"resident" poems
Hey let's play a game!
Post a video on the internet of it just for the fame!
Or maybe, let's play for fun.
And in the end we'll see who has won.
How about some Black Ops, maybe Resident Evil?
Or how about some Conker's Bad Fur Day multiplayer? Cause we can both be robber weasels.
I really like pokemon, also it's all about that Mario.
The greatest character in Mariokart is always going to be Wario!
I'd love to fight you on some Tekkon 6
But maybe I'll let you pick the game, or we could just draw sticks.
So here I made a little cup filled names of different games.
Just draw one Popsicle stick, and see which one of the names is on it.
That way we make this quick and easy
And can get back to our videogames!
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
There’s a silverback haze
on the shallow face
of the Rockwell Ridge
folded brow
puzzled chin
and dark hollow eyes
keeping watch
over the lilies
and crane flies
and will of the wisp
Rust brown ravens
and fisher kings
delight
in the reeds off north bend
(chased by the terraced streams!)
youth blades engrain
on the favoured
and historic
Banka Memorial
Mustard
and pumpkin skies
are clipped
by a call from
the resident loon
the sounds of Buddha Bar
piercing the silence
and shaping the afternoon chord
It’s a time to make way (stream side)
seems the anuran are courting
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
There is a city that only I inhabit, and there is one in you, too
but that must mean houses are there
or a hotel one may stay during a visit. I guess it depends
on who you ask, if they believe in an everlasting love big enough
to fill the whole metropolis inside a person.
I did not know until I met you that cavities within me
could welcome a second resident and he would stay staring at
these organs without
thinking they look unnatural, like paintings x-rays EKG screens.
I am sorry for explaining this to everyone but I am just
so happy that my heartbeat sounds like
a ticking clock to you – we hold bodies that tell their own time.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
yellow is the color of my love's hair
blue is the color of the sky
we'll grow wings
and past the stars fly
dropping bombs
of peace and prosperity
all of us panickers
will for once see in clarity
we'll stay up for the sunset
and wake up for the sunrise
we'll act like its a
fabby bday suprise
we'll overtake the world
and change it to one that's good
there won't be any violence
life will drop it's shadowy hood
love will be our governor
and hope will be the president
I can't wait to be
that country's resident.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
Strep throat. Out of nowhere really. I went to a meeting on Friday, interviewed at PaperSource on Saturday afternoon, and then just slightly later an awful toothache. I never suspected anything so out of the ordinary to occur. Saturday night, two to four a.m.ish, i thought it was caffeine pills, or not drinking enough water, or even, worst of the worst, an attack of hypochondria. I kept lighting up Marlboros though, tasty red branded things that make writer's mouths happy. Two days in and I'm pretty sure my ***** are a fever below my body, droopy like snoopy. Super soft droopy ***** that's a sure sign of a fever or a great BJ they taught us in 6th grade science, and I wasn't getting my favorite ice cream social.
I hadn't talked to the gf in a couple days, and missing her company I made the phone call only discover that my voice had turned into a baby turtle shouting English from the bottom of a stuffed baked potato. Garbled. Discussing. Useless. I promptly hung up, and began texting. But it was too late she heard me and called back, and I had to give it all I had to put together a few words.
An hour later I was dropped off at the ER, the benefits of Medicaid at 30 is never being able to just go to the doctor's office. Within 2 hours they told me it was strep. Four nurses, two residents, one first day resident, and a 2nd year resident, and the ER doctor for a swab and a spray, and the take home Z-pack.
Then she said she'd come over even though I was sick. That's real love. "If I get sick from you, it's still worth it." 3 days on antibiotics, no more sore throat, I feel great- I think tomorrow I'll be having an ice cream social for someone who I love dearly. Maybe we'll even skip the ice cream.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:24 AM UTC
Ballerina stance leaner
porcelain poised demeanor
lined up for a chance at that old 500 gram repeater.
Yeah, a little firecracker,
a little fire eater.
Twiggy figure, ****** fire dome where her little wires teeter.
Excellent muse material
my ***** optics viewed ethereal
Beauty, and she knew it.
Arrogance.
Noted, duly.
Pittsburgh's resident fire ant, with a grace to match her face
And a whole crew of troglodytes racing to get a taste
So thanks Angela Chase;
I prefer the fantasy too.
And thanks to you my chickens won't be sleeping easy in their coup.
Loop Jabberwocky with Calligraphy
and dabbled in polygamy. purpose:
****** cyst bubbles to the surface.
Misinterpret the tongue touching and hand clutching,
you were baby girlie thumb-sucking
But thought more than twice about it when it came to dumb-fucking.
Pretty face: check
Depression: not yet
Appreciating phonemes, but still a nervous wreck
false carrot tops to bed, awkward with the ***** work.
Near waif redhead. Pittsburgh Boys. the city lurks
It's been a minute since the girl scouts got at me, I bought it.
Hop in the DeLorean tell Lauren that I'm off it.
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 16, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
High powered rifle
get those nasty villagers
every single time
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
In the year 480 B.C., King Leonidas of Sparta lead 300 Spartan soldiers to the mountain pass of Thermopylae. They came face to face with over 200,000 Persians under King Xerxes of the great Persian Empire,
whose archers so multiple, their arrows blocked out the sun.
Bravely the Spartans fought, with no thought of surrender.
After three days of brutal fighting, tens of thousands of Persians lay dead,
yet the Spartans still remain. Then a local resident becomes a traitor, revealing to the Persians a mountain path that lead behind Greek lines. Surrounded, Leonidas sends Greek soldiers back to Sparta to tell of a great victory, that he knew would never be. Valiantly the Spartans stand by their king, and fight to the death. So today, even though the Greeks lost the battle, it is better known for the bravery of a Spartan king and his 300 soldiers.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
I. you don't even know who you are yet, but you still have to stand on top of buildings and scream what you stand for. people won't hear your values unless you write it on their skin and tattoo it into their minds, so that’s what you’ll do.
II. you aren't vain or stupid for idolizing singers with blonde hair and blue eyes, because they look like you, and yet they’re strong and beautiful. it’s okay when you connect to their music then you connect to your favorite boy band. they’ll teach you how your resident ******* means nothing compared to you. they’ll teach you how to winged eyeliner, and how to put your hair in a messy bun. they’ll teach you a new love for songwriting and you’ll probably want to start playing guitar, but the biggest thing is that you relate to them and they give you confidence.
III. wear your ******* choker and straighten your hair (or leave it wavy if you’d rather). wear your dark eyeliner and cover your eyelashes with mascara. if you want to wear blue knee high socks, please do. keep your hipster shoes untied if you want. ignore the ******* who thinks you look nice but not in the right way, and go buy that dark lipstick you've been wanting for weeks.
IV. don’t trust the people that tell you Taylor Swift has too many boyfriends, and that Beyonce dances too ****** they are the people that will criticize you for wearing a crop top and ripped jeans. they’ll pull you out of math class to change out of your short shorts, and you’ll be forced to watch as the boys you were ‘distracting’ succeed in class while you’re crying in the middle of the night trying to catch up.
V. take more pictures of the scenery. those pink clouds you thought were pretty deserve to be photographed, so do it. they won’t always be around and you have to follow your instincts sometimes. stop taking so many pictures at concerts. they don’t really mean anything to you, and it’s more important to listen to the music that helps you breathe. cry when they sing your favorite song, and feel your dreams expanding as you watch.
VI. please take care of yourself. when you need help, ask for help, or everything will spiral out of control too quickly. get enough sleep and stick up for yourself when you’re being pushed down. stop caring what other people think, because you’re really the only one that matters. when you’re sad go do what makes you happy, because even if it doesn't make you grin from ear to ear it will help. always remember to love yourself before you let someone else love you.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
~**My portrait was painted by Jackson *******
<|>
“***there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and perception is only your truth.
Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips, you make them into paintings that hang in your own private museum,
but signed by me as first passenger***”
<|>
when did I write these words?
can’t recall, though undated,
they seem all too familiar, and thinking that if I didn’t,
I should have…
for the title of this ‘poem painting’ has lain in quietude,
a resident in my file of
“someday writs, awaiting,”
when the itch demands you will
essay
**the admixture of words and swords
that will cut a newborn corded reciprocity of thee and me,
an unbound bind that ties and frees us
from and by our shared senses…**
today, an inadvertent blinding sunlight stumble is demanding a
fulsome scratching
<|>
the portrait of each is the irrational intersectional of splats and drips,
each viewer, reader, filters the image through a common
uncommonality,
which is as it should be,
**for if we are each created in His image,
how glorious is the diversity of our deities,
each of us a tiny drop of paint on a tableau
of a small planet, insignificant but
uniquely beautiful intelligent species of godlike creatures,**
human
<|>
the précis of this conundrum conversation bewilders,
a single word drops,
of plaint, paint, blood,
a seconds blush blurred
that is the building blocks of imagery
I state is mine,
but now realizations swiftly fertilize,
**the portrait is not of me,
but of me blended into thee,
and this poem,
is our composition**
that hangs in each of our primary
museum,
newly re-titled,
A Passenger, Realized
Sep 14, 2023
Sep 14, 2023 at 7:10 AM UTC
Thank you, tourists
For pausing.
For capturing
Every moment.
Your cameras draped,
Quivering below your necks
Your necks rosy
with sun.
Sunscreen scents
Swarm the air
But the air bursts
Diverse Dialects,
Dogmas,
and Dreams.
Thank you
From a resident,
A student,
A visitor,
A wanderer.
Thank you
For immobilizing
Glorious minutes
For impeding time
Just for a moment.
For acknowledging-
So that those who neglect to notice,
Once again realize their riches.
Thank you
For your quiet grins
As you regard
The world.
Thank you, travelers.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
On a New Year's Day in Reykjavik
I stood at the very top of that old city,
intending to visit the Cathedral there.
All at once, there it was. And it was in charge.
A gust of wind so strong that it grabbed and
slid me, speeding across several metres of ice,
only to slam, face first, into the broad chest
of a resident British Embassy staffer.
Genially, he smiled down and introduced
himself with gentlemanly aplomb.
No wonder they had an empire. At least for a while.
Oh, that wind! Ever seen snow moving horizontally?
Or felt a hole being drilled, in one ear, almost out the other?
Deep in the ancient countryside, on the way to the sea,
is a lonely valley, held captive by the power of a brutal
Gigantic troll. There, this wind has its greatest rival.
Even if you can't see them, just tell me you don't feel them...
In Reykholt now, that bullying wind buffets a cozy house,
but to no avail, for angels watch over a newborn baby girl.
Her mother, just a girl when we first met,
now sings tenderly to her own new daughter.
Both are princesses of this beautiful island country.
Finding kindness, that tough old wind has sent
Halldora's lullaby across the open ocean,
over wide blue skies, and onto this snowy prairie
where I hear it and cradle it softly, and so gently, to my heart.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 7:10 PM UTC
The comfiest human bed warmer I ever had,
My fundamental tutor of the good and the bad,
The original storyteller in my bedtime tantrums,
The resident photographer of my birthday albums.
The accidental magician who tricked me out of my worries,
A sympathetic dictator who scolds but allows my fancies,
My biased talent manager who always tells me I'm the best,
The loudest cheerleader who puts to shame all the rest.
The world's underrated chef cooking heavenly meals,
Our unpaid laundry lady worrying over water bills,
The overqualified nurse never leaving her patient,
Our top-notch budget analyst negotiating every payment.
The random gardener, she can grow anything with ease,
Our talkative historian, she stops recalling only if we say please,
The uncanny philosopher, we've learned a lot from her,
The lost and found administrator, tracking things hidden anywhere.
The most efficient multitasker I've ever known,
My trustworthy adviser who knows me down to my bones,
A tough fighter who keeps winning her every battle,
My life's co-creator and this world's greatest mother.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
This Love Song seemed like a safe place to unpack my ****
But a safe place is where Lyrics go to die.
And this is Not a Song.
and it starts like this. all the time.
II
i fella sleep in a widdle boat and told a seagull that i was having a dream
about talking to seagulls and he was astonished to have the pleasure of meeting a boat
that had the good sense to plug the hole with a poet…. because they never wake up
and they do so with extreme prejudice. that simply screams Resident.
In Fact!
He’d never even seen a boat. So there’s THAT. I offered Seagull “ The Cool -Side of The Pillow. “
So I could sit upright for a moment and jot this down. He was like “ What’s a pillow? “
And I had no idea what it was that brushed against my legs
but It was There. then It was Gone. when i stopped using the metaphor.
I was treading a fathom
of pixie dust and transgender proto-gods, all cuddling in a huddle of metaphysics
as adorable as a radioactive abrupt
stop.
III
Ah yes… someone was cooking bacon… and bacon is sleep’s kryptonite. so the dream was a wrap.
and i had a bird’s nest woven from the silk of my discarded cocoon. codename: Chrysalis.
and my mouth was dry. a stubborn dry that follows a deluge of phantasmagoria
on a Futon that is a God to cat hair. My Futon is Oblique and Omnipotent.
Apparently.
Uber Mecca for Cat Hair. I fell asleep on that.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
Confined to the skyscrapers
Elevated mechanically
To the secluded corners
Flights of stairs are daunting
The bustling crowd is distant
Parks and kids nonchalant
About the lonely resident
Prisoner between cozy walls
Blocked in the secluded world
Heart yearns to join the bustle
From the rooms of skyscrapers
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
I used to hold onto your words
that love wasn’t always on time
That maybe love
was more like a stubborn flower,
that needed many seasons to bloom
But somewhere along the lines
I realized that our hourglass was titled
That our relationship was built
on a temporary foundation;
lined with excuses
and oh so many
betrals.
And for the longest time
I began to put question marks behind
all your hellos and goodbyes?
Thinking back, I wish I listened
to all the good advice and intuition
I stuffed at the back of my closest
waiting for a later date…..
When I would realize
that you would only ever
see me as a visitor
And since you left,
I was forced to build in your absence-
a place where I learned to properly
treat the new resident
I now call my home.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
Mickey Mouse is so
Scary
So one-dimensional
So simple
So odd
That eerie grin
And his three fingered hands
Each with a clean, white glove
Slipped over them
Why gloves?
Why white gloves?
What about his fingers?
Why would a mouse need fingers?
And why does he only have three on each hand?
Is he some type of ungodly
Ghastly and disfigured
Form of a man?
Or did someone
Drop a rat's DNA in with
A man's in a test tube?
Nuclear radiation, maybe?
Other-worldly being?
Resident of a parallel universe?
Or we're mice and/or rats walking around
Smiling relentlessly, donning red trousers
White gloves, and cursed with two three-fingered hands
When the dinosaurs
Were eating each other?
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
Sunken eyes, broken thoughts,
air with difficulty enters the lungs.
Dry mouth, lacrimation of no purpose,
the pillow full of nails she is resting upon.
The body, a ship stricken by a wave war.
Slow disintegration,
remains are battling the seven seas of sorrow.
Like a painting uncovered,
black sheets cover the rays of the sun
from the soul.
Resident of a lucid dream,
mumbling to the wind that blows
regrets down to the river
between Hypnos and the Underworld,
to carry a message to the hearts
with locked doors.
A message of no words
but incoherent perceptions,
lost unknown connections
and strangled hopes.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 11:12 PM UTC
No strings attatched? He asked
I laughed at that
As I watched my skin break into threads
Intertwined and braided all the way to your place in my head
Visualizing these strings leaving my body and landing around your throat
While I agree in the hopes of you saying just kidding to the words you just wrote
You see I am made of strings
And other types of attatchments that lead to things
Like getting hurt when a boy asks to be no strings attached
When it was coincidentally to him that I was latched
Not to mention, this boy in question never prior showed these intentions
A flirty smile here or there to me meant he might want to date
The Hopeless romantic in me says he might be fate
When in reality he was waiting until it got late to ask me to hook up like an animal looking for a mate
Prince Charming with no charm
All you did was cause me harm
So when you ask a girl to be friends with benefits
And in her heart she has made you a resident,
Use some of the tact that this boy lacked
Knowing that once you're involved
There is no going back
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
obsessed dexterity, less than steadily
resident of a dreadful destiny
festering breath, resting readily
weaponry of a four legged legacy
blessed be the death of pleasantry
presently pressed, a lesser pedigree
a specialty of a deadly heredity
expressed regression, distressed longevity
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
Her eyes blossom like a fresh pink bud in the sweet spring
She slinks from her casket like a black cat becoming resident of the shadows
Her fangs emerge gleaming like white sand belonging to paradise
She is ready to feed
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 3:29 PM UTC
1.
Our love cannot be compared,
To that of mortal existence,
Our passion shall never remit,
For it's heavenly in its brilliance.
2.
Our love is a oneness of being,
With romantic benevolence herewith,
Our blood of mysterious union,
Pumps furiously among loving bliss.
3.
Our love lies deep inside,
Resident in each others heart,
Exploding the flames of desire,
An inferno to banish the dark.
4.
Our love will never be challenged,
Never forgotten, nor passed,
Our bonding of timeless beauty,
As infinite in the joy it has cast.
.........................................
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
It is the most intimate a situation he had ever found himself in.
On a public transport, after someone had left their roost,
He had replaced himself in their seat.
An odd sensation went through him as he sat down,
The feeling that he was trespassing in someone else's skin,
Learning things about them they hadn't meant to leave behind.
He felt their warmth, the way the seat contoured to them
And he knew not their name.
There were feelings left in the seat
Sadness, depression and pain saturated the resting place,
Yet something lifted his heart out of his chest,
Rising from his perch and flying to the sky.
Hope had also been found through the prior resident,
Remaining in the seat like a lost wallet.
He drew on this remarkable gift amid the monotony of the rocking subway;
The gratification he felt toward this unknowing Maecenas was not to be extinguished,
At least for that one blissful moment found on
Public transportation.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
a person barely within earshot
may absorb the cheerful ring in my voice.
they see me in glimmering gold
embellished with refracting glass -
always with crinkles adorning my eyes.
someone else may be right across the table
and see small smoke tendrils escaping my ears.
laughter follows the smoke, and it fades away.
they see dull gold topped with smashed glass.
the crinkles sometimes disappear,
only to return a few seconds later.
A few can see my heart whenever they like.
they hear unsteady tremors between words.
they see billowing smoke
emanating from my ears and mouth.
they know the wrapping is gold foil
with smashed hourglasses piercing my skin.
the crinkles appear whenever they want.
nevertheless, they see me rise, even as I ache.
I, the permanent resident of this body,
shed the itchy foil whenever I can.
my cells are clouded by smoke,
and the hourglass fractals
swirl into a tornado behind my sternum.
the crinkles have been starched.
But, I remember I am walking on diamonds,
and I slowly sculpt my armor.
I exhale, and the smoke clears, bit by bit.
I reach behind my sternum,
grabbing the fractals to line my armor.
I splash water onto my face,
and the corners of my eyes crinkle again.
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 11:40 PM UTC
My Bio Poem
in third person:
Priestly
Author
Who wants to start T, legally change his name, and top surgery
Who needs therapy, medication, and to stop living in fear of being killed for being queer
Who feels like a freak, fear, and righteous anger
Who fears being killed for being queer, never getting “better,” and having his PTSD define him
Who would like to see that his trans brothers and sisters stop being killed, racist cops be held accountable to their actions, and the world becomes a safe space, ******
Lover of men and women (though not bisexual), caffeine, and the smell of new and old books
Resident of Rhododendron, Welches, Portland, and the LGBTQ+ community
Stout
My Bio Poem
in first person:
Priestly
Author
Who wants to start T, legally change my name, and top surgery
Who needs therapy, medication, and to stop living in fear or being killed for being queer
Who feels like a freak, fear, and righteous anger
Who fears being killed for being queer, never getting “better,” and having my PTSD define me
Who would like to see that my trans brothers and sisters stop being killed, racist cops be held accountable for their actions, and the world becomes a safe space, ******
Lover of men and women (though not bisexual), caffeine, and the smell of new and old books
Resident of Rhododendron, Welches, Portland, and the LGBTQ+ community
Stout
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC