"reporter" poems
i don't/can't/won't/shouldn't/ write this essay
instead i'll write poems
in procrastination
about girls that don't exist
guys that don't know i exist
unicorns i wish i was riding
holden caulfield
my brother
death and general grayness
procrastination poems
are better than my essay
writing essays are 95% procrastination and maybe 2% work
3% denial
this poem is already longer than my essay is
should i get to work or
read another article on my favourite band
or hover over the email tab
someone talk to me? no?
but music!
no good music is this a sign
minutes tick by drawing closer to midnight
my fingers have yet to fly over keys
like a reporter's with the Next Big Thing
i suppose i will sleep
and let the essay write itself
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
Musings of a Police Reporter in the Identification Bureau
You have loved forty women, but you have only one thumb.
You have led a hundred secret lives, but you mark only
one thumb.
You go round the world and fight in a thousand wars and
win all the world's honors, but when you come back
home the print of the one thumb your mother gave
you is the same print of thumb you had in the old
home when your mother kissed you and said good-by.
Out of the whirling womb of time come millions of men
and their feet crowd the earth and they cut one anothers'
throats for room to stand and among them all
are not two thumbs alike.
Somewhere is a Great God of Thumbs who can tell the
inside story of this.
12k
‘…. and now, here’s Rick with the latest Market news…’
‘Val, trading was very brisk today, with a number of influences
that set the market off to some defined trends and statements.
Of course, the Human Virtue Exchange always seems to rely
on the volatility that resides ‘between the ears’ as noted
by the veteran brokers on the floor, but the sharp ranges
of prices offered versus profit taking has set the bar
very high in the relative value of Basic Human Virtue.
Now to the numbers: Courage [WHOME], Patience [PP],
and former market darling Perseverance [GULP],
all varied widely today on news from Washington that
their value was doomed to fall in the light of the expected growth
of Persistence [IAM] which history has shown to be a marked drag
on just about everything. Outside of the self –efficacy bazaar,
old standbys Ambition [HVY], Curiosity [WDF], Industry [HAHA] and Temperance [BFD],
continued their free fall into uncharted areas of cost and return.
Some analysts feel these virtues could be a real bargain in the future
despite their history of poor performance. Could a comeback not seen
since collapse of the Protestant Hypocrisy Era be in the works? We’ll see as the lack of movement in the Kindness-Generosity-Forgiveness-Compassion Index [FARAWAY]
leads many to believe that the end of Politeness [UPYRS],
Un-pretentiousness [ME-ME], Self Control [NWAY] and Sportsmanship [LONGONE], may lead to a complete miss-understanding between casual market players and devotees to the cause. The ratios cannot lie.
But without a doubt, today’s big winner was Self Respect [YUP]
which jumped and amazing 40 points before active trading ceased at the bell. So people feel real good about themselves for reasons
that cannot be explained by the Ego File Indicator alone; this causes this reporter to predict that Naval Gazing [MOM] remains a ‘Hot to Trot’ stock fund
and the Vanity market is always a good bet.
Now, here’s Carl with
today’s Human Emotion Exchange report……’
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
everyone wants to be an architect. everyone wants to be a doctor. everyone wants to be a celebrity. everyone wants to be an author. everyone wants to be a scientist. everyone wants to be a rock star. everyone wants to be a professional football player. everyone wants to be a photographer. everyone wants to be an artist. everyone wants to be a news reporter. everyone wants to be a lawyer. everyone wants to be the president. everyone wants to be a professor. everyone wants to be a pilot. everyone wants to be an actor. everyone wants to be a therapist. everyone wants to be a business owner. everyone wants to be an interior designer. everyone wants to be a pastor. everyone wants to be a magician. everyone wants to be a dentist. everyone wants to be a chef. everyone wants to be a film director. everyone wants to be something. everyone wants to be someone.
nobody wants to be something they don’t want to be. but nobody wants to do anything to be who they want to be. you have a goal. you have a dream. who said dreams can’t be achieved? nobody. one of the greatest and most powerful feelings is accomplishing something you once thought to be impossible. maybe your goal is in fact impossible. maybe there’s no way in hell that you can be who you want to be. maybe it is a dream. maybe it is a fantasy. so what do you do? you do the impossible.
make it rain.
there’s somebody that you love. somebody who’s smile makes your day. somebody who makes your week when you make them laugh. somebody you wish you knew better. somebody who could fix every bad feeling you have in your life just by you being with them. and they don’t recognize what you would do for them. how much you would love and take care of them. how do you make somebody notice something that they can’t see? you do the impossible.
make it rain.
there’s a way to do everything. you just have to find it. the answer won’t just appear over night. you have to fall into your fantasy. walk into your dream, rip it out of your head, and make it the reality. and never give up. nothing is impossible.
everyone wants to be loved. everyone wants to be remembered. everyone wants to graduate. everyone wants to talk to god. everyone wants to climb a mountain. everyone wants to get their driver’s license. everyone wants to get a job. everyone wants to get her attention. everyone wants to be his girl. everyone wants to learn an instrument. everyone wants to make more money. everyone wants to never stop smiling. everyone wants to win the lottery. everyone wants to score the winning point. everyone wants to be a superhero. everyone wants to grow taller. everyone wants to be able to walk again. everyone wants to be able to see. everyone wants to be able to hear. everyone wants to have a home. everyone wants to bring him back to life. everyone wants to have a shirt to wear in the winter. everyone wants a family for christmas. everyone wants a best friend. everyone wants one friend. everyone wants to take the gun from his head. everyone wants to save the world. everyone wants to feed them all. everyone wants to build them a home. everyone wants to get rid of her cancer. everyone wants to bring their soldier home. everyone wants to stop racism. everyone wants to be gay without being judged. everyone wants to feel safe. everyone wants to turn their life around. everyone wants to…
make it rain, mr. architect.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
"There are animals in the road"
the traffic reporter said
"We're not told what they are
find another route instead"
And so I got to wondering
though I wasn't going that way
what the mystery beasties were
that were on the road that day
Were they a herd of wildebeeste
who took a wrong turn on the veldt
or perhaps a wayward mule train
delivering some sacks of spelt
Maybe a team of trainee reindeer
diverted from the North Pole
or a bunch of llamas from Peru
that fell through a wormhole
Or bears, or wolves, or lions
could be zebras or kangaroos
surely not beached aquatic mammals
or elephants trumpeting the blues
Exotic beasts seemed unlikely though
it was more likely cattle or sheep
though it could have been migrating badgers
moving goalposts somewhere safe to keep
Cynthia Pauline Jones, 27/10/13
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
~~¤~~
I heard your cry Oh, Paris
From the hundred of bodies that fell on your ground
I heard the sobbing of your neighbors
I saw the tears of all the eyes watching you
You were trying to move on from the tragic Charlie Hebdo Attack
But here you are again-
Broken and bruised
And my heart is breaking
My tears are rolling down my face
As I utter a thousand why's
But...
I still hear the weeping from afar-
Palestine and Syria are still mourning for the death of their children,
India Heat Wave that killed more than two thousand,
The hundreds of migrants killed in sinking ship in the Mediterranean Sea,
The TransAsia Airways Flight 235 Crash in Taiwan,
The Germanwings Flight 9525 Crash into the French Alps,
The Earthquake in Nepal,
The Amtrak Train Derail in Philadelphia,
The Warehouse Explosion that killed a hundred in China,
The Reporter and Cameraman Killed live on TV,
The Refugee crisis,
The Hajj Pilgrimage Tragedy near Mecca
The series of calamities and tragedies in different parts of my dear Philippines-
The families of thousands of dead people are still in agony
These tragedies around the world
Gave those places the deepest cuts upon the bellies of the mothers
Wounds that connect to the hearts
And create scars that might be fresh until now
The world is in pain
And here are my tears again
I am praying for the world
Can we listen to those cries and open our hearts?
Let us pray for you, dear Paris
And for other places wich are still in misery
Let us pray for the world.
~~¤~~
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
there are invisible children hidden behind
miles of above ground swimming pools
and wooden swing sets. they've seen
life sized doll parts scattered across
their front lawns and were taught how to
take their first steps
as though they were being sent off to war;
knees straight. head tall.
don't flinch at the sight of blood.
a few weeks ago i turned on the local news,
the upcoming story took place in the west side of Detroit.
a photo of a young, colored girl wearing
butterfly shaped barrettes in her hair comes up,
the headline at the bottom of the screen reads,
3-YEAR OLD SHOT IN FRONT YARD
the news reporter talks about the situation
as though she's being forced to discuss
the weather in the middle of a heatwave;
it's the same. **** thing. every. day.
i'll tell you what no one pictures
when they hear about another ******
in the same city that might as well
*start building their front doors
like cemetery gates.*
picture the mother
trying to sell a cradle so she has the money
to buy a 3-foot long casket. picture her
walking into her daughter's room
to tuck her into bed & remembering that she's
got nothing left but empty hands.
dear america,
tell me why some of us were born
with targets sewn into our backs, tell me if it
disturbs you at all that there are children
who want to chip off their skin, that want to be painted
a new color because they want to see if the light
will hit them in a different way,
& make them less invisible.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
Last night I had a writer's dream
I was challenged to create a scene
Fill it full of poetry
Release it let it flow from me
Imagination a **** to turn
Up the drama till it burns
Storytelling a handy tool
A creator doesn't follow rules
Allow me entrance to your mind
Meaning eventually you'll find
A story born from me
Twisting to reality
In this dream paid for work
Reporting all the daily dirt
Infusing life into these lines
Insanity speaks in rhyme
Gibberish so it seems
Reliving every toxic scene
From the page my demons scream
Waking me from my writer's dream...
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 12:27 PM UTC
Homecoming body:
A grey cardigan strips down,
bonding skin to
night’s air,
penetrating
Chevrolet safe havens
drowned in lover’s spit.
My Mind
thanks Google,
enabling electronic bibles
to leave disciples stifled
with religious quotas,
an excuse to quote us —
“Trouble at the Border,
read the former
court room reporter
working for the,
sensationalized,
through remnants of
blood stains in our eyes.”
Midway through Chapter 1 —
reeks not only of
of *** in the backseat —
but of Venezuela’s shorelines.
Of her high school hallways.
Of the intrigue of the unexplored Mexican neighbor,
her freedom amidst constraint,
where Visas
lease us
advertising campaigns
for maquiladora made lampshades.
Despite their protest,
common sense
lent comparisons,
a consequence
of stories told in reverse.
They hover over Venezuela’s familiar curves,
her long black hair straddling my shoulders.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
My complexion is too dark, too dark to be viewed as beautiful. He told me that the color of my skin is what makes me appealing, which then makes it a blessing. So I took some time for reflection, as I started to question myself... The blue eyed news reporter, the fair skinned cosmetic advertisement, the tall Scandinavian woman on the bus.. the lack of representation... what was it that they had, that I didn't... The words of my mother became the bullet I so desperately tried to dodge but couldn't ... "save yourself my child and paint yourself white" .. My beauty was not welcome in my own home. My skin I tried to peel off my body .. the diaspora reeked in my veins. My hair that I tried to straighten . My knees that I tried to hide with long socks. My body was tired of hiding. As a result I began to self hate at first grade, until it became the reason of my escape to a place of no return.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
You can't take it
You can't live with it
The pain is too much
The kids at school
They keep hurting you
Or maybe it was your father
Maybe your mother
Maybe they're both dead
Like how you will be soon
Maybe you're in love with abusers
Maybe you are simply sad
But either way
You can't take it anymore
You take a rope from the attic
You grab a gun from the cuboard
You steal a knife from the kitchen
You're at the bridge over the river
You're on a railway with a train
Wherever you are
Whatever you have
It doesn't matter now
You take a rope from the attic
The kids at school
They taunt you and laugh
They say they wish you were dead
Well their wish is coming true
You're suffocating
You're silent
You're gone
You grab a gun from the cuboard
Safety is off
You're in your room
You whisper a goodbye
To the father who hurt you
To the brother who loves you
BANG
The shot can be heard for miles
You're gone
You steal a knife from the kitchen
Your mother's prying eyes
Who breaks your heart
With hateful words
You're in your bathroom
You hold the knife to your wrist
Your lifeline is bleeding out
The blood is on the white floor
You're gone
You're on a bridge
There's a cold and fast flowing
River of tears and sorrow
Your mother is gone
Your father is gone
Time for you to go
You leave your other family
Who are grieving with you
You jump
You fall
You're gone
You're at a railway with a train
Ready to hit you with pain
It wouldn't be the driver's fault
It was the abuser
You thought loved you
But you were wrong
You are hit by the train
It stops with your broken heart
You're gone
Where is the rope burn?
It burns your parents
They weep and wail
They lost their child
They're sunk into a sea of sadness
They read the note
They beg dear god above
" why were we not enough? "
Who did you shoot?
Your brother's chest
He's staring silently
At his sibling's dead body
As he stutters and sobs
He wonders
" why was I not enough? "
Who was stabbed?
Why your sister
She doesn't know who to talk to
She doesn't know who can help
As she screams for the neighbors
As your heartbeat stops
" why was I not enough? "
Who drowned?
The family you left behind
Your uncle is silent
Your aunt is shocked
Your cousins, your grandparents
They cant believe it
" why were we not enough? "
Where is the wound?
It bleeds in your friends' hearts
No matter how many you have
Or rather had
They can't stop crying
They can't stop thinking
" why were we not enough? "
Your name is in the papers
You're on the front covers
The world is full of tears
The news reporter is upset
There's a book with your name
There's ****** roses on your grave
Marked with your name
You stop
You think
You put away the rope
You put the gun back
You replace the knife
You walk away from the bridge
You run off the railway
You hide your tears in the rain
But you think
Think, think.
Maybe you can live one more day
Or two days, three days,
Four days, five days, six days
A week or two
A month or more
A year or so
Maybe forever
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 9:33 AM UTC
I looked out the window, goodness me
torrential rainfall in Germany
on the TV a reporter said
people are missing, many are dead
aerial views of the devastation
leave no room for the imagination
they show the extend of the flood
which left the area covered in mud
horrendous stories and detailed accounts
explain what happened and no one doubts
this is a direct result of the climate change
experts say, it's neither surprising nor very strange
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 5:22 AM UTC
160
Just lost, when I was saved!
Just felt the world go by!
Just girt me for the onset with Eternity,
When breath blew back,
And on the other side
I heard recede the disappointed tide!
Therefore, as One returned, I feel
Odd secrets of the line to tell!
Some Sailor, skirting foreign shores—
Some pale Reporter, from the awful doors
Before the Seal!
Next time, to stay!
Next time, the things to see
By Ear unheard,
Unscrutinized by Eye—
Next time, to tarry,
While the Ages steal—
Slow ***** the Centuries,
And the Cycles wheel!
2.1k
I am frozen
At the scene of the crash
Behind the camera
In the front seat
Seeing the camera flash
I am frozen
Lying cold
Heart stopped
Complete silence
I am frozen
Behind the camera
Tears sliding down my cheek
As the reporter talks on
Thinking about my family, my loved ones
Who could easily be gone within a week
I am frozen
At where it all happened
Only seconds ago
Said goodbye to my loved ones
Only not to know
That last goodbye was truly the last.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 6:17 PM UTC
You partied hard when you could
Gold mini skirt and heels
But underneath the glamour
Were guts and nerves of steel
Home was fun and jolly japes
A lively social whirl
But work was war zones, scary scrapes
For our brave reporter girl
You found yourself in Libya
Met the mad dog's stare
He liked you, it was a feather in your cap
You made your name out there
Sri Lanka's where you lost an eye
To shrapnel flying in the dark
They thought you were a Tamil Tiger
Hiding in the grass
Back home someone told you off for smoking
Quick came your reply
Don't concern yourself, I promise you
That's not how I'll die
In Chechnya you made it out
Escaping with your life
As mortars fell you legged it
Eight days over mountain snow and ice
East Timor was your finest hour
Fifteen hundred people protected by too few
You refused to leave, they were saved
That was down to you
Luck ran out in Syria
You feared another massacre, tried to warn the world
So the shells once more homed in on you
And killed our brave reporter girl
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 6:26 PM UTC
Some people say Im mad I just blame the L-RAD
Attacked by services syndicate post grad
Breaking the code of conduct that's sad
Criminal cause nullify's the collaborative ad
All privileged storm troopers got more than I have
Is the conscience alive while watching that sat-nav?
As a key worker your care is what we have
But straying for a kickback is a dent & bad
The mental health stigma is the foot soldiers weapon
Labelling us mentally ill with the DSM con
Exclaiming we're mental while the victim is alone
Stigma comes from the compound hear us groan
Hearing me everywhere have traits of a stalker
Attacking innocents with energy weapons lawbreaker
Violating human rights piggy back hijacker
The conspiracy hypothesis is the startler
Whats the biological molecular structure
Of a mental health disorder
A caucus of people of who can shout louder
Followed by misrepresentation from a reporter
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 6:35 AM UTC
White girls can get stuck too,
the same way that no money
sandwiches you between two
slices of dreams you cannot bite
into, because we cannot pay for that
school—stuck like peanut butter.
I want things, but mostly
I want to be able to stay at the
university and learn so, someday,
I can teach others too.
Teach them to love good and
truth and not care that they are
not the businessman or engineer
with a steady job.
All they—all we—have to do
is be willing to clean the bathrooms or
flip the greasy burgers if we have to.
Hands that are working and honest
are always good hands, no matter
what they do.
When I tell people I love English
and writing, the man or woman instructs me
to pick something more practical—be a
technical writer, a reporter, an advertiser.
But I love my poetry, and no one can
ask me to sell my happiness
and design for a nice house and a
maid who cleans because hubris
has rusted my joints.
I am not a hero or a martyr
for words, but I am a woman
who would humbly scrub toilets to
feed her children, write poems at
night, and be happy.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 4:32 AM UTC
You sit on the beach and pick at fish bone
after maggots and flies have had their way,
poke it with a stick, listen to the tide,
wonder what it sounds like underwater.
Whale songs, shark bites, seal birth, and coral
in a circus of clown fish, puffers, and lions.
I dig a hole to bury the carcass,
the bone, no flesh, you name him Sergio.
As the dolphin tide rolls in sand erodes
exposes the burial bone by bone
until it washes to sea like drift wood.
When we were young we captured frogs out back
in the creek in the woods behind your house,
and once I tripped into a small ravine.
We found door sized slabs of concrete or rock
engraved with names and nineteenth century dates.
Civil War gravestones, some professor said,
and they were moved somewhere to some museum.
Later on the news they interviewed us,
and in the background bulldozers dug holes
that exposed some two hundred year old bones,
skeletons and skulls, excavated from burial,
as we smiled to the channel two reporter.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:05 PM UTC
Dissonance is when you are met with a contradiction.
You go through life with no qualms,
eating everyday the preservatives you love,
forgetting the places where we just dropped bombs,
dropped upon children; as if gods from above.
Men and women are murdered every day,
but we have the power to keep that at bay,
with our expertise in the art of ******
your country is our flock and we are the herder.
But every few days or so,
a report will come up on T.V.,
how the problem will grow,
but not to worry, it will never effect me.
So I live my life with my T.V. shows,
going to parties and drinking too much,
not thinking of the children who made my clothes,
and how my comfort is due to their touch.
Until one day a new report is up,
how the war has not worked and people are dying,
the reporter doesn't bat an eye during his close up,
when they show the children crying.
Dissonance appears in my heart,
my head, my body and my soul.
"How can I be so happy and free?
with someone living so below me.
I should help, I should fight,
show those heathens what is right.
Let the world know that this is wrong,
maybe I'll even write a song."
Then my brain recognizes its bounds,
settles down and grabs a coke,
I'll just do a few more rounds,
of sitting and telling a joke.
That makes it easier for me,
to laugh instead of aid,
for I know they are not free,
but soon their voices will fade,
and I can comfortably forget their plea.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
Growing up as a guy I have something to admit
Its that theres so many girls that i'll never forget
So i'll jump right in and go right from the start
and tell you about all these girls that have affected my heart
So lets start with the As there is two that first come to mind
and thats Ambrea and Ashley, their each one of a kind
Now those are my sisters so their first to be said
but lets continue on to who else pops in my head
lets see...there's 2 Ashley As, but only one Ashley G
can't forget Amanda K, or all 7 Amys
There are so many As that we'd have to stay way long
let me wrap it up quick with the cutest one "akon"
You should see all these B's their so pretty it scares me
theres Beth and theres B thou, theres Bee and B. Barry
In the C's we have Crepeele with her pretty long blonde hur
and then we have Cameo, thats right, Mama Burr
On to the Ds they would never be meana
theres danielle carey, and then there is dreena
though im sure there are Es-Hs to do
i'm skipping to Js starting with J. Gubbes
Janelle, Jolene, or Jocelyn B.
Jordan, and Jen, and Jill L. you see
Jamie, and jasmine, or J. Allen
Jaylene, and Jessica, and then jen again
Oh God now the Ks, not sure where to begin...
I'll start with the departed R.I.P. Kristin
On to the girls that are more than alive,
Lets take, Keilyn, Kayla, and Karmen on a test drive
Three other K's must get named out for sure
And that's Kaley, Kansas, and Kristjana Schure
Two Girls in the Ls that are way way to awesome
And thats Lauren Borsheim, and of course, Laura Klassen
On to the Ms there is no time to spare
Just one, Maryke, and she cuts my hair
...I'm just kidding MOM you know your up there!
We do have an N there's nothing to fear
Her name is Niki, she lives in Red Deer
No Os, or Ps, or Qs to discuss
we'll move on to R's cause this next ones a must
Rachael K the Australian Wonder
Rebecca's art is so good she draws lightning and thunder
Theres a couple of shellys, and Sam 1 and 2
Tara looks like a model, and Tia does too
Don't know any Us, the Vs go in order
Vanessa M, V. Young, and VJ the reporter
If your name wasn't mentioned no need to be sour
this poem was rushed, took me less than an hour
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 10:04 PM UTC
October 1968
Strange day away from a war,
in a bubble
with the liar who was my friend
who wore a shirt with
a combat aviation badge
a dead man had earned,
first stolen glory
I ever saw.
We are awol, but nobody knows,
then a doughy white guy with a camera,
asks the liar why we are
in Saigon,
at the zoo, in the middle of a war.
A Stars and Stripes reporter,
gathering
the opinion of warriors ( right, in Saigon) re
Jackie Kennedy marrying the Greek
He took our picture, asked our names,
we were awol,
but what the hell, how many losers
ever see their picture
in the Stars and Stripes?
Lesson
send a boy to fight a war,
never tell him who wins, if he lives.
As an old man,
like that tiger, in a cage,
not San Diego Zoo Eco-accurate Habitat,
a cage, concrete floor, old-time
cowboy movie jail barred
cage,
waiting,
like that tiger in the Saigon zoo, 1968.
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 1:49 PM UTC