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Abigail Shaw Dec 2014
Don’t read this if you’re squeamish,
Or if you’re eating food at the present,
Since some of the subjects discussed in this poem,
Are let’s just say rather unpleasant,

On the subject of donating organs,
Or the subject of organs at all,
It’s not unusual for my claims to leave,
Some subjects feeling pretty appalled,

Now I’d say that most people die,
In fact I’d vouch that it happens quite often,
But when my time comes, set has my sun,
I want all of me in that coffin,

Now I get it, I’d save lives if I donated,
And I don’t mean to sound like a **** (yes I do),
But the unmissable flaw, the foot in the door,
Is that not all of my parts seem to work,

My eyes are screwy, my heart’s far too cold,
The state of my lungs’ll make you shiver,
My kidneys too small, I'm not sure I have a pancreas,
And don’t get me started on my liver,

And let me tell you with a face like mine,
Not showcasing this beauty’s a sin,
But it’s awfully hard to have an open casket,
If I’m not sporting any of my skin

It’s selfish and weird I know that,
But my eyes are where my soul is exposed!
…Yeah actually my soul’s pretty tainted,
Can someone make sure that my eyes are closed?

I only want those I love to have a part of me,
So if I’m forced, if I’m forced, to partake,
-
-
-
They’ll be frying up my organs,
For refreshments at my wake.
Short poem I wrote after a debate on ***** donation (which I am all for by the way)
Edna Sweetlove Sep 2015
Pastor Grovell writes as follows.....

I am often asked to interpret the Ten Commandments as they seem sometimes a bit out of date and irrelevant (and hard to understand by some of the more ********
folks). So here goes with the update we use in our own godly congregation. These are my revised and corrected commandments.  The originals are in the beloved King James version but where that is unclear I quote a more modern version too to assist those of you who are more or less illiterate. In the bible, the commandments are unaccompaned by the punishments you will get if you disobey them so I have updated that too, according to STRICT biblical scholarship.

===================================================­=================

1st Commandment: "Thou shalt have no other gods before me". This seems quite unequivocal to me but of course it was written BEFORE Jesus came to save us so here is the new version:

PG's NEW NUMBER 1: WORSHIP ONLY GOD (INCLUDING JESUS WHO IS PART OF GOD ANYWAY) & DO IT FREQUENTLY OR GOD WILL CRUSH YOU!

=========================================================­===========

2nd Commandment: "Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me; And shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments.

That seems a bit wordy to me and there is a bit of overlap with Number 1! In any case, it's a bit out of date as not many people worship idols, giant earthworms or fish these days. Perhaps a modern update would include not worshipping the TV set!

PG's NEW NUMBER 2: DO NOT WORSHIP THE TV SET OR ANYTHING SIMILAR OR GOD WILL BE VERY ANNOYED INDEED AND WILL PUNISH YOU AND ALL YOUR DESCENDANTS & THEIR DESCENDANTS TOO SO WATCH OUT ALL YOU HEATHEN COUCH POTATOES!

====================================================­================

3rd Commandment: "Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain." Again a bit long-winded, and the vain bit will confuse some people.

PG's NEW NUMBER 3: DO NOT BLASPHEME OR GOD WILL CRUSH YOU IN AN INCREDIBLY PAINFUL WAY & SLOWLY AS WELL!

========================================================­============

4th Commandment: "Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work; But the seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates; For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day: wherefore the Lord blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it."

This is a difficult one to observe nowadays, what with Sunday opening at the shopping mall. The solution seems to be that non-Christians, Jews and Muslims can work to serve us whilst we go shopping. It shows why God created heathens and other infidels so they can sell godly people bibles, hymnals and religious artefacts on the Sabbath, even though they will probably go to Hell themselves as a result. And the bit about animals not working on Sundays seems pointless today so we'll skip that section.

PG's NEW NUMBER 4: WORK HARD FOR SIX DAYS A WEEK INCLUDING SATURDAYS AND THEN HAVE A NICE REST ON SUNDAYS BUT GET IN A LOT OF PRAYING ON SUNDAY OR YOU WILL BE PUNISHED IMMENSELY BY GOD!

=========================================================­===========

5th Commandment: "Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee."

Seems clear enough; particular the 2nd bit which people forget. This is particularly important as people live much longer nowadays and often old folks have to be put into a home which can be expensive, but God wants us to do it. Also, do not skimp on the private facilities - do you really want your old wizened parents to share a bathroom with other incontinents? No I don't think you do. Also, one must remember that a lot of people are ******* and don't have the vaguest idea who their father was. Often the mother has no idea either, filthy ****.

PG's NEW NUMBER 5: RESPECT YOUR PARENTS NO MATTER HOW MUCH IT COSTS OR GOD WILL SHORTEN YOUR OWN LIFE AS A PUNISHMENT & YOU WILL SUFFER A LOT! IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHO YOUR PARENTS ARE, YOU ARE A ******* AND WILL GO TO HELL.

========================================================­============

6th Commandment: "Thou shalt not ****." This one is a real problem for so many of us! What should we do if a mugger comes and tries to rob us? What should we do if someone threatens to **** and **** our womenfolk? What if heathens attack our nation? What about the inalienable American right to bear arms and **** unarmed protesters? What about the British right to rule over inferior races and shoot rebels? I think God was insufficiently insightful here, so my version is quite a radical improvement.

PG's NEW NUMBER 6: DO NOT **** PEOPLE UNLESS IT IS NECESSARY OR IF THEY ARE BURGLING *******!

====================================================­================


7th Commandment: "Thou shalt not commit adultery."This is OK as far as it goes but it is totally inadequate to deal with the amount of ***-SIN which is about the place in the modern world, so I have expanded this to deal with the problem. Also remember that King James was a rampant and blatant sodomite and pervert and so maybe had this one censored in his version of the GOOD BOOK to cover his own back, so to speak.

PG's NEW NUMBER 7: DO NOT COMMIT ANY ***-SINS INCLUDING UNMARRIED FORNICATION, EXCESSIVE FRENCH KISSING, HEAVY PETTING, ******* (MUTUAL AND/OR SOLITARY), ADULTERY, *******, BUGGERY, ******, HOMOSEXUAL ACTS OF ALL TYPES INCLUDING LESBIANISM OF ANY SORT, *******-READING OR THINKING FILTHY ***-THOUGHTS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES OR YOU WILL BURN IN HELLFIRE FOR EVER AND EVER WITH THE MOST AWFUL AGONIES, AND ALSO MINIMIZE ALL LEGAL MARITAL *** TO OCCASIONS WHEN YOU WISH TO PROPAGATE AND KEEP IT BRIEF & IN THE DARK EVEN THEN!

========================================================­============

8th Commandment: "Thou shalt not steal." This one seems OK to me, with a bit of modernization.

PG's NEW NUMBER 8: YOU MUST NOT STEAL OR MUG OR ROB OR BURGLARIZE OR YOU WILL BE PUNISHED UTTERLY & VERY EXTENSIVELY BY GOD IN ALL HIS MIGHTY POWER!

=======================================================­=============

9th Commandment: "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour." This is a bit too narrow as I think non-neighbours and maybe even foreigners should be included as well. Also there needs to be a reminder of the dreadful punishment liars and falsifiers face.

PG's NEW NUMBER 9: DO NOT ACCUSE ANYONE AT ALL FALSELY AND DON'T TELL ANY LIES EITHER OR GOD WILL PUNISH YOU REALLY APPALLINGLY & YOU WILL SHRIEK IN AGONY FOR EVER!

========================================================­============

10th Commandment: "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ***, nor any thing that is thy neighbour's." This one really is totally out-of-date and inadequate. It should apply to everyone and not just neighbours. Also, how many people can afford servants or keep oxen? And the "***" bit is open to obscene ***-SIN misinterpretation and blasphemous sneering by wicked ***-SINNERS. So this needs a complete re-write to bring it into the 21st century and to guide godly people into the way of righteousness. And some of the modern translations of the Bible are even worse, e.g. "Do not desire another man's house; do not desire his wife, his slaves, his cattle, his donkeys, or anything else that he owns." How about if you wish to sell your own house and move to a nicer one - what is wrong with that? How about if you wish to sell your low-grade animals and buy better ones? What is this ******* obsession with donkeys and ***** - sheep can be equally tempting to s degenerate ******* ***-SINNER. So I go for a nice simple revision which covers most eventualities:

PG's NEW NUMBER 10: DON'T BE JEALOUS OF OTHER PEOPLE'S BETTER FORTUNE, MAYBE THEY DESERVE IT & YOU ARE INFERIOR; STICK WITH WHAT YOU HAVE NO MATTER HOW GROTTY IT IS OR GOD WILL PUNISH YOU MORE THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE! AND KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF THE LIVESTOCK OR YOU WILL SUFFER APPALLINGLY IN DEEPEST HELL WITH RED HOT POKERS UP YOUR ****** FOR ETERNITY.

====================================================­================

So there you have it: Pastor Peter Grovell's recommendations for a life without sin. But remember to pray every single day to Jesus and under no circumstances confuse the wooden images of Jesus which the Catholics use with the real living invisible Jesus. If you fail to do what God wants, he will be left with no option but to condemn you to eternal Hellfire.

And a final point: God did not hand down to Moses any instructions about alcohol. Did He say, "Thou shalt not have a pint of beer!" NO! Did He say, "Thou shalt not have a bottle of wine!" NO! Did He even rule out a shot or two of gin, whisky, ***, brandy or any other alcoholic refreshments? NO He did not! He even transformed water into wine on several occasions, which shows he liked a glass or two down his local Jewish "pub". So there is no harm in drinking alcohol but only if it does not lead you to do ***-SIN, ******, ****, THEFT, BUGGERY, ***-COVETING or IDOL-WORSHIP!

Pastor Peter Grovell D.D., C.S.M.F.,
Founder, Ultra-Strict Reformed Church of Jesus.
“LLLAAATIES & GENTLEmen, this is your captain speaking.
There is a teency weency storm that is abrewing around us – ‘tis but a trifling, little thing - so I ask that you please remain calm.”

The curious passengers crowded to look out their windows.  
Ominous clouds brigaded the skies with enormously vibrant, sharpened zigzag knives, cutting through the air with thunderous taps against the windows.  
The travelers went into a frenzy as one-by-one, each fell victim to the terror of the roaring victory cries.
As a crazed, indecisive pendulum shouts order of formation – back forth, back forth – the travelers scurried into the aisle, bumping into one another like panicked ants dodging magnified beams of light.

Suddenly the chaos had ceased.

In the very front of the aisle stood two of the most spellbinding flight attendants that had ever been seen. They brought peace amongst the fury inside the cabin without uttering a word.  

“LLLLAATIES & GENTLEmen, this is your captain speaking.
I apologize for the brief disruption; however,
we have a show for you his evening.
A lovely show it is indeed.
Please hand over your tickets, for at the end of the show there will be a special prize awaiting the lucky winner who is reunited with this item of admission.
Oh, and might I suggest, everyone quick look over to your right; there is a canyon to be seen. It’s a large one, in fact.
Ain’t it GRAND???
So fasten those seatbelts, and enjoy your ride.
Ta-Ta.”

The passengers began to do as they were instructed.  Along with the refreshments of soda pops and pretzels bites, the angelic flight attendants placed out black velvet hats and black sticks with white tips, centering them on the empty laps of those preparing for the delightful evening event. When all of the hats had been properly placed, the attendants returned to their stations.

“LLLAATIES & GENTLEmen, this is your captain speaking.
Please take note of the hats that rest upon your laps.
Seek and you shall find that your tickets have been placed inside.
For if they are not, you will be deprived of your surprise.
Ta-Ta.”

The puzzled passengers obeyed, and perching their heads forth, they looked down into the blackened velvet hats… A wave of surprise quickly spread throughout the cabin, for every person was the winner!  

“LLLAATIES & GENTLEmen this is your captain speaking.  Please tap your hats.
After doing so your prize will appear inside.”  The excited passengers reached for their blackened sticks with the white tips and gently tapped the brims.

KAAAABOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!­

A thundering crash accompanied a blinding slash. For a brief moment I could no longer hear nor see anything.  I patiently waited to regain my senses.  I slowly started to hear an orchestrated, harmonic beat hitting the ceiling.  The white light that momentarily blinded me started to dissipate like an early morning fog.

What was the image that slowly appeared before my curious eyes?  A crimson ceiling it was.  It had everything a ******* painting deserved.  I was ecstatic.  I had completed a true masterpiece!  My personal contribution to our youth.  

As I sat in the last row admiring my work of art, a lonely tear trickled down my face.  My lovely acquaintance wiped away my tear and smiled at me.  “BRAVO! – BRAVO! It is simply exquisite!”

The heads were placed in the allotted location as requested.

I sat there with the deepest satisfaction twisting the upward curve of my mustache.  I felt the gentle touch of my delightful assistant slowly running her fingers through my hair.  The other softly placed her hand upon my shoulder and asked, “What next?”  I humbly replied, “We’re going to donate them to the toy store.  There they will be placed in wonderfully colored boxes that will play lovely music when the handles are cranked in a circular motion until the heads pop out!”

The flight attendant looked at me with great wonder, “Captain, you’re truly a remarkable man.”
Thank you for reading.  Ta- Ta!
judy smith Apr 2017
It’s the tail end of fashion week in Paris, the busiest week of the year for fashion buyers.

When I meet Clodagh Shorten, owner of Samui, the game-changing boutique that put Cork on the fashion map, she’s already been here four days and is on her tenth buying appointment — there’ll be at least another five before she leaves in a couple of days time.

These appointments, private bookings with designers, allow her to get up close and personal with the clothes that have just been showcased on catwalks.

She’s deciding which pieces will best suit her customers.

Today, we meet at Schumacher, the stunning German label known for its easy chic look.

A beautiful white space, with lush cream velvet sofas, bare walls and white rails (nothing here to distract from the main event — the clothes), this room, prime space in Paris, is rented by the designer year-round just so they have the right venue to sell at Fashion Week.

It gives some indication of the power Fashion Week wields.

Clodagh is here with her right-hand woman, Samui manager Mary-Claire O’Sullivan.

There are two rails — the keepers and the ‘ones that got away’.

They’ve already seen this collection in London.

Today they are here to fine-tune.

This is unusual, Mary-Claire explains — at most appointments, they are seeing the clothes for the very first time.

“This is a big spend,” they tell me, and they’ll stay as long as they need “to get it right”.

Piecing together a collection is something akin to a jigsaw puzzle.

All the items are photographed — later they will be analysed back in the apartment they rent during Fashion Week.

The mix has to be right.

So the coats, a sleeveless waistcoat, are moved to the rail on the right.

They won’t make it to Cork.

Coats were already picked up this morning at another appointment.

Like I said, a jigsaw puzzle.

Two models are on hand to try on clothes when requested — I hear ‘can I just see this on one more time’ a lot.

There’s no haggling over prices in these sales negotiations — it’s all too civilised.

The price is set, as is the instore mark-up. These lauded designs must cost the same the world over.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire share a language and a wavelength. They can finish each other’s sentences and, while I don’t so much as sniff a hint of tension, they tell me they can disagree on buys.

“Clodagh doesn’t want a yes woman,” Mary-Claire says simply.

From Schumacher, Clodagh leads the way through the Parisian cobbled streets, phone held aloft, Google Maps to direct her.

Her wheelie bag is constantly behind her — inside there’s the laptop for orders and a camera for instant access to photographs of collections.

Her calculator is another permanent fixture in the showroom.

Today, Clodagh is dressed in an Australian label coming soon to Samui, Ellery. The lush black fabric sways and moves with her body; an outfit like that makes you really appreciate her eye for fashion. It’s sensational.

For this 5.30pm appointment we are heading to see another new label for Samui — Paskal (Clodagh will wear a piece from this line tomorrow).

The Ukrainian designer is looked after by an agency so in this showroom there are pieces by a handful of brands.

Again, the setup is the same — private appointments, models on hand.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire have to be more careful here — this is a new label and it’s more fashion forward so black is prioritised.

Not every client at Samui will wear this line. Every purchase, I realise, is a gamble.

“We’ve made mistakes, of course we have,” says Mary-Claire though you get the feeling that could be a rare event.

Pieces bought by these two women rarely end up in Samui’s sales rack.

They know their customer, plain and simple.

There is so much trust there, some clients are simply sent collections each season, allowing Clodagh to make the call for them.

So much of their day is spent discussing various clients (never by name in my presence) — what they might like, the best size.

It is effectively the ultimate personal shopping experience.

The number of items and sizes are limited, so customers know they are truly getting one-off pieces.

As we leave, kisses over, the agency head tells them, “you’re our favourites” and you just know it’s not empty fashion talk.

People genuinely love Clodagh and Mary-Claire. And they respect what they do.

Samui is open 16 years now. Clodagh mastered her trade at Monica John before stepping out on her own. Mary-Claire joined her eight years ago.

It has been one of the few boutiques in Cork to not just survive the downturn but to positively thrive.

As the economy spluttered around her, Clodagh very masterfully decided to go high end.

First came Moncler — the top people here had to come and view Samui to see if it was the right match for their esteemed label.

It was — and, increasingly, doors began to open.

Carven, Marni, Rick Owens — people really began to sit up and take notice of Samui.

Now labels are often vying for space on the shop floor. Still though, it takes work to secure the big new names.

Clodagh spends a lot of time on planes, networking, meeting the key players. And it’s not as simple as a visit to Fashion Week twice a year either.

These days pre-collections are key too: these pieces will be on the shop floor for longer.

So Clodagh and Mary-Claire travel in January to Paris for pre- collections, Milan in February for Moncler, Paris in March. The same cycle begins again in June for A/W pre-collections, with S/S Fashion Week in September.

Clodagh is always pushing, always striving for new.

She was devastated to say farewell to Transit, the brand with her from the very beginning. It was simply time for a change she tells me.

They love seeking out new labels, nurturing them, sharing them with their customers.

The next morning we meet at 9am for Dries van Noten.

Clodagh stocks around 50 different labels, most exclusive to Cork. This Belgian designer is one of them.

Here again is a very fashion forward line.

There’s a minimum €20,000 spend here, and that’s the amount Clodagh and Mary-Claire can play with.

This is a much busier showroom, a slick operation. Buyers are everywhere, the models weaving between them.

They are assigned a seller and a table, laptop at the ready to secure the sale.

Sophie, today’s seller, walks them through the long rails and talks to them about the collection, the fabrics, the colour, the catwalk, the vision.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire repeat the process a second time alone, a third time again with Sophie.

There are little standing breaks for coffee — refreshments and lunch are provided by the designer.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire know to carry snacks everywhere. The buying process can be a long one; Dries could be an all-day event.

The price point is much higher here so, again, each piece has to be carefully thought out. Checked and checked again.

These A/W deliveries will land in store in July.

Watching them make their Samui edit on that March morning, I just know the Dries selection will be a show-stopper this Autumn.

I leave them to sign on the dotted line, wishing them success for the rest of their gruelling schedule as I head for Charles de Gaulle.

“People don’t realise what goes into this,” says Clodagh. And she’s right.

None of us can possibly grasp what it must have taken for one woman to put Cork on the fashion radar.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Joel A Doetsch Jul 2012
I arrived at the church at 5:30.
It took me a bit to find the place

  there were only a couple half-inflated baloons
  to mark the occasion.
  Those, and a small sign with an arrow, which led
  
      down some stairs and into a cafeteria.  An
      older lady greeted me.  She had a calm smile
      on her face.  The kind that comes with age, that
      says that you've been there, done that.

"Are you here to give?"

           Of course.  Why else would I be here?

  "Yeah"

She leads me to a table that has a number of tall dividers
set up on it to prevent people from peeking at someone
else's personal life.  Like I care if you've had syphilis in
the last year...well I might if it weren't all men in here.

I start filling out the form.
No, I don't have an STD
No, I haven't spent a time totaling more than 5 years in the UK before 1996
No, I don't use drugs
No, I haven't had a fever in the last 24 hours
No
  No
    No
  No
No

I do admit that I have been out of the country recently.

I hand my sheet to another lady.  "Where did you travel to?"

    "Japan, mostly Tokyo and a few places just outside"

    "Carol, could you check Japan on the list?"

She turns to me.  "I'm almost certain that's OK, but I have to check".  Another contented smile.

I sit down to be interviewed, we go over the questions once more.

    "Alright, I just need a small sample before we begin"

She takes the sample with a small contraption that
fits over my finger and jabs a small hole.  She runs
a quick test with the blood, letting a droplet fall
in a test tube filled with a blue liquid.  

The droplet sinks to the bottom.  She checks a box.

Apparently we're good to go.

  I'm given an empty blood bag and a number of rubber-banded vials
and pointed towards a circle of beds in the middle of the room.

I walk up and a portly gentleman takes my bag and asks me
which arm I'd like it in.

"Right"

I pause.  

I want to be able to check my phone while I'm doing this.

"Actually, let's do left"

He gives a grin.  "Here, hold both your arms out"

I comply.  I immediately notice that my right arm
has a very accessible vein.  We're doing the right arm.

Oh well.

   "Let's go with the Right"

I smile and sit on the plastic seat

He swabs my arm with that wonderful orange/yellow dye
and gives me a stress-ball to squeeze, to help the process go
quicker.  He comes back with the needle.

I look away as I feel the uncomfortable breach of my skin.
It's a small pinch followed by a dull sensation, my body
telling me "That isn't supposed to be there, get it out".

         I hate needles.

I feel a light sweat break and my breathing quickens
ever so slightly.  It's ok because the hard part is over
I squeeze the stress ball every few seconds and I chat
with the man.

His name is Nick, and he's been doing this for a few years.  
He used to work in a restaurant, and then he worked for a
flooring company.  
He remarks
    on the fake grouting that the floor in this room has.  

You  can tell that he loves his job, that he's satisfied with life.

He comments on the t-shirt that I will receive for doing this

(because who would do it if they didn't get a t-shirt, right?)

He says it looks like a blueberry snowcone and tells me a
rather entertaining story from his youth about blueberry
snowcones.  

I pipe in with my memories of the Tropical Sno  shop we had
when I was a kid.  

The bag is filled, the needle is removed.  A bandaid is placed,
and then my arm is wrapped with a smily-face bandage.

I give him a left-hand shake and go sit at the refreshments table

I drink a Pepsi.  I hate trail mix.

After about 10min or so, I get in my car and drive home.
I put on the blueberry snow-cone colored t-shirt and sit
down to read a book.  I think about the people working
at the blood drive, and I think about how happy they
seemed.

I wonder to myself what the difference is between someone
who gives blood and someone who gives time.  I have friends
that travel the world for the Peace Corps, living in third world
countries with no running water, no niceties.  I think of friends
who could sit in blistering heat, helping to build a house for
someone they don't even know.  I think of myself, who thinks
that donating money to the Leukemia foundation and donating
blood to the Red Cross is somehow equivalent to donating sweat
and an able body.

I should really do more
maybe then I'll earn that smile
that those folks wear so proudly
Julie Grenness Jan 2017
Yes, summer heat,
Not so neat,
Refreshments time,
Your pool or mine?
I wish I was at the sea,
But, cold lemonade for thee?
Ah, that's cold,
Lemonade's, like, old,
Like childhood memories,
it's the  refreshment for thee and me!
Feedback welcome.
I walked into the cocktail party
room and found three or four queers
talking together in queertalk.
I tried to be friendly but heard
myself talking to one in hiptalk.
"I'm glad to see you," he said, and
looked away. "Hmn," I mused. The room
was small and had a double-decker
bed in it, and cooking apparatus:
icebox, cabinet, toasters, stove;
the hosts seemed to live with room
enough only for cooking and sleeping.
My remark on this score was under-
stood but not appreciated. I was
offered refreshments, which I accepted.
I ate a sandwich of pure meat; an
enormous sandwich of human flesh,
I noticed, while I was chewing on it,
it also included a ***** *******.

More company came, including a
fluffy female who looked like
a princess. She glared at me and
said immediately: "I don't like you,"
turned her head away, and refused
to be introduced. I said, "What!"
in outrage. "Why you ****-faced fool!"
This got everybody's attention.
"Why you narcissistic *****! How
can you decide when you don't even
know me," I continued in a violent
and messianic voice, inspired at
last, dominating the whole room.
Elizabeth Pauzè Dec 2011
Minutes from my heart captor’s home
Tall grasses rustle in light wind
A small lake moves swiftly
Cicada’s have long conversations
With each other.
Conversations to last the long summer.
Entwined hands on warm cotton.
Basket of strawberries,
Sandwiches and refreshments.
Under the oak
With branches that sway loosely.
Overhead the morning dove’s sing,
Watching from above.
Warm rays of sunlight
Reflecting on the water.
It is enough to be here with him.
love, picnic, cute, romance
Mary Gay Kearns Jun 2018
Take me to the Rookery with its many paths
A tea house selling refreshments in pretty glass
Three striped lollies covered in chocolate beads
Biscuits and sandwich are all that we need.

The garden was set out, in brick oblong beds
Raised from the ground and divided by hedge
Many bush roses, of the older kind, smelling of
Cold cream and sweet camomile.

There was a terrace with steps leading down
To a sunken garden where the roses reclined
Hanging over arbours, pink , white and cream
And other perennials added to the scene.

This place a haven at the top of Streatham hill
Does anybody know it, it might be there still?
My daddy took me often on a Sunday afternoon
To ramble in the sunshine, and play at my will.


Love Mary x
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
Ezra Apr 2015
It's tough refreshing Hello Poetry ever few seconds and watching your view count stuck at 2.

But it's worth it;
We love writing.
1AM Frustrations.
Follow-for-Follow
Thou said I'd killed thee-then haunt me! The murdered do look for their murderers. Do find me, capture me, and seize me-until I am no more! Until all t'ose resentments are conquered; and th' due satisfaction is approached! How I am but ready for 'tis-for I now can see even t'ose roaring flames in thy *****-thy lifeless, inanimate *****-o, thy ghost! My poor-dreary love! But why doth thou hath just to release it right now? Thou wert no more than a vapour. A silence! An undreamed thought-yes, despite how I sobbed over thy ignorance, thy blandness towards me! I who was unjustly a piece of willful visage in thy mind-a fracture on th' soil thou mercilessly cracked-a wailing fragment, unheard by t'ose passers-by, unrecognised by th' wind! Terrified in t' steepness I could look around-but insignificant as I was, I hath no right to claim any attention-I was by birth a stone to t'ose young buds-leaning against their flower mothers so tightly, so scared and petrified were their looks-upon my gently-but alarming, steps! How I was a crust to warmth, unbinding and unyielding in every step, glowered at by t'ose thirsty stems-and their green abodes! How crushed I was by my own nature-and to my despondency, by my own fiery passion! Thou wert so distant to me-thou wert a prince from a faraway castle-unreachable to my loveless realm-I could only, in t'ose wakeful jests-dream of thee! T'ose solitary walks we took, as part of our serene perambulations, but in every retrospect, also part of my wildest dreams! At those silent, barbaric hours! And how I regretted when which wert admonished! How my waves of anger would be roused against me-and my lilac-scented pillow-I wanted, in those wraths-grasped my little gun-t'at very kind, and sometimes sweaty-lil' gun, with t'ose uncomprehending steel layers, and strangle th' neck of each of th' intruder: I was glowing with fury! Insidious and pernicious my soul was-but inevitable as to the love I nurtured. The love that would be adequate to me, and its loss hath left me in 'tis shameful, disgraceful, and unpardonable lifelong longing, and incarceration. How isolated I hath been now-for t'ose unimaginable y'rs-how unfair! Resentful ist my heart-grudge is th' only will it can beareth! O my lost love! My prince! My young, mirthful treasure! But I recall how solemn thou wert to me-and cold-tempered in thy redolent sophistication-thou neglected me! Thou killed the flame that had been lighting up my mindth-thou wert the one who fled from me! Aye! Thou wert the one who relented-who adversely tore t'ose flo'ers of my heart; thy quietness sent them into a hurried, mysterious death! Like an earthquake flitting apart th' moons at a blissful night-and enduing th' soil with bursts of cold horror-thou passivity in t'ose very moments-wert but tragic yet unmistakably obscure! O my soul that was ripped apart-just as thine! How dead we became-and still, areth now-how inanimate! Of bliss have our languid joys have been deprived, its remains doth we have no more-no, in our but only dying embers. And how their momentary torch mocks us! How bashful, and unlovable! O but my love is torn. Wholly torn. As how a pool of blood is th' produce of a sword of honour-that is how it is now-and was it swerved astray from its cherry, back then-its very own romance-which hath been so full of ****** youth, to taste agony! Agony as it was-but th' only reward to my suffered love, when I could feed on thy sight no more-thy movements were a nameless leave-threatened by the glaring autumn, and killed by th' ragged winter-my holy love was slaughtered! Now that thou hath known how dead I am-and my feelings are, how I am unseen by most of yon ingress and egress of t' others-t'ose vile, and reprehensive b'ings-with t'ose unthoughtful, and abhorred shortcomings-pallidness and sickly merriment in t'ose eyes-o, what falsehood, what falsehood! I despise th' sight o' 'em-daemons they are, hellish are their souls! **** me, my darling, slander me now, and bring me back into thy world! For th' world I belong to is th' one with thee, my dearest-I do not mind being a ghost, and am unafraid of its vagueness-I'm not! And together shall we traverse th' earth-enjoy but only our keenly desired brambles-t'ose ones we could not partake of, as healthy refreshments to our souls-in t'ose sickly, tumultuous lifetimes-t'ose brazen years! I am thus indebted to thee-t'ese guilt and pleasure, as both thy own'th remorse and treasure-I declare as thine, only thine! Be with me always, since we'll occupy ourselves together-and taking any form, we'll drive each other mad by our passioneth-and grasp all 'ose happiness we've always wanly desired! Love me back, o love me back, my prince! Only don't leave me alone in 'tis abyss, where I cannot find thee...'
Sa Sa Ra Oct 2012
ya well
it's fiery hell
not living well
right at home
buried bones
torture
de joured
some fine imaginings
of the most clever
scorns

right on
it serves me swells
all i need is here well
mountains move
uncovered veils
holy grails
deep wells
forever winds
love captions
hearts sing
fuller sails

what you see
the delusions
contusions
devastating confusions
freely came
and leave their
tracement as scape sets
behind and glorious
stories

are just as free
no longer welcomed
as the lie
as aberrance
malevolent bees
upsettings trees
have left already

with refreshments
and mints being roses
the windy holy
way of love
as breezes
readily come
as kisses
to hearts toes and noses

cheaper illusions
have other preferences here
then just as free
readily go
David Barr Apr 2015
A thick veil is sensually wrapped across the face of those presumed intellectual and spiritual insights, and heightens the awareness of your sublime intrigue.
It truly is a paradise lost, where ancient illusions continue to tickle my raging nostalgia with eager anticipations of forbidden refreshments.
Yet, I am not unaware of the concealment of those predictable and ludicrously mystical allurements, which you so proudly pronounce across those who are deemed to be inferior to your supremacy.
How trivial are your so-called strategies, as you are always captured after an effortless and psychological pursuit.
Therefore, how adept are you, thinkest thou, in your futile system of narcissism?
Vanity is a deplorable emptiness which scoffs at those who are deemed to be subservient to the lofty heights of your utmost divorce from reality.
The definition of a delusion is a fixed and false belief.
We have now constructed a picture where the application of this psychological veil exposes your profound ugliness.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2015
for lovejunkie...amidst this parliament of words,
I am selfish,
but not always blind...

~~~


from our bed, I see witnesses,
a small stand of trees,
no parliament these,
but a scattering of
oak~men and birch~women,
who shade and defend us,
a few good marines on duty,
standing between us and
our beloved but ever
dangerous tempestuous changeling child,
the one we call,
with well-mixed trepidation and affection,
the sea change

this small stand,
throws all caution to the wind,
remnants of a once great army
upon my forested isle,
these proud stragglers,
refuse to desert their
human worshipers and century renters,
giving them aid and comfort,
from the sum of
sun, wind and the
ever encroachment of waves,
who would and
will
own all
eventually

they look out,
this stand of trees,
facing away,
lookouts for us,
watchmen of the day
and still on duty,
even when the day's nethered nemesis
returns

this stand of trees,
they look back as well, upon me,
even as I catalogue them,
distinct even now in the tomb of midnight dark,
facing me simultaneously,
self-appointed witnesses
to a man's thinking
of his:

binding and unbundling,
the tumult of the fusion
of the pros and cons
at the intersection of
love and memories

where ancient needs and memories
clash to rehash past victories and Waterloo,
all the while, the cries of the
perpetuity of future desires,
incessant demanders of
fresh refreshments of love,
shout out
"more, more,"
ever so softly

perhaps this is why they stay...

voyeurs,
to be amused by selfish humans,
denying their very built-in natures,
addicted to the elusiveness of romance,
wearing pretend masques of self-blindness
to the devil-may-care,
unpredictable seasonality of loves
comings and goings

and yet how clear recalled the
unconcealed passion and gleeful gratitude
when we tuck a beloved's locks from
their eyes, to the safety of the
crook of their ears

the stand of trees,
strong tall, plain big,
compare and contrast
to the infinite smallness
of merest seconds
of loving tenderness
etched upon the firmament permanency
of the
mind's eyes

perhaps this is why they stay...

perhaps this is why we cannot renounce
our never wreaking addiction to love
and its cocktail of
torments and fulfillment

trees - perhaps,
they better understand our frailty
than we do,
do trees love humans so much in return
for all this love we give them?

we chop in hurry fury down,
only to repent and replant tenderest of seedlings,
like human love,
we chop in hurry fury down,
only to repent and replant tenderest of seedlings

for are we not all selfish, all blind,
all needy, all defenseless,
all cautiously defensive,
so much
and then again,
not so much
not so blind or selfish,
that we cannot use our word tools
to grant ourselves,
we aching creatures,
grant ourselves
a few small chances,
to pry open both
recollections of our heart's delight
and the seeds
for its
renewal

perhaps we are all witnesses?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"but oh if fate threw caution to the wind
giving
this parliament of trees their hearts' delight
how wondrous to these eyes would those boughs be
smashing through that firmament, that light."

"and oh if fate threw caution to the wind
granting
this aching creature just one wish,
i'd be content with much less than your kiss...

for i am selfish, but not always blind;"

**from "wish I may wish I might"
by lovejunkie
You can see my stand,
beside my name,
protecting and surrounding
our little cottage

read lovejunkie on HP!
Why?
for he is among the very few who craft and hew their words
with care and great love...and who writes of the
elements
of love in beauteous ways I can only vague recall, and never hope to ever replicate..

amidst this parliament of words,
I am selfish,
but not always blind...

June 21 2015
2:00am
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
A standard man
This man we must remembered how would we have survived at the pool without his soda pops just a short walk to Mr. Johnson’s
Standard gas station always greeted by his quiet nature always seemed to be happily beaming his uniform his farm service shirt
And pants right inside the door there it set the big red coke machine setting so perfectly huge bulging with all kinds of refreshments
Especially Grapett Radar might have had Nehigh but we had grapett the man matched his manly station with easy conversation
And an easier smile his station lasted the longest after Beno and Rock Bennet’s went out and were torn down on the corner of Hickory
And Jackson and Hilyards going out of town on twenty nine east just past the Bear creek road maybe it was even his decision to tear it
Down but what a shame all that took its place was a bare spot we already lost the above ground swimming pool that was the
Unchallenged pearl of central Illinois now we have a ground level pool and some sheds to replace something that was so grand
This like Mr. Johnson he can’t be replaced nor would we want to they should name that spot his corner we can’t just keep losing
Great friends like him and Jack Jeffrey’s and others and seemingly go oh well there goes another one forty nine years that’s a lot of
Soda pop and more happy kids that was touched by this special man’s life he proved and improved hospitality over the years
With simple application to the golden rules smile a handshake service that was endearing Andy Griffith became famous for portraying
Such a man true to a fault agreeable principled a man that was a credit all those years to his community I will always recall him with
Fondness I was gone from here for thirty years but I purposely looked him up and was so happy to find him doing well the station
just a memorable mile stone in Pana’s history I know those long ago summers would have had a large hole if he hadn’t been at his
Post he will be sadly missed and never forgotten he had charm as long as a long warm summer day walk in kick back life even as a kid
Would slow and fall into gentle rhythms a cold bottle in your hand went well with soft conversation through the windows would float
The sounds of kids going full blast at the pool eventually they would stream in through the door take time making memories like so
Many of us have of this special place and this man just a gas station but so very much more an indelible mark added to your soul
While summer slipped by a marker shared by so many young and old just four walls where happy moments were made and will always
Endure thanks Mr. Johnson
Harmony Chezum Jun 2012
Breathe in, breathe out... you can do this.
The room spins...the lights glare out a little to brightly
A multitude of strangers, dressed to the nines
glitter, adding to my discomfort.

Drinks are flowing, laughter pervades the stuffy air.
You can do it. Just breathe. Remember this is not for you.
Not for me.... then why am I here?

But I know that answer, I am here for him. I have always been here for him.
It’s just his family, I tell myself again. His HUGE family.
Its Christmas, the lights sparkle off the tree.... and I feel lost.
Music blares, a happy facade. The party is in full swing.

I cannot find him, no one talks to me. Should I ask?
I see his parents, His mom is a whirl of activity....
talking, setting out refreshments. She is in her zone.
His step dad, stands drink in hand comfortable, letting his wife lead.

Someone’s uncle steps on my dress... and I barely catch myself.
Air, that is what I need. Out on the veranda, The city glows in front of me.
I lean out on the rail, hoping for a glimpse of stars,
However, the sky is devoid of light. Unlike the rest of the world.
I turn to head back in....

Someone grabs me roughly from behind
I feel the bite of metal against my temple
I freeze, unsure how to handle this.
A pungent odor burns my nostrils as he commands me not to scream.
I am pushed inside, I read the reactions of the strangers
Fear and relief.

Fear, there is a gun, a blunt piece of metal, a weapon, being used for harm.
Relief, it is not them, nor their families in direct danger.
The gunner, commands silence, and to be taken to the head of the house.
I finally find him, he is frozen, a look of shock on his face.
It changes to one of anger, and frustration.

The mother glides forward.... the step dad trails warily behind.
A brief exchange, this is the wrong house....The wrong address.
They want his dad.
The gunner turns his weapon
"Make the call, or it will be him next."

I am drowning in red, how dare he?
I turn my eyes, I am prepared.... he will never again threaten this family.
No matter what the cost.

Eternity passes, I have become a statue,
oblivious to the world, or rather my world has become the trigger finger.
Then slowly I see him relax... things are going his way.

I strike, my body slumps as if in a fainting spell...
My hand flies, crashing into his gun hand
the grip loosens.. the gun sails in the air....
My foot comes out. And the man is down.
I kick the gun as far form me as I can.

I wrench out my knife, pressing it into the flesh of his stomach.
Someone’s aunt dials the police.
I collapse shaking.

And suddenly I am falling, I flail arms extended.
My eyes open, I am lying in bed.
I sigh, a nervous laugh bubbles out of me.

A dream, just a dream.

As I stand the knife falls out of my hand... it is covered in blood.
And my party dress lies rumpled on the floor.
I pick up the dress and hang it away.

And toss the knife in the trash on the way to the bathroom
After all dreams shouldn't rule your reality.
August 8, 2008 at 6:15pm is when this poem was written.
I remember standing out on my front porch at exactly noon
I was wearing my pajamas and my hair was down,
Unwashed and wavy,
Framing my face and wrapping itself around my neck at the slightest hint of wind
I remember being nervous--
No, I take it back,
I wasn't nervous
I was filled with dread
I was barefoot out on the deck, holding a single plastic bag filled with your belongings
I gripped it loosely
Hoping that the breeze would blow it away
Hoping that the breeze would ******* away
In my other hand, I was holding a tall, full glass of tap water
And there was an apple in the chair beside me
Just in case you were hungry

I remember watching you make your way up my street
Your jeans were ***** and your long, dark brown hair was plastered to your face with sweat
Your cheeks were red
And your knuckles were white from clenching and unclenching your fist the whole way here
It must have been ninety degrees
But your flannel was neatly buttoned up all the way to your throat

I remember hearing your laboring breaths as you mounted the driveway
I remember reminiscing as I listened,
Thinking of all the times when your breath was hot and heavy on my neck
And how I could taste the sweat of your skin

I remember how your shoes beat a determined rhythm into the wooden boards of the stairs
I remember how far you stood from me
How I wiped at my eyes with the sleeves of my sweatshirt
And I could see your chest rising and falling through your flannel

I remember offering you the glass of water
And how you accepted it graciously
I remember telling you that I wished I could have provided refreshments the last time you were forced to make the inclined journey to my house with nothing but your two feet clad in cheap sneakers
I remember that wincing smile you gave me just before you put the rim of the glass to your lips
I remember watching you as you drained the cup,
Your head tilted back and your eyes closed

I remember you asking me if I was okay
And how that brought more tears to the surface than I had originally planned on showing you
I remember covering my mouth with one hand and shaking my head
I remember how you stepped forward and took me into your arms
I remember dropping the plastic bag and desperately wrapping my own arms around you
I remember pressing my body to yours as close and as tight as I could
For as long as I could
I remember feeling your heart beating against mine
And burying my face in the refuge of your neck,
Smelling your skin

I remember how you pulled away from me
And how I stared into your eyes,
Silently begging you to give me another chance
Silently telling you that I had changed
Because I had
But not in a way that would make you want to take me back
I remember watching you pick up the bag
And make fists with your hands as tears streamed down my face
I remember telling myself not to wipe them away
I remember wanting you to see them so you would always remember how much pain you had inflicted on my heart that day

I remember watching you give me a small, resigned smile
And watching you turn away towards the steps
I remember the word "wait" building up in my chest and clawing it's way up my throat and breaking out from between my lips
I remember how loud my voice sounded in the solemn silence
And how you flinched before turning back around to face me

I remember asking you for one last kiss
And how I noticed that your eyes were watering and your hands were shaking
I remember you coming back up those steps and taking my face in your hands and kissing me with all of the desperation I had been storing inside for the previous three days
I remember kissing you back, hard
And how you broke it off suddenly when I started to trace your lips with the tip of my tongue
I remember telling you that I was sorry
Even though the only thing I regretted was the fact that you had pulled away

I remember you telling me that it was okay and watching you wipe the last traces of my love off of your mouth with the back of your hand
I remember feeling as though someone had lit a match and had forced me to swallow it
I remember you reaching out and brushing the hair out of my eyes and tucking it behind my ears
I remember hearing you tell me goodbye even though it felt like there was so much left to say
I remember you walking back down the street and out of my life
Terry Collett Apr 2013
One Sunday
in the 1950s
your old man
took you

to London’s West End
it was summer
and the evenings light
and the streets busy

and crowded
and he took you
to amusement arcades
and cafes for refreshments

and ice creams
and you saw the actress
Billie Whitelaw pass
along a street

with two guys in suits
and she gazed at you
and you knew
who she was

and she looked at you
knowing you
had recognised her
you a young kid

in short trousers
and Brylcreemed hair
and she kind of blushed
and looked away

and you followed her
as she went off
behind you
and your old man said

who was that?
you told him
and he gazed back
probably taking in

her ***
her sway
but you thought
of the Monroe lady

in the film you saw
with those lovely eyes
and red lips
and later

next day
at school
when you told Helen
who you’d seen

her eyes lit up
behind her
thick lens spectacles
and she looked

kind of jealous
of some other
female attention
you’d seen

so you said
of course I paid her
no mind I only
thought of you

wishing you
were there
with my old man
and me

licking ice creams
and boozing back
the coke or lemonade
and she smiled

and her eyes
fell on you
with her jealous demon
laid.
Walking the surrealistic byways of creative bliss
Through Cat hair grass within the fingerling forest ...
Good morning to Uncle White Pine , to my Cousin Brown Thrasher reading my mind ! To red rosy clay and chipper Mr. Soapstone , to Mayflies granting wishes and Chattahoochee crawfishes ...
The Gulf breeze telegraphing the wonderment of forest song with love
for all .. To the playful King Sun hiding behind the cloud bank to the
old gray Opossum hanging upside down , bluffing sleep on a lonesome Cherry branch .. Warm wishes fill my dreams while picking tea cups from a 'Story Tree' , each with a serving dish , hot refreshments and lively conversation with a well read ****** , a witty Fox , a Woodpecker poet and a guitar picking Catfish ..
Copyright March 18 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Marieta Maglas Aug 2013
'Beautiful stalagmites and stalactites!' 'Clayton, this cave has breath!'

Do you feel the air?' 'The air movements are strong and prevent our death,

But they can extinguish the lamp.' To lead the way, he unrolled many feet

Of rope to mark their exit in case of being disoriented in this huge 'suite'.


They named the other one Queen's Chamber, because it was small.

It was a dim room, twenty feet high having a nice circular white wall.

After an amount of stooping, crawling, scooting, and squirming, while

Passing through damp trail ways over pits and breakdowns of the aisle,


Through tight keyholes, they reached a lake of water. Then, they have

Transported wood, to build a boat, and to explore the other part of the cave.

On the other side of the lake, they saw a room looking like a stone quarry.

After that, they recognized the finished stone house in its greatest glory.


They saw that the refreshments were served, consisting of tea, coffee,

And dressing, but the people weren't inside, yet. Surah took a toffee

And two of the numerous huge lamps hanging on the right cave's wall.

They heard a strong music and many loud voices coming from the ball.


' Imagine this, Clayton; we were bending, crawling to pass through

So many tight spaces in order to find that this cave is my sister's clue.'

'It's one single cave having two parts, which are separated by the lake.'

'Let's go home!' said Surah maliciously smiling. 'Anne is a real snake!'

(Of course, Queen Anne was not a snake. The old castle was built around the cave and those two chambers were used to protect the kings and the queens all over the time. The legend of the beast was used to protect the other entrance in the cave during many wars taking place along the time. )
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

They were floating back until they reached the shore of the other side.
She dropped two lamps in the water, and left the boat being in a hurry to hide.
They blocked the entrance of the passage, and their lamp started to tingle.
Clayton bumped a paddle against the wall to pass, but it sounded like a jingle.

They opened the metal door, and then they climbed up the tower‘s stairs
To get into the secret room. There, they saw two beds, a table, and three chairs.
On the table, there was a golden little spindle being full of golden thread.
'They use this gilded altar to pray for Jezebel', said Surah turning her head.

To be continued......(tomorrow)
Sam Temple Jun 2016
Envisioning revisions
Singing broken rhythms
Carrying misgivings about miscarriages
Disparaging pigeons
White speckled calling cards hardly
Invoke the Bard of North Korea
I be your favorite poetic stylist
Freely beguiling smiling at the Wailing Wall
Rotary phone call shopping mall sneakers
Tweekers in Arby’s bathroom break
Picking faces like lottery scratchers
Meekly begging change with blank expressions
Did I mention we offer refreshments?
Sister Yellow Swallowtail , please take me for an afternoon ride
To the tips of Douglas Firs with an Eagles view of rolling hillsides , o'er stained glass , picturesque Hill Country skies
For an afternoon twirl atop the tallest Oak , a flight within the Dogwoods by natural , splendid rote
A stop at Port Lake for refreshments and quiet reflection
A zig-zag trip home full of laughter and amazement* ..
Copyright August 18 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Ceryn Mar 2014
An afternoon warm and dull and bland
Not so special for a nobody's girl in town
Hitting the roads on summer days
Hoping for a little fuss in her insipid space.

Looking for refreshments as the sun goes high
The girl decides to visit a kiosk nearby
Asking for a tumbler of cold cafe latte shake
Handing over some bucks to a lady so irate.

From afar, there goes a fine young man
Oh what a lovely bonus in sight!
Stopping by a lengthy row of costly cars
Not one from them seems to match his aplomb.

The day's warmth, no remedy, to his cool strides
Getting near, she looks away to dodge his hazel eyes
As he walks by, she looks up only to find him there
Gazing at her, but looks away when she pays a stare.

He heads off the streets, with no certain limit
To where his shoes might lead him to
While on a cafe nearby, the girl takes a mango pie
Just to get by the summer's funny tricks.

He enters the zone where the girl takes a sip
Of her heavenly cafe latte shake
Just a round table away, he takes a glance again
And the girl wonders just why he's there.

She checks her phone, holds her glass
Not even thinking 'bout the seconds that pass
Taking a sip, she tries to steal a glance
But in a jiffy, he's nowhere to be found.

Feeling disappointed, she rises from her seat
Leaving a tip on the beige table mats
But before she goes on, she notices a small note
On that young man's cluttered table top.

She reads a line from a song and it turns her on
But taking in the message doesn't feel right
It reads: *"Oh it's sad to belong to someone else,
When the right one comes along..."
Left Foot Poet Apr 2014
life has plenty of bad dreams
realized and foretellable,
predictable, inevitable,
typos that go uncorrected
or cannot be corrected

but from time to time
magic appears in an email header,
mistakes intended
for what would life be without
the occasional,
surprise from him,
a Sirprise apprised....

and her, she, her,
knowing his mind
occupado by life's laundry,
sends him a notice of a
Herprize.
-----------------------------
To:            Him
From­ :      Her
Subject:    Herprize
Please hold the evening of April 25th on your calendar
for a Herprize event.  Tie and jacket will be required (too bad!).

To:            Her
From:       Him
Subject:    Sirprise

Tie and Jacket, no can do, as all my ties were accidentally
thrown out by some crotchety person on New Years Day, 2014.

Please mark the whole day, May 12th,
as busy on your calendar for a Sirprise event.
Casual formal (casual formal?) dress attire, please.
Popcorn and other refreshments will be provided.
Socks and **** stockings optional
but recommended for the evening portion of day's events

-----------------------------
the waitress inquires,
"theater tonight?"
She replies,
"oh yes, indeed,
an 8:00 curtain,"

"great, what show are you seeing?"
"that I cannot say, yet,
for it is a Herprize evening!"

the waitress says nothing,
but her smile indicates understood,
and they stupid grin at each other,
at their crazy ways and that the world
appreciates their typographical lives









.
He arose in a dream to a door to nowhere
As the light grew and clawed down his face
tender refreshments

The sun became clear in his eye
Through the shades drawn tight
Lumbering across the green velvet carpet
to fetch the daily heroes that pile up
like bile under the moss
covered mailbox


He arose from a dream on a platter so starving
for the thought of hysterical madness
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Night drive home
no cars behind or ahead
the day had been satisfying
victories, compromises, achievements

half hour to home
bubble of warm air and light
moving toward it in my metal bubble
toward my wife and children

watch for patches of ice
casually, not nervously
maintaining velocity and analyzing
Jim Hall's and Paul Desmond's Bewitched

which way should I go
back west past industrialized cities
to spruce-fir forests
then what? the same

need for man-made implements,
refreshments, even names
they gave the rocks and trees.
Not one thing or thought uniquely mine.

Whether I am a visitor to my life
or the actual owner, inside
the bubble of air, water, blood
that must not now slide off the road

into time.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
julius May 2021
i love her like group therapy loves refreshments.
but sometimes i hate the way things unravel.
and the way we re-tangle after cutting colored strings.
is this really love if all my bones will break?

she said she feels strange sitting next to me,
as she traced the lines of my wrist tattoos and smiled.
it's hard to know where people are in all this air,
they could be nowhere, or dissolved within my skin.

i love her the way flowers bloom between my fingers.
the way i cry after the game and it's the ending screen.
i can't help pleading when i'm so used to the feeling.
is this really love if i come out covered in scars?
working on this for a while. not exactly what i wanted
Derrick Cox Sep 2020
Everyone! Everybody!
If you all could shut the hell up
For a just one sec,
I like to propose a toast.

I’m the designated driver to my friends
when they can’t make it home
I’m everybody’s therapist
really good to talk to
without questions or judgement.
I’m the priest you confess your sins to
because you’re desperate for forgiveness
or afraid to have a one-on-one with God.
I’m often asked how I’m so lit
without any refreshments.

I’m clear as *****.
I don’t need anything extra
to tell the truth
to have a good time
to say yes or no.

I can dance my *** off
and remember last night was dope.
The morning after
I grab my bottle of *****
drinking my issues, blessings, and my fun.
Sweet as honey going down.

So, if you think I’m lame
*******.
I’m actually quite the energy ball.
If you think I’m better than you
get your head out of your ***.
At least I don’t act like a fool.
You think I can’t hang with you.
No. Don’t get the **** twisted;
You can’t hang with me
if shrinking your liver
And burning your lungs like paper
is the only thing on your agenda.

I know you have cancer.
I have cancer too.
We all have it.
And it *****.

So we take our meds
to treat the symptoms;
to feel better
to feel like we’re one step closer
to curing the illness
To feel like everything is going to be alright
even when it’s not gonna be.

The difference between you and me
is that I take the shots
the bartender AKA life
pours into my glass.
I drink
and it’s sweet as honey going down.
Clear as *****.

But please! By all means,
drink what’s in your glass.
Light that **** up.
Just leave me
and my tall bottle of ***** alone.

Because I am about to get
shaken and stirred
until I fall the **** out.

Cheers!
jeffrey robin Aug 2011
AND THE DEAD
let them bury "him"
who committed SUICIDE
so many long decades ago
.............
the truth too died
but
i
.....chose to be
free
..........
AND THE DEAD
over the full country
the dead country
...........
spreading war and death
.......
and the real?
the real?
where are they?
........
EVERYWHERE
not hiding
but still
the silences suffocating
...........
AND THE DEAD
bury "him"
over and over
serving refreshments
come
the potato salad is great
as always
Terry Collett Sep 2014
We were allowed out
of the minibus
for an hour
to explore the view
and have some refreshments
or explore where we will

don’t get lost
said the driver and guide

does he think
we're complete idiots?
Dalya said

I’ve been to Glasgow
and never got lost
and I had my brother
with me at the time
and he couldn’t find
his way to his backside
without someone
guiding his hands

let's have a look round Neustadt
I said

she walked beside me
leaving the mini bus behind
she was wearing
a red patterned top
and her blue jeans
that clung to her thighs
like a drowning sailor

not much to look at
she said
I’ve seen more to see
inside my brother’s ear

are you always this happy?
I asked

what do you mean
I am happy
just saying
what I thought

we came to a bridge
and a river
and stood there
looking at the boats
and water

O you should have seen
the Yank girl last night
O what a sight it was
she getting ready for bed
in the cramped tent
and I was laying there
already in my night clothes
trying not to look
and she was wearing
these tight *******  
that looked like
some kind
of torture contraption
red they were
with words on

what did the words say?
I asked

I don't know
it was in German
could have said
way in for all I know

anyway why would you
be interested
in what it says
on a girl's *******?

might be instructions
to a treasure trove

Dalya didn't smile
but took out a cigarette
and lit up

I lit up a smoke too
and watched boats
on the water

she's not your type
Dalya said

what's my type?

you're out of her league
she'd not let you
smell her perfume
let alone get inside
her ***** underwear

I like you
I'm not interested in
other girls
I said

just a well
she'd not be for you
she inhaled deeply
and stared ahead
at the water

anyway
when you are with me
in my tent
and she's out
can you not make
so much noise
I’m sure the Polish woman
suspects

what makes you
think that?

her look
the way she studies me
when we're together
that kind of
what a naughty girl
you are gaze

I smiled

no laughing matter
just because
her daughter's nun like
doesn't mean
I have to be

we walked on
across the bridge
some fine buildings
to our left

Dalya certainly wasn’t
nun like
the other night
I thought
remembering her
opened up
like a conquered city
waiting for the pillaging
and ***
her hands gripped tight
around my neck

the warmth
the perfume
the soft skin
she like some
harbour pilot
guiding me in.
A BOY AND GIRL IN NEUSTADT IN 1974.
Red Robregado Nov 2021
Once upon a time, a traveler was carrying seven big bags of pain. He went to a sanctuary, and people welcomed him—one waved at him, another smiled at him. But nobody offered to help him with his bags.

The people in the sanctuary were carrying their little bags, too. Besides, they were busy studying and talking about accommodation and companionship, so they couldn’t afford to waste time.

The traveler has traveled for seven years with no rest. He was tired and thirsty.

So despite being a stranger in the place, he immediately asked, “Can somebody give me a drink? I’m so thirsty!”

The people looked at him but ignored his inquiry. Nobody offered him a drink because they were busy identifying the ingredients for the perfect refreshment for travelers. They couldn’t afford to waste time.

While being exhausted and thirsty still, the traveler kept on walking around the sanctuary until he finally saw a pantry. He was happy and excited to taste food since he fed on some junk for years.

So with all his remaining strength, he grabbed the menu and asked for roasted beef, but the caterers offered him a roasted chicken instead.

The traveler didn’t take it. The people thought he was being prideful and demanding; little did they know that he's allergic to chicken meat.

The traveler was mindful of people’s business and busyness, so he thought it would be best for him to just keep the pain, hunger, and thirst to himself. And so he did.

Several days after, the people in the sanctuary remembered the traveler. They were finally done with their conversations; the refreshments and roasted beef were already available, too, so they looked for him.

They looked and looked, but the traveler was no more.
Larry Potter Jan 2018
Just slowly hold your breath,
Then fake your own death,
By using a foolproof plot,
Tricking everyone on the spot,
Confusing the supernatural,
With a boring script for your funeral,
Filled with synthetic flowers,
And a pretentious bunch of mourners,
Who can reenact the melodrama,
Without breaking their persona.
You can scribble your own prayers,
And rearrange all the chairs,
As if they're watching a movie flop,
Or a bomb about to be dropped,
Their faces painting either sorrow,
Or the joy of a free desperado
You can lace the refreshments,
With a dash of resentment,
And hire a clown to spill ***** jokes,
To make them laugh until they choke.
Enjoy the show of your grand design,
As both friends and enemies fall in line.

— The End —