
And I sunk like a brick
Into depression so thick
That it kept me from refilling my meds, guys.

At last I am back on my Adderall
And everything feels much more natural
I cleaned up the sink
And now I can think
About how good it is to have Adderall.
P.S. Sorry to everyone who took the brunt of my bs. Next time I have a breakdown about my *** life just tell me to refill my meds and leave me alone.
You can’t paint the Sistine Chapel with a roller
You can’t carve The Thinker with a jack hammer
You can’t write a symphony on a Kazoo
And you can’t dance Swan Lake on a trampoline

You can’t bake a cake if you have no oven
You can’t sew a gown with a knitting needle
You can’t build a house out of Lego Bricks
And you can’t win at Lotto without buying a ticket

Why do my eyes not notice the humming bird
Only that the nectar tube needs refilling
Why do I not glory in a field of orange poppies
Only struggle to walk without stepping on one

Why do I pass up small kudus when offered
So I can wallow some more in rejection
Why do I long so for the glow of acceptance
When I have no use for the face in the mirror

We all have to work with the gifts we are given
Talent is not something you can go out and buy
You can’t sigh your way into winning the race
And you can’t coerce people into your fan club

You have to dig deep if you want to find oil
You have to cast bait if you want the big fish
You have to believe that the war can be won
To put down your pen and ******* your sword
           ljm
That first step is always the hardest, especially if you're not sure of the way.
I don’t need it
The red string
Tied around my ring or index

I don’t need it
An “x” or heart
On the calendar

I don’t need it
A programmed number
Within any device at all

I don’t need it
Any fashioned reminder
Of you and your worth

You live with me
Constantly
On the tip of my tongue

I utter your nom de plum
In sleep
And I call after my mother with your name

As if in a canyon
Reverberating your whisper
This echoes in all the places

You are my favorite song
On repeat
And I soak in the melody that is your mouth

I don’t need a string
An “x”
Or a series of ten numbers
To remind me
Because you’re here
Holding my hand

And refilling my ink
Thanks Civil Wars.
New favorite song!
Roisin Sullivan Jan 2014
I know what you would say to me:
"At least I was thinking of you."
But all I can see through your texts
Are images of my past life.
Sitting alone in the humid
Air of Florida trying to drown
My tears in pool water as
His slurred words "I'm way too busy"
Mixed with a girl's giggling voice
Flooded my mind repeatedly.
Feeling nothing but numbed surprise
As my father's hand rushed towards me,
Bottles of wine on the table.
Seated at a restaurant as
My grandfather cried saying how
Much I look like my grandmother;
Same determination, same hope,
While refilling his martini.
I hear his dense voice on the phone.
He'll do it, he'll jump, but not if
I tell him that I adore him
And I'll stay with him forever,
Ended with the smashing of glass.
So please forgive me when I say
I'm not a fan of your drunk texts.
Mary McCray Apr 2017
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 16, 2017)

Dear Adult Face,

This letter is to inform you that your employment is no longer needed. I am planning to make some structural changes area-wide and our affiliation will be terminated. During your tenure with me your performance metrics were clearly stated, as were the implications for deficient outcomes. Despite three prior notarized memos you have failed to address lagging issues and for quite some time you have failed to live up to my expectations. And as I feel I must put my best face forward, I will be refilling this position.

Yours in success,
Self-Improvement Initiatives

Dear “Brain,”

I would just like to calmly say to you—in response to your very unsurprising termination letter—you expect too much. Being your face wasn’t ever easy. In fact, you don’t know the crap I’ve had to put up with, every single day, representing you. Never a kind word from the boss. Never a massaging flattery. This face you’re looking at, Buddy—I am part of history. I’m the real deal. So pardon me for living—but you can’t just get rid of a face so easily. I’m not a piece of meat you can toss out with the trash. I’m a survivor. I’m more you than you are, you cavalier bag of bones. This isn’t the end of it. I’ll be seeing you again again someday before we leave this earth. If you’re lucky. You toxic ****.

Wishing you a punch in the new face,
Original Face
Napowrimo 2017: Write a poem in the form of a correspondence.
Ghazal Oct 2014
Oh Winter, I welcome you,
Your nippy air, your kindling hues,
And the tint they cast on my moods,
Oh Winter, if only you knew,

The simple pleasures your arrival bears-
The precious sleep that only your lullaby brings,
The sudden love for rich food you excite,
And so many other little 'winter things'-

Things like colourful gloves and socks,
And poor unsheltered, chilled pink nose tip,
And age-old pseudo-smoking out cold breath,
And cherry/strawberry/cocoa balms to coat the lips,

Doodling a beloved's name on a frosted window,
And tugging blanket under toes in bed, snugly,
The evening nap feeling more easing than ever,
Followed by heavenly gulps of warm milky coffee.

Oh Winter, despite, as the time of
Separation and Forlornness being ill-famed,
Each time you visit, you touch my senses
And leave them pleasantly tingling and inflamed.

For summer may be bright, sunny and sky-blue,
But you can be an enticing dark, a passionate maroon,
You mischievous cupid hiding under the garb of cosiness,
Refilling hearts with yearnings anew.

Welcome, dear Season of Romance,
Time to commence the routine all over again,
Of you- enthusing me with deep cold-warm sentiments,
And me- writing poems celebrating this eternal game.
Courtney Joy Dec 2014
I am denied a second time
a catching glimpse
a passerby
the endless chantering that flows through the rye
until I catch a glimpse of the other side
through your eyes
we go together

a floundering heat
an upheld beat
that swims in midst of rays
to reflect upon your gleaming eye
holding a gaze, time says lasts for days

yet it already happened
a rewound record instilling its tunes
into you
and oh!
you're already gone
refilling these city blues
guess I wasn't ready for you
oh, this generation of use and abuse
to take as material , to ignore the core
denying the message, but focusing on the tune

I guess I really am you
Ego thoughts, twin flame
My stomach's wallet breaks the pocket's seam.
I eat what I see,
I can't help with tasting everything.
The grapes and the burgers,
the peanuts and bananas.

I'm consuming as the wild beast does;
the vine grows empty and I will growl,
moving on to the next new field.
But the cheeses here are magnificent,
I'll keep coming back for just another slice of it.

These warm chocolate drippings
on mountains of cold cream
melt into gooey cookie crust;
Me and my flag stand ready for the adventure
right up and back down the mudslide.

But my buds are changing in a strange wind
and I am the wild dancer in this hurricane.
The strawberries are dipping into whipped cream
until the bowl grows empty,
refilling it with oats and milk.

My tongue lives forever in this moment,
leaping this way and that,
the day's cheetah is fast for its slab of chewy beef jerky
and afterward,
the night's panther is face forward in the wild fruits.

I pray for the day this dessert morsel is the last,
but alas,
my hunger ravages like a princess for her pony.
The king will no longer resist her screams for another stable
and I will ride this black mare forever.

— The End —