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JR Rhine Jun 2016
We sat outside the coffee shop
next to a fire,
watching the sun set behind decrepit buildings.

I lamented over the lack of a roller rink in the area,
reflecting on memories of wobbling around in circles
with dizzying lights and blaring speakers
ejecting Pink, Daft Punk, and Eiffel 65 onto my critical youth.

I felt like a king.

We finished our smoothies and retreated
to an empty hotel parking lot,
where I taught her to skateboard.

One foot over the front bolts,
the back foot over two of the back bolts
but resting over the tail,
kick, push,
it's in the ***** of your feet--
weight distribution.

Tic, tac, scrape, thud--
she falls repeatedly
and gets back up.

I admire her resilience and perpetual smile--

This is what skateboarding is all about.

We roll around the hotel parking lot,
our endpoints being a lone luminescent lamppost
and a telephone pole beleaguered by a plot of shrubbery
that demarcates itself from the pavement.

We circle around the poles for hours,
forming an imaginary oblong track between the two,
our laughs carrying into the cool summer night lullaby
that sang the drowsy small town to sleep.

The fading throb of the wedding reception
at the bottom of the town square by the wharf,
carrying over to us.

The stores closed up hours ago,
silent empty windows reflecting the lonely streetlights
and our ambulance back at us.

We skated on unperturbed into the night hour.

A man walks outside the hotel
to have a cigarette on the sidewalk--
I imagine he is watching us and admiring our glee.

Rolling between this telephone pole and lamppost,
the glare and reflection of the empty silent windows,
the soundtrack singing above our heads,
our laughs, and the tic-tac of skateboards
and groaning of wheels over stubborn pavement
bringing my melancholic reverie to a halt,
recognizing and understanding happiness in the present moment--

This is my roller rink.
Emily Aug 2012
The dark winter sky was draped with stars whose dainty shimmer
mimicked the sprinkle of snow
caught up in the crisp winter breeze.

The white flakes winked as they came to rest upon a silent sheet of ice,
accumulating on the sleek surface until abruptly–

a clatter of loud and excited voices interrupted.
Skates slashed and
                            sticks crashed onto the cold, hard ice.
A black puck cascaded haphazardly across the rink, bombarding the once settled snow.
Chunks of ice catapulted recklessly,  
the smell of sweat rose relentlessly into the wind.

Furious and frozen wisps of breathe were choked,
as bitter cold filled eager lungs.
The ruthless weather, however, could scarcely graze the laughing dimples on rosy cheeks.

But just as hastily the clatter was silenced,
the commotion halted.

Footprints crunched softly away, their noise secretly swept away
by the sprinkle of snow
caught up in the crisp winter breeze.
Section 17 Row H seats 11 and 12
Almost every home game does he see
A grey haired man with a clip board sits
Two seats over and one down from me
He's a scout for the bigs, Comes most games to watch
Can't watch as a fan anymore
They know he made it, was up with the Bruins
Played defence with Old Number Four
He watches intently for five minutes or so
Just enough to watch each kid skate twice
Then he drinks down his coffee all in one gulp
and then he returns his eyes to the ice
The Scout, we will call him, for lack of a name
Has seen kids who've got game disappear
They find out he's watching, they get all uptight
And they can't play 'cause they're all tense with fear

I watched for four games, got his routine down pat
Watched him arrive and watch the kids skate
He'd go down in the corner and stand by the glass
Watching close through the plexiglass plate
He stayed away from the coaches, the players as well
And the parents, he'd avoid like the plague
If one ever stopped him, and asked "How's my boy"
He'd smile, and give an answer so vague
His career ended early with a stick to the head
Almost killed him, but, he was too mean
His left the game early, with Wayne Maki to blame
The Scout, is Edward "Ted" Green


Each season he'd sit, watching game after game
In arenas all over the land
Some kids he'd notice, he did not come to watch
They were just something that wasn't planned
He'd come into town to watch a kid who could score
And go home with two names on his list
One a defence man, and the goalie as well
But, the scorer, couldn't skate and got missed
Ted, would watch and make his reports on kids
Some were right, and the kid would go pro
He may be a star in the minors right now
But, the bigs...well, fate only knows

He'd listen to parents and coaches talk of the boys
Saying "My son's the next Bobby Orr"
Ted would chuckle a little and not say a word
He knew the kid would be heard from no more
Putting pressure like that on a young players back
Is like saying, "My boy will be God"
From then on it's never, the talented kid
I'ts the boy cursed with Orr's lightning rod
Many young players get compared to the best
But to say it out loud is a curse
You put a red dot on the young players back
He may as well leave in a hearse

Ted's seen them all, coaches, players and bums
Played when the game was real tough
They  had lighter equipment, not kevlar like now
and Ted, as we know liked it rough
His scratches and scribbles on the page tell a lot
But to the untrained they look like a mess
A pharmacy student couldn't read what he wrote
Nor a court stenographer I guess
He's a spotter of talent with stories to tell
More of them about kids who fell short
Most of them cursed with the "My kids the next..."
and the name of the best in the sport

Two Hundred and Ten games he watches each year
Most times he's gone early on
He's sees what he needs and then he packs up his stuff
And by the end of the first, Ted is gone
He's off on the road to another ice rink
To sit and watch on the hard seats, so cold
To listen as parents and coaches again
Talk of greatness, it's all gotten old
Terrible Ted has a warriors soul
And his grey hair is thinner but, curly
He has ice in his veins and a stick through his heart
Too bad his playing time ended too early.
Dedicated to "Terrible" Ted Green of The Big Bad Bruins and Edmonton Oilers of the NHL and former New England Whaler player of the WHA. One of the best hockey men around. I thought of this today after finding an old Ted Green hockey card from 1968 in my dresser drawer. I remember watching him play with Boston and Edmonton and saw him a number of times scouting at The London Gardens after his playing career was ended.
Beneath the glowing Christmas lights
That illuminate the dark
There is a world of dark, lost souls
Homeless, sleeping in the park

Among the scattered tinselled trees
On benches and in tents
Lie many, lost and scattered souls
For whom, faith...got up and went

Christmas dreams don't dance around
These people who are lost
They huddle close and tend the flame
To survive and beat the frost

Children skate upon the rink
Laughing, chirping at the snow
While just behind the skating rink
Is a world, they do not know

The smell of cups of chocolate
Tantalizing ...just a taste
But, they dare not move from where they are
They stay hidden , just in case

The Christmas lights show false hope
To those fallen through the cracks
Most of their possessions
Are in carts, or on their backs

It's Christmas time, no matter what
And these people dare to dream
Of a life, like one they came from
A life of sweetness and of cream

The lights hold little wonder
They just signify false hope
For those here in the shadows
At the end of their life's rope

It's better in the darkness
When the lights are put away
When the chocolate smells are missing
It helps keep hunger pangs away

The Christmas lights burn brightly
But not for those who dwell
In the park, behind the ice rink
In a Winter Wonderland of hell
Bunhead17 Nov 2013
[Intro]
Ain't this what they've been waiting for? You ready?

[Verse 1]
I used to pray for times like this, to rhyme like this
So I had to grind like that to shine like this
In a matter of time I spent on some locked up ****
In the back of the paddy wagon, cuffs locked on wrists
See my dreams unfold, nightmares come true
It was time to marry the game and I said, "Yeah, I do"
If you want it you gotta see it with a clear-eyed view
Got a shorty, she try'na bless me like I said, "Achoo"
Like a ***** sneezed, ***** please before them triggers squeeze
I'm gettin' cream, never let them hoes get in between
Of what we started, lil' ***** but I'm lionhearted
They love me when I was stuck and hated when I departed
I go and get it regardless, draw it like I'm an artist
No crawling, went straight to walkin' with foreigns in my garage
Got foreign ******* menaging, ******', suckin', and swallowin'
Anything for a dollar, they tell me get 'em, I got 'em
I did it without an album
I did **** with Mariah
Lil' ***** I'm on fire
Icy as a hockey rink, Philly ***** I'm fly-er
When I bought the Rolls Royce they thought it was leased
Then I bought that new Ferrari, hater rest in peace
Hater rest in peace, rest in peace to the parking lot
Phantom so big, it can't even fit in the parking spot
You ain't talkin' bout my ****** then what you talkin' bout?
Gangstas move in silence, ***** and I don't talk a lot
I don't say a word, I don't say a word
Was on my grind and now I got what I deserve **** *****
Hold up wait a minute, y'all thought I was finished?
When I bought that Aston Martin y'all thought it was rented?
Flexin' on these ******, I'm like Popeye on his spinach
Double M, yeah that's my team, Rozay the captain, I'm the lieutenant
I’m the type to count a million cash then grind like I’m broke
That Lambo, my new *****, she'll ride like my Ghost
I'm ridin' around my city with my hand strapped on my toast
Cause these ****** want me dead and I gotta make it back home
Cause my momma need that bill money and my son need some milk
These ****** tryna take my life, they **** around get killed
You **** around, you **** around, you **** around, get smoked
Cause these Philly ****** I brought with me don't **** around, no joke
All I know is ******, when it comes to me
I got young ****** that's rollin' I got ****** throwin' b's
I done did the DOAs I done did the KODs
Every time I'm in that ***** I get to throwin' 30 G's
Now I'm hanging out that drop head, I'm riding down on Collins
They like, my ***** back home that young ***** be wildin'
We young ****** and we mobbin' like Batman and we're Robin
This 2-door Maybach, with my seat all reclinin'
I'm that real ***** what up, real ***** what up
If you ain't about that ****** game then ***** ***** shut up
If you diss me in yo' raps, I'll get your ***** *** stuck up
When you touchdown in my hood, no that tour life ain't good
Catch me down in MIA, at that Heat game on wood
With that Puma life on my feet, like that little engine I could
Boy I slide down on your block, bike on twelve o'clock
And they be throwing dueces on the same ***** they watch
And I'm the king of my city cause I'm still calling them shots
And these lames talking that ******* the same ****** that flopped
I'm the same ***** from Berks Street with them ***** braids that lock
The same ***** that came up and I had to wait for my spot
And these ****** hating on me, hoes waiting on me
Still on that hood ****, my Rolls Royce on E
They gon' remember me, I say remember me
So much money have ya friends turn into enemies
And when there’s beef I turn my enemies to memories
With them bricks they go from 40 ain't no 10 a key, hold up
Broke ***** turn rich, love the game like Mitch
And if I leave you think them pretty hoes gon' still **** my ****?
It was something 'bout that Rollie when it first touched my wrist
Had me feeling like that dope boy when he first touched that brick
I'm gone
I love this song its so beautiful. "Dreams and Nightmares" by Meek Mills ****. The Beat Bully
#young kings
Natasha Teller Aug 2014
i need it: the concrete floors
that send electricity through the soles of my shoes,
the ascent up stairs, cold metal under my palm
as lana sings to me and i give her my own words in return
and the pillars of my past rise up before me.
i need the now-familiar halls, the gleam of wood and glass
appropriately placed. i need the embrace of cold air,
heavy with home smells: vulcanized rubber, sweat,
fresh ice. i need my wall, my stairs, my home address: 112, 3, 12.
i need my family, related by blood and ice, by joy and frustration,
by elation and tears. i need the ceiling off its trusses,
the pitch black, the red lights, the resounding bass,
the cold and reverent silence as the bulbs sizzle back to life--
the opening face-off, teeth gritted, fists closed.
i need the smack of sticks against ice,
pucks stinging red pipes, blades scraping up snow,
the crunch of the boards, the red light and the deafening horn,
six thousand people erupting in screams, one entity,
every hand pointed to one end of the rink. i need the urge to
bite my nails, an adrenaline rush, i need to clock-watch,
i need to ***** and laugh and yell and grin, i need to
collapse and breathe when the buzzer sounds, three more points,
closer to the penrose, closer to the ncaa's--
i need hockey.
i need home.
43 days until face-off. I'm getting REALLY homesick.
Julie Grenness Apr 2016
Dolphins talk,
The good old talk,
Wish they'd walk,
Love to talk,
the good old talk,
Like dolphins talk,
Talk and smile,
Swim, chat for a while,
What do they think?
Calm sea like a rink,
What do they talk?
When dolphins talk
the good old talk.
Feedback welcome.
Richard j Heby Jun 2013
I think I have control by now; I know
you want me to instruct you how to love.
I lack the tools for idleness; I go
crazy when you weigh yourself above

me. I know you’re in the rink – I know you are!
It’s just my paranoia’s acting out,
and then I call you twice and go too far,
that’s just a macho, jealous, loving bout.

But still you love my fighting tender thoughts,
and look in our shared corner when you’re scared.
But then the jitters, stomach ties in knots.
No gloves came out each time an old love stared.

I do not care for who you used to love,
keep razor blades tucked in my boxing gloves.
i have a break at 12 o'clock
will you please come over
you don’t have to knock
i’ll leave the door open
it will be unlocked
a bouquet of flowers
i’ll have in stock
a vase and a candle
a knife and a blade
a face and a cigarette
its all about the way we explain
i mean rationalize away
do time-lines justify our decline into tyranny
send me back again to sublime infancy
retrofit the celibate instigator
lemniscate the elephant’s fingerprints
impress me with wit and charm
storm troopers unarmed
star-gazers, shadow-haters, sand-blasters, ice-skaters,
morning's lovers, fathers, daughters, shoulders and elbows
rub brows and crease foreheads
wrinkles in your timelines
define lines as destiny unwinds
reminds me of blinding light
the heights of old empires
sire warriors, stories as tall as soldiers
for real, heal the split between mind and body
kindly, lovingly, bump up against me
and kiss me again
i am music fused together with eternity
space and dust and rusted armpits
a hundred diamonds, drops of sweat
skin like leather, weatherproof, foolproof too
determine to use it all
for you are the muse of all
do as you need to
fuse it together lest it come apart again
return to heaven and mend the tear
split the hair or the atom
magic is a language
tragic is the cancerous neglect of syntax
emptiness is manic
gargantuan attacks of presence
defenseless, we are taught worthless ****
neglect it, but remember important words
stories, looms of drawings
forming in my mind’s eye
i cannot be bought or controlled by pirates
the best moments are private
you are not invited
so go home and create your own zone of entertainment
its necessary
your gentle fingers
blessing my soul
courage to roll with life’s blows
no need for stoics
or poets who deny reality’s arguments
slippery slopes
walking tight ropes
can you cope with all this mistletoe
restring your bow
dance in the snow as if everyone knows
you are crazy in love with the whole
motionless vision swift as an arrow
roofless rooms
prom queens flip you off and turn you on
sons and daughters, lions of the prairie
a child portable and small
respects the walls that you’ve made
they are not your cage but your shelter
self culture is affluent and not arrogant
sand mandalas tall as waterfalls
golden rainbows pour from the faucet in the sky
like mighty images
wisdom bridges the gaps in our imagination
i can’t wait to get this on the page
written in stone, reflecting thrones
made from the bones of pharaohs
consciousness narrows as you approach
are you a cockroach, coach or a student
strokes of wonder for different folks
cold call your own homes
do you prioritize lightning over thunder
words over rubber
sandwiches to clutter
are you interested in diamonds or other
precious gemstones
that flutter like butterflies when i utter
emeralds like butter
do you waste time arranging your clutter
stuttering utter nonsense
frequencies wasted, gentleness chased away
fantasies radioactive
magic lacks targets
darkens our fathers
keep chasing actions
satisfaction is attractive
your eyes are like fragments of rubies in the fire
i see beauty in desire, features in the sky
i look skyward and see higher
minds are wired to remain stagnant
stranded in a lack of entertainment
change this and make your own amazement
wonder over thunder, lick me down under
gone asunder like the burning acropolis
topple this bottomlessness
can't stop this, its impossible
i wonder do you make blunders
in underground mountains
we shout words like fountains shoot water
curtains topple over
and form a blanket over our consciousness
after our performances
swarms of crazy people leave the theater
shattered and too stunned to speak
to ****** to leak they keep walking down south
toward Plymouth Rock,
Mammoth Mountian or Rehoboth Beach
take stock of the situation and just move
first one out is rewarded
sordid and sorted like straw from the hay stacks
caskets of black iron casings
tastings of wine whose shelf-life is expired
past due cheese overripe and stinky
like mustard dusted with lightning
striking on time is all that we have
thinking that was a close call
we fall down and get up, remove the uppercuts
and lowercases from our mouths
doubt is a ***** word heard too often,
coughing from a coffin she offers me her hand
cold as ice cream, these nouns are deafening
love is lazy like a muffin
and hot like a dumpling
but a liaison with time cannot be rushed
i have lived long enough to learn this
a privilege to give birth to this moment
again and again vintage feathers
send me your sweaters
detest impostors who give robotic answers
i am in wonder at all this grammar
that i was unaware of
ignorant as mustard
and smooth like custard
in this blustery weather
i am glad i wore a sweater
and have an umbrella
to keep me dry and safe
i am in love walking toward the gate
and boarding that plane
i am your heart served on a plate
with a side of coleslaw, soul food for dinner
you are a winner and i am your hunger
a porcelain gravestone
a copper bathtub with claws
stored in your basement
storerooms cold as a skating rink
please don't think, unless its about me
let sentences drift away
while we chase arguments from yesterday's
armistice

Panda Mar 2015
Silver blade makes me feel nice.
The only thing I trust.
As the blade slices through the ice.
The blade turns to rust.
Years and years.
Of practicing and falling.
Of sweat, blood and tears.
Sometimes all I want to do is play volley.
But I would rather skate.
Skating is my best friend.
I am never late.
I am in the rink until the day ends.
Skating.
Ice Skating.
Felicia Jan 2014
I close the door of the bathroom cabinet, revealing the figure standing in front of it. I tilt my head back, bring my hand up to my mouth, swallow, and feel the slightly farmiliar sensation of the little pill sliding down my throat. Anything that used to be normal is only slightly farmiliar now, an effect of these little pills.
I look up into the ghost in the mirror, the one that slightly resembles my own face. I can barely pick out the individual features, but I'm pretty sure that's me. I bring my hand back up to my face, this time to pull up my cheeks in something that somewhat looked like a smile. Yep, that's me all right. The hand moved to the left, and grabbed my ear, tugging at it. Slowly, it made its way across my whole face, surveying all my features, feeling everything. I'm still here. Wish I wasn't.
I sigh and continue staring at this ghost of a person. She looks tired, and *****. Her dark brown hair ******* in a messy, greasy bun on top of her head. Her once bright green eyes are now a dull brown. Her once flushed cheeks, now completely pale and lifeless, still bear the scars of the crash.
I sigh once more and turn around, almost losing my balance.
I start toward my room, remembering I have to do something today. Not school, nor work, nor anything else in particular. Well, of course there is a reason, but thinking of that reason makes everything clear and painful, so lets just keep things hazy and safe.
I pull my once too small jeans on, which are now extremely baggy on my scarred legs. I try to steady my shaky hands as I attempt the eyeliner, but give up, and remove the waterproof makeup. It's not like he will care, he can't see my face anymore.
A sudden stab of pain envelops within my chest as everything suddenly becomes clear and I can see his face, his beautiful face, laughing. I blackout and end up on the floor.
When my eyes open, they are greeted with the concerned eyes of my sister-in-law. She's holding my face, trying to wake me up. "Woah there, woah. Are you okay?"
I sit there thinking of what just happened and what she said. It takes me a moment, but I reply, "As okay as I ever am."
She rolls her eyes and sighs. "C'mon, get up. We have to do something today."
Another stab of pain as I remember where we're going today and what we're doing. I ***** on her as the pain overcomes me once more, this time not blacking out. Instead the images, the very ones I have countless nightmares about, flit across my mind. Every one bearing pain, bearing a very specific pain. I start to scream and convulse, as I claw the arms of my brother's wife.
My brother comes in to pull me off of her and put me onto my bed, as I continue screaming. I can very clearly feel the very farmiliar pain in the middle of my chest. It's as if 10, no. It's as if a 100, a 1000 knives are being shoved in, turning, breaking bones, slicing organs. And then it feels as if someone is spitting salted lemon juice into my wounds, stinging.
It's all in my head though. Everything I'm feeling is all in my head. And that's the problem right there. Why couldn't I have just died in the crash, why can't I just be gone already.
I blackout again. And when I wake up, both my brother and my sister-in-law are standing there, watching over me. I see that my sister-in-law has changed clothes. Their troubled faces brighten up a little as they watch my eyes open. Unsurprised. This happens every time we plan to go to the hospital to visit him in the ICU. It's happened before, many times, so they know what to do and how to calm me back down.
They help me up from my bed and out into the living room, where there is a tray of fried eggs and bacon sitting on the coffee table. Probably for me.
I disregard it and instead walk to the kitchen to grab the *****.
My sister-in-law was right there to stop me. "No no no, not this early. Besides," she says as she takes the bottle from my shaking hands, "you already took your medication."
I begin to protest, and quit, knowing that it was no use.
Asides from the ***** and my medication, they have baby-proofed the whole house because of me. All knives are locked up somewhere in the garage, any tool that could be used against myself gone. No rope, shoelaces, small appliances, or other things that I may use to **** myself. The ***** was out because they confiscated it from my room. I had shoplifted the liquor the other day, and was trying to start a collection so that I may drink several bottles of alcohol at once and overdose. Not too smart, they search my room all the time. I'm too drugged to even care. And my medication tastes too nasty to overdose on, asides from being nearly impossible to OD from.

In the car on the way to St. Rosemary's hospital, we stop at a florist to get some 'Get Well Soon' stuff. My brother gave me some stronger medication, as he always does whenever we go to the hospital, and it makes thinking better. I'm able to think about what happened, but it makes the images in my head seem like they're from a movie, rather than my own eyes. I'm able to think about the man who lays there in the ICU, day in day out. That man I was once in love with. No, I still love him. And he loved me too. Loved.
I'm brought back to reality by my brother.
"What colour do you want to give him today?"
I don't know why he asks. I always say the same. "Green. His favorite colour."
My brother sighed. "I think he has enough green. But oh well, it's your choice..."
I love my brother very very much. I'm so grateful that he puts up with me. It's kind of a funny thing, when we were much younger and he was a ***** up, I could've sworn that he would have to end up living with me when we were older. Ironically, I ended up having to live with him. Well, 'living with him' isn't what it is. It's more like 'babysitting' or 'mom didnt want her in a mental hospital.' Like I had said before, I'm too drugged to care.

We also stop by SubWay just before we get to the hospital. I get the usual, a footlong ham and Swiss, with three chocolate chip cookies and a large Dr. Pepper. It's not for me, of course. I never eat anymore. This food is for him, if he wakes up. Because if he wakes up while I'm there, I want the satisfaction of being there with his favorite food. I do this every time. It's been a very long time since my brother or his wife has complained, wasting food and such. I don't care whether or not they're mad I waste stuff. I want this, no. I need this, for my fiancé.

Hospitals used to always scare me. As a child, I never had a reason to go to the hospital, except for my mother or grandmother, and even then I never went. I just knew people died there sometimes. I used to be so afraid of death. Now I'm wishing for it daily.
We head up to the ICU. He has his own room to himself, but he wouldn't care whether or not he had other people in there. All the people here know me, since we come around so often. They always look at me with extremely sympathetic looks, and then whisper about me to the people who they're around.
"Poor woman... Was in a terrible car crash... See those scars?... Just about to get married... **** near lost her life..."
They think I don't hear them but I do. It's a complete blessing for this medication, and that it makes me not care anymore, but sometimes I wish I could care. I wish I could turn around to them and tell them to shut the **** up thank you very much. I just literally do not care anymore.
We get to his room. The nurse comes out with the same sympathetic look as the rest of them.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to remember the last time I heard his voice, seen his eyes, felt his smile, heard him singing, the last time he told me he loved me...
And then the whole scene of when my life basically ended flashed across my mind, like a movie.

We were in the car, driving, listening to the iPod that was hooked up, singing along with whoever the hell was on. It was the middle of April. Nice weather. It was the perfect day.
We were on the way to this favorite place of mine, a 'special date' he had called it. At the time I had no idea what he was going to do.
We went into the place, a rollerskating rink. We got our skates and went into the rink to skate around. The DJ called out a special song for a special someone. As we danced and skated to the song, which was 'our song', the song we used to sing to eachother all the time, when a spotlight shined on him and he stopped what he was doing.
"You know that I love you," he said. "And you know that I want to be with you for the rest of our lives." He got down on one knee. "Will you make me the happiest man alive, and marry me?"
I started to cry. I said yes, if course. It was the happiest moment of my life.

When we were finished with the date, we were driving back home. We were seated very close, holding onto eachother.
We stopped at a stop sign, and I wanted a kiss. So I turned my head toward his, and we kissed. When I opened my eyes, we were in the middle of the intersection, and a car was coming our way from the left. It's headlights were shining in my eyes, and it was too close, going too fast. Right before the hit, I looked at it, knew the danger, and screamed my fiancé's name. He looked into my eyes in alarm, and that was when it hit. The other car smashed right into us, t-boning us on the drivers side, while my husband-to-be was driving. That moment felt like an eternity. We were flown around, and we hit some **** I don't even remember.
The next thing I remember was the sirens. The ambulances came and took us away from the wreckage. He was hurt severely, put into a coma. Me, I had some bad injuries, but not as bad as his. We were rushed to the hospital, and he was flown by helicopter to a bigger hospital that dealt with more serious injuries. Within two days he was considered brain dead.

And now, here I am, walking on this earth, while the love of my life just lays there, brain dead. I don't know whose brilliant idea it was to make it so I have to walk around, wondering whether he will ever wake up. The doctors always say that it's been too long, or that there's no hope now, or that we need to pull the plug. But every time they tell me that, I flip out. I flip out so bad they have to basically tranquilize me and send me back to the mental hospital. It's horrible. I just wish I could die, and that they would finally pull the plug after my death, so that we can both be together, wherever we go when we are finished with this life...

And the picture that always haunts me? The one of his eyes, in alarm, when I screamed his name. That picture is what haunts me day and night. It's what my nightmares are composed of. Every. Single. One.

I think all of this over for about a minute before we walk in. No one urges me to go in faster, they all know what I'm doing. They all know that I'm reliving the moment that pretty much took him away.
I open my eyes, ready to see him at last. I take small, careful steps into the hospital room, watching the floor. I finally looked up to see him lying, like usual, in his bed.

...At least, that what I was expecting.

Instead, he was sitting up, eyes wide, waiting for my reaction to see him awake.

And that was when I fainted.
Not my best work, but I felt like writing a full narrative for once.
Last week I was watching the news, and I saw a story about a pregnant woman who is brain dead, and I thought of this idea to write a sort of love story. Meh, enjoy.
Mike Arms Mar 2012
just look at the overgrown flood in the field
that was an ice skate rink

it's for the kids to skate but they won't
skate they'll pout and shoot is what

who the **** ice skates I have a tiny
pistol I stole and I want your wallet

I walk past the sad sodden ice rink
a cold flood in a forgotten field

where children would skate but now
they can only lurk
Missy Beminio Mar 2016
looking out your window
sun kissed hair in my eyes
watching while the wind blows
through the cloudless skies

thinking of our first date
you, in that red plaid shirt
I was so ****** nervous
doesn't mean it wasn't great

the way our legs entwine in bed
there's nothing I want instead
everything feels warm in here
nothing else could ever compare

or that Friday night at the rink
I slipped and scraped my knee
but when I see the scar I smile
because it jogs my memory

walking through the forest all day
sharing with you my happy place
the trees and leaves outside are bare
but not my heart that's yours to take

the way our souls entwine in bed
there's nothing I'll ever want instead
the safest place for me is here
nothing else could ever compare

that Charleston week was when I fell
completely like a southern bell
for the perfect guy I'll ever see
you're everything in this world to me

the fire in your solar eclipse eyes
is something I can't live without
this crazy world is upside down
but all I need is you around

we elevate each other right
the universal beat of life
never felt so high up here
nothing else could ever compare
Irate Watcher Feb 2019
He's headed to the roller rink
She's headed downtown
To see no one
to be around nobody
a perfect night to themselves
doing nothing for nobody.

He sits in his car
the music blaring
softly sighing
hoping to
drown out
the latest saga
Why must others make their
problems his problems.
See, he has his own problems
But he doesn't put them on other people.
He prefers to purge then on paper
Get them out and forget about them
Because these things aren't important
When the night is cool
and it's about to rain
And the lights stream by like bolts
speeding down a empty road.

Wanta
Drown it out
dance in the moonlight
and shout
shake his hands
whip his hair
ridiculously.
Forget the world
for awhile
walk alone at night,
anything to extend this quiet
anything not to go inside.

She's biking in Noho
It's 2am and it's
that California cool outside.
Riding with no handlebars
playing some Dorian concept,
burning a natural high.
Another sleepless night
remedied by impulsiveness
and exercise.

She don't want to go home
seems like this bike path
could stretch till the end.
And anyone who stares
is just a pedal away
a pedal behind
makes her feel so safe.

Wanta
Drown it out
dance in the moonlight
and shout
shake her hands
whip her hair
ridiculously.
Forget the world
for awhile
walk alone at night,
anything to extend this quiet
anything never to go inside.

He hears a song
nostalgic it travels
him in time,
head back he closes his eyes -
trying to remember
what it felt like to ride
open and exposed to the
elements, his headphones in
jamming.

She feels the bright
of headlights.
just one more block to go,
her hands cold
and forehead sweating.
Her thighs burning,
her back aching.
Her hairs standing,
her face clammy.

Wanta
Drown it out
dance in the moonlight
and shout
shake her hands
whip her hair
ridiculously.
Forget the world
for awhile
walk alone at night,
anything to extend this quiet
anything not to go inside.
A little song for my introverted self
Vidya Oct 2012
jeweltoned and silent figeating fidgeting
mayqueens of vienna:
morituri te
salutant.

cupidfresh bruises on your thighs brought to you by
johnson &
johnson a family company amen they will do right by
you.

honeyed dew sticks to
morning eyelids (sugarwater my eyelashes
hummingbird tongues)—
vague rifle form at constant alert

attn. california capricorns:
your winterspeak eludes me yet.
lighteyed candle-holders and
coffeeringed eyes tell me
all I have ever needed to know about
yelling fire in an ice
skating rink
Lindee May 2015
IT RESONATES JUST AS MUCH


    
ON LIFE AND LOVE



Ever since I was small, smaller than I am now, I sought out the feeling of companionship and the mutual respect that comes with healthy friendships and relationships. Upon seeing the travesty that was my parents shattered marriage: the endless fights, the bruises on my mother's body I saw in elementary school, the anger, taunting jealousy, and tension that never ebbed. I vowed to find something that made all of that seem impossible to comprehend.

Seeing the tired strings that attach my mom and dad: their children, grandchild and 27 years of dysfunction I shudder at the thought of slipping on my mother shoes again, as I did as a child— prancing around wobbling from balance to stained carpet. It is the scariest thing I have ever done.


"Don't do this in front of the kids, Phil."
"You make me do this, Shannon."

I had an inner turmoil of wanting to be alone and be in the presence of others. My 12th birthday party, (probably the biggest I'll ever have) I had a total of ten girls from my grade stay over. A couple of them, I believe just came for the cake. We had huddled into my parent's expansive living room, painted our nails, braided each others hair, giggled at things 12-year-old girls giggle about, and watched movies. I do not talk to any of the girls from that party now, 6 years later. Not really. They all, one by one, faded in the picture we took the next morning before the storm rolled in. I remember standing in my driveway the following morning with the few laggers from the party, I spotted a few figures appeared in the distance and I had realized it was a few guy friends of mine. They were coming to say happy birthday. I had laughed to myself and felt warmer than the lingering girls. Watching them merge together, the boys and girls. The girls, twirling their hair, nervous. A familiar feeling.

The first boy's hand I ever held with the intent of affection was the year after. I was with a friend at a play put on at her father's church. Heaven and Hell: Melodramatic rendition of sins. The boy was lanky, with long, shaggy hair, tall. A few years older than I. I looked him in the eye, he smiled. My stomach dropped. His hand slipped in mine and we stayed like that for what seemed like the eternity they were talking about onstage. We eventually got in trouble. Scolded by the pastor because of my age. I cried the whole way home, scared of what my parents would say. His smell lingered on my clothes. Terrified my mother would hug me and smell him on my skin and then the secret was out.

"Mommy, I love you."
"I love you too sweetheart."

I eventually got out of hand holding, basic affection. My first kiss was a dare and that dare ignited a different feeling. The shaking of my hands, the flutter of my winged heart. A bird caged. The songs overheard on the radio about love held a different tone to me.


I ran back into the girl from the Heaven and Hell drama at the local skating rink by chance. Met a friend of hers. I watched him long before speaking to him. Quiet. long haired, skateboarding scars fractured his skin. Sitting together, I found myself drawn to him, leaning into a stranger. while others talked of gossip, we kept quiet. I didn't even know his name. I confessed at the end of the night that he was "cute" to my friends. word traveled. We exchanged information and so the experience of my first love began. The weeks after we talked for hours, giggling. Looking back, it was so elementary. Puppy love. The shyness. Timid, mousy girl tried too hard. Same story. Same ending.

My first real tragedy occurred that fall. When it happened, I felt unreal.

"I found your tapes, I'm leaving." Those brave words spoken quietly in a small kitchen.
Bags packed from weekend/week at Nana's, walking down the street, not even crying.

The phone call after, my mother in the background, keeping quiet, watching me clutch the phone, knuckles white:
"You're a beautiful girl, Lindee, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." Ineffective apologies and quiet confessions of intentions.
"What, you didn't think I'd find them? You thought that this, what you did, was okay?"
"I wasn't thinking."
Silence
"...How could you do this?"

"You are not to see your grandfather anymore." She said after, holding my hand. her voice held the tone of a loved one passing, finality.
"Why would I want to?"
"You two were so close."

Repeated questions, mostly internalized, even now. Doubts.
"Maybe it was an accident? I don't know. Nana thinks so."
"These things do not happen by accident, Elizabeth."
"Oh."

Words were thrown across a long table with an attorney of video tapes, avoiding a house three doors down from my own, a registry he had to apply to, anxious knocks on doors, and other girls like me. My adulthood holding him captive. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt(y). Him, losing his job, me losing a father figure. Privacy invaded.

"Men do that. It's not uncommon."
My grandmother stayed with him.

"I'll leave."
"No, don't. Nana needs you."

"I love you. "
"I don't believe you. Goodbye."
A goodbye lasted 4 years. I wish they had burned my pictures. They didn't.

I ventured further into affection, losing my virginity at 16. High school exploration. I was fairly unimpressed with the hype of the teenage obsession of *** and "getting some". I liked it sure, but everyone said *** was meaningful; I didn't feel that meaningfulness. It just felt like everything else I did: strictly pleasure. Something to make me feel.

I remember my mother and father talking to each other late one night.
"You don't love me anymore."
I stayed up that whole night trying to figure out what that meant. Not only as a sentence by itself, but for my family, my mother, my father, my sister, and my brother. My world crashed down thanks to two "final" signatures on a paper. Stamped and dated.

I stayed out too late, they complained. I was absorbed with myself, skipping class most of my tenth grade year, smoking bad **** and cigarettes with my friends in abandoned gas stations on rainy Tuesday mornings. Running the streets of the dreary downtown, skies overcast. Stopping by the diner next to the high school my friends and I escaped from through alleyways. Drinking coffee at Benson's, eyes down low, paranoid that a teacher would walk in at lunch and question us. Glory Days. Our *** appeal never was quite what we had imagined, attracting flies.

I met a friend of a friend and we shortly began dating, sitting atop the ferris wheel, fireworks lighting up the summer sky. Everything was just as I had imagined a perfect relationship to be.He was older (a common trend so it seemed) but not by much, intelligent, witty, nice. He appeared as a direct mirror from myself. We were inseparable. The mirror broke though, and revealed cardboard behind it.

"You are worth ****., No wonder your grandfather did what he did. You probably enticed him."
Silence.
"I didn't mean that. No, you're my world. Look how you make me act. You. You. You."
Silence.

"I love you."
"I know I love you too, it's okay.I shouldn't have done that."
Guilt nonexistent. made-up. Fairytaled,

"I'll leave." He said one night.
"You can't. I can be better, I'll fix this. I'll be better, I am so sorry."
"Alright."


Cycling. We crashed from in love to betrayed (Him) and angry (Him)  and scared (me).  I had discovered the root my sexuality earlier than  and became ashamed of who I was before I had met Him. All the previous relationships were unimportant and to be ashamed of. I had no skin. The relationship, paternal and biting, lasted two years. My mother finally stepped in, after seeing the harm that was being done.  Seeing me slip into her own habits: excuses, dependence, and pursed lips saying, "You don't know Him." and said it was not healthy. The whole family had noticed my change in behavior. After several attempts, his threats on his life, I finally ended the relationship with help of family and friends. Told His parents He needed help, recommended the place I was then going to. It's end resembled a natural disaster. Debris scattering, mainly harsh words. Something I was used to by then.

"I love you." Him on the last night.
"No, no!  You don't. How could you? Have you ever ******* loved me, Michael?  If so, how could you do this. After all the **** I've been through. Look at me, ******. Look at me! Look how I am ******* acting. This isn't me. I don't do this. You're hurting me. What am I to you? The ground you walk on? *******. All of this is ******* *******. I am never okay. Stop, let go of me. Let. Go. I'm leaving."
The angriest I have ever gotten with Him.
I felt like screaming, shaking Him, pointing to all the roadsigns passing too fast screaming about the danger. I think I was more angry at myself though, at my shaking whispering voice and it's cracks. Deceit of ownership.  
"Don't. Please."
"I'll never do it if I don't now."
I never felt bad for slamming His parent's front door that day. Tired of the quiet of his house.

I still have repercussions. A constant doubt, lingering. Eyes always searching, straining, sometimes even creating sighs of disappointment, a slight shake of the head in disapproval. I picked out everything wrong about me and my past. I gave the specimens to the professionals to diagnose me with a disease. Showing them the wounds He made. Almost begging to be infected. The results came up negative and I was angry, told them they were wrong. Wanted Him to be right. They patted my head, lab rat, and sent me off to a behavioral hospital. Outpatient. there, I was supplied with a magic wand: intensive behavioral therapy to realign my thinking. To reconstruct myself.  Breathing exercises I could never grasp. Too many questions, long silences, ahem.

"Did He hit you?"
"No. I almost wish He did. I feel like that would have been a lot easier. We wouldn't have lasted as long if He had. "
"You'd turn out like your mother."
Silence. Fear.
" Well, at least you're coming to therapy. That's a big step. Admitting is always the hardest part."
Long pause, watching the grass sway in the window, wishing the clock would say I could leave. Scared of her questions.
"I don't think so. I feel like the hardest part of this is not knowing it was happening."
The healing process requires a sort of truth, not even torture can bring out. The truth you don't even know about until it slides out of your mouth into the air.

Constant reassurances were require. I bit back the urge to call my therapist my whole senior year, fighting through waves of panic attacks, wanted to tell her triggers were strung out in the hallways, reflected in the tile floor. Everyone looked at me and knew. Even the people I didn't know, somehow knew. I found myself rocking back and forth in the back-row seats of classes scared a bomb would drop into my lap, as it did before.

"What happened to you?" Teachers asked when my grades waltzed to no mans land.  
"I don't really know." I had said this flatly. Lying. Tired.  All my emotion had been siphoned out of me.

I remember sitting on the living room floor, phone in hand, hearing Him scream into the receiver; unable to open my mouth to tell Him to leave. That all the things He had said to me, I had carved into my skin and I hated it. Wanted it to stop. It was always my fault. Always. I then went back on the highest dose of anxiety medications and sleeping medications. Things to help me function. Things I would not and could not do otherwise, spoon-feeding me stability. Things I thought I would never have to do again. I had managed to escape them for a year or so when it was happening. He had always said prescription medications were bad, that I could handle my problems on my own. I followed suit.
Good girl.

"You're showing symptoms of PTSD. It's like you were a prisoner of war. You're staying so strong though. " My therapist had said to me. I smiled in response and said thank you quietly as I sat on my trembling hands, an effort trying not to bite at my bleeding nails.
Gulping back the words "When does it  end?"

But there I was, jumping at the backfires of trucks, looking for His car everywhere, avoiding a certain side of the town.. If only she actually knew.  I had to be soothed to sleep numerous times, mother by my bedside, reassuring me the doors and windows were locked
. Safe. Ha. Despite the safety, I always woke up screaming, not remembering my dreams. Regression to childhood night terrors. Never answered my phone if it rang, for fear of a gunshot being fired on the other line. The last threat He posed. Scrubbed myself raw, trying to get the guilt out of mouth and pores. Chain-smoked, He hated that. Constantly checked the driveway through closed curtains expecting His car, Him. Lurking. I contemplated moving, changing my name, not going college although already paid for, staying home huddled in my room, becoming one with my twin-sized mattress. Perpetually cold.

I was my mother.

Eggshells scattered at my feet; wobbling in her brown, close-toed kitten heels. My friends, dwindling badly then and still now, asking me if i am/was okay, the response was always a no in my head. How could you be when your head was constantly swimming? Drowning.

Running into Him the first day of my freshman year in college was the hardest day of my life. Nevermind the courses of court dates, family distress, traumatic loss of trust in the 8th grade: finding the video tapes my grandpa had recorded, watching them, seeing myself undress, the cats running through the house, the sickness afterwards, 3 divorces, two remarriages of a broken home, the late nights lit up with red and blue lights, being ripped from my home.
It all paled in comparison to seeing His face after so long, the causal way He walked. wondering if anyone knew what He had done. What I had done.

I had passed Him in the cafeteria. His eyes lingered on mine, predatory, daring me to say a word. I looked away, kept walking as if it never happened. as if my insides weren't strung up higher than telephone wires. As if I wasn't standing in a room with the person who was my own personal earthquake. I ended up collapsing in a bathroom stall, slouched up against the wall, hands trembling like Haitian sidewalks, not even 5 minutes from the passing. I called crying to my mother to come and get me unable to complete my next class.
"I can't do this, Mom." I  wailed, "I can't see Him."
She came and got me, understood, thankfully kept quiet. I was a bit inconsolable, and shook the whole **** way home.
All the hard work I had done in therapy, the hours of crying, tearing up Kleenex, rebuilding myself from the infrastructure collapsed as I did. The fire I ignited inside myself was burned out; gasoline and matches were unobtainable.


My mother told me to keep a stiff upper lip. She faces her version of my  demon everyday: my father, sleeps the same bed as him, Still holds his hand, wears the ring and the finger with it’s history. She didn't collapse, not yet. She was stronger. Ankles more fit to wear the shoes of abuse, inner destruction.

"I'm going away for the weekend."
"Are you coming back?"
"I don't know."

My mother exited in November, in her kitten-heels and bruises and secrets. Came back a month later and was blinded with a cold front storming out her youngest daughter.

Her choice to leave. My choice to leave. They mirrored each other. She never slammed the door though, left more quietly than I could.

I still have no skin, I keep peeling it away, in hopes to show someone something a little deeper than my shallow body, my bruised knees and the coldness that lingers

I stay substantial though, iridescent, like the tide rolling in. Falling over myself. Finding myself shrinking and rising.
Paolo C Perez Jan 2012
The kid whose mom always prefaced his introduction with "he's a little shy". He wasn't shy, he was careful, careful from an early age to speak only the most particular of words after seeing how it was a careless choice of words that tore his parents apart. This was the kid who could hear his father yelling and his mother crying but lacked the courage to leave his post at the bottom of the stairs and give his mom a hug. He knew that was all she really needed.

He knew from an early age all he required for a sound nights sleep was a hug and kiss from his dad. This is the kid who would stay up, wordless, into the night wondering if he was safe. As the evening waned and the hours passed he'd never think that his dad forgot. Daddy never forgets. It became his mantra and as he fell into a deep meditative state he would have the same dream as he ever had on those hug less nights. Waking up the next morning he could always recall that warm blanket of a hug because after all, daddy never forgets..

Be the kid who held his hand over his heart during the morning pledge but never volunteered to say it over the speakers because he hated the sound of his own voice. His teacher would bring it up at parent teacher night but his mom always stood up for him "he's just shy". Upon returning home they would ask how his day was and he would smile, shrug, and fall into them, simply awaiting that embrace.

Be the kid who, when his parents finally divorced, never asked them what happened. He never asked them because what if his words had the same effect? Words were lava and if you fell into them you would die. So instead you choose life. On walks home from school, hopping from stone to stone, you never squished an ant or trashed a nest, you cried for the first time when your dog died because nothing ever loved you like he did. He never said a word yet he understood you better than anyone ever did and the thought of coming home and not seeing him basking in the sunlight under his favorite spot in the living room made you bawl.

That night you would have a dream about heaven, place where you could visit in your sleep, a place where upon opening ones mouth sunbeams burst forth hot enough to bask in but never enough to burn.

Be the kid whose most anxious night was spent at that first middle school dance. Boys and girls dancing and the compulsion within him to do the same was palpable. Sure he could have danced alone but He didn't want to dance alone. He wanted to dance with that little girl sitting down by the Coke machine. The one with the frilly dress down to her knees, red band in her hair, and bangs that begged the question "where do i get me one of those. You should be this kid because he actually paid attention when his parents were watching their old movies. You would walk up to that girl and without a word look down into her eyes and for a moment forget why it is that you walked over, but when you finally came too you'd remember that scene from that old black and white movie and put your hand out just like Humphrey bugarr did - at least you think that was his name.

Be this kid because while everyone else was awkwardly moving and swaying like branches in the wind you knew how to hold someone. You knew how to have a conversation without words and this night you two were writing novels. What song was playing? No clue, she'll get mad at you one day for not remembering and you'll be surprised when it was something as stupid as 'I want it that way'.

This is the kid whose favorite nights were spent in her car after driving you home. This is the same kid who when she told him she loved him all he could think was "how can I see you so well when the porch light isn't even on?” She says again, hey - you silly goose, did you hear me? I said I love you. Be this kid because you weren't stupid like everyone else and said "I think I love you too". You grabbed her face and kissed her and for that moment both your worlds stood still. Stagnant in that pregnant pause, just before you broke, you’d catch her gaze and simply smile, warm as heaven.

Be this kid because you would never have a problem with people not liking you. You were far too observant to fall into that trap. Everyone hated the bullies and just called them jerks. The class clown was entertaining but everyone said he was dumb. The girls in the lunchroom seemed never to have anything nice to say about Jennifer and Lindsey and you couldn't even finish your lunch because you just wanted to slam your hands on the table and yell "no Sam, he doesn't like you. Maybe you should actually let him talk instead of complaining about how you don't like his friends. Next time you see him don't beg him for his jacket because, ****, it’s really cold at the skating rink in December. He told you he was taking you to the rinks, why didn't you bring your own **** jacket?

But you would never actually say that, because people would label you judgmental. Rather, remain in peace as the quiet kid because no one could ever put a label on you with any certainty. Sure they could say you were mean, more likely they would say you're weird, but you had loyal friends. Friends who upon hearing that would ask "Really? He's weird? Why is he weird hmm?” Their rebuttal was always "I mean...I dunno, he just really weird, I guess". You would never give them an actual reason to hate you. The meanest things they could ever say about you would be opinion. Opinions are like really *******. Full and generally well rounded, but in the end it was the real stuff you were after.

Be the quiet kid because your silence would show strength. When she breaks up with you through oceans and sands miles away over the phone you won't say a word. She won't be able to see the look of devastation in your eyes and she'll feel terrible for doing it. She would tell her friends that you were so strong. "He didn't yell he, he didn't argue, he didn't ask me if there was another guy, he didn't even cry". Yeah. You cried. But she would never know how much.

Be the quiet kid who always meets someone else. The quiet kid who will draw in strangers because they can feel his energy, they're figuratively and literally moved by it. They sit down next to you across the bench and introduce themselves with a perfectly innocent "whatcha reading?” Which you think is a dumb question because the words “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime” were clearly printed in large yellow text on both the front and back covers. Simple trivialities.

Be the quiet kid because the quiet kid will become a quiet man, a quiet man who people could always turn to as their rock. You are stable, you are certain, and you always display your emotions because how else would you speak?

Be the quiet kid because the quiet man will have quiet children, and their children will be quiet and the children after them will be quiet too. Be the quiet kid because you and all your quiet children will never forget to give your kids their goodnight hug.
blankpoems Aug 2013
You're so beautiful darling,
your words can move mountains even when you think
they can't touch an anthill.
You are a rebel with a cause and the cause is me.
You are Janis Joplin in the evening, without the ******.
"Darling, I love you"
"I love you, darling" and there was no need to say "too"
Three words were enough to throw a curveball in a hockey rink,
to ride horses in a car race, to love someone at night
and even more in the morning.
You are an earthquake, I know you'll break my heart but I welcome it.
It would be such an honor to be broken by you.
You are my guilty pleasure and all of my proud ones.
I want to tattoo you on my skin in places only I can see
so that every time I take off my sweater and my tshirt and everything
masking my scars and tree rings of age, I will always be surprised to find you.
I want to hold you in the crevice of my elbow like a baby and never ever let you go.
Darling, you're a willow tree that I write poems under.
In the most poetic way, I found you in hallways, always.
In my high school where I hid in the bathrooms, Jane loves John
and everything else scribbled in hearts in bad ninth grade writing.
I found you there. I find you here, in my heart.
You are filled with blood, you are 72% water that I would gladly drown in.
I think if I kissed you you'd poison me with your lips.
You are the forked tongue of desire.
I want to talk to you about dreams, I want to be your sweetest nightmare.
I don't want you to question reality but if you do, think you're lucid dreaming.
Because I want you to want me around; even when you're sleeping.
You are 2am with the lights on and the music loud.
You are a five hour time difference dancing inside of me like a storm.
If my knees wouldn't give out, I would run to you.
And when they did, I would crawl to you.
My hands scraped from debris from car crashes, you are electric.
You are heat lightning. You give me flashes of hope on a humid day.
You are a winter breeze through a cracked window in all of the glorious ways that could be glorious.
I will whisper to you that I don't know why I'm whispering,
there is nobody home, "I love you" sounds better in hushed tones.
You're so beautiful, Darling.
The prettiest pictures you'll ever take will be self-portraits.
Don't argue with me, I know you're stubborn.
It's written in the stars.
You can move me like a mountain or an anthill
because your strength is a blood diamond permanently placed on my left hand.
I did, I do, I will.
You are forever.
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2012
Sights and sounds of the sixties

Soon you will be going to the class reunion I over exaggerate as you head for the door I think my kids
Think I not only read ally Oop in the comic strip they act like I knew him personally. Here is what they
Don’t know let’s start easy when you’re setting in the country club and there is a lull listen with your mind
It not that far to the end of the golf course from the west south corner to the first road that is an eighth
Of a mile every hot rod man or girl already knows that. Play the song GTO in your head going to shut
Them down GTO. Listen to Jims engine howl he had it stroked and bored out in Taylorville you can do
that when daddy owns a bar to bad howl will turn to sobs really. Glen’s driving a dodge cornet with an
automatic on the floor sixty six factory line job you wouldn’t know it by looking Glen blew him away
coming out of the hole never touched or came close at top end Glen was a lone well I told you what Jim
was doing.
Strain a little more you can hear a fifty five chevy leaving the Dog & Suds headed for Elvers Skating rink
he floors it finally he lets it back off what a sound as that glass pack muffler rips the night air see any
Dinosaurs got rid of that old feeling yet. Out on the street here comes the bad with a capital B Lee miller
Is driving his fifty five Chevy burnished brown all the chrome plus the door handles are gone inside and out it is a
Dream are you getting it yet I’m talking about your achievements. Kenny Krivage is over at Rocks burning
cigarettes through five dollar bills on his arm before he was just a good looking kid then the sixties got
Him you were either at rocks or hiding from those that went there. Lot safer drinking cherry coke with
Janice at the hometown cafe even Karate didn’t protect you at rocks the Neece kid even taught it but
when you got a fist of fives coming at your head it not time for theory its time for action. Who can forget
the pied piper Jim Handy was the shortest guy in town unless you were in the first grade but the gang of
six foot behemoths that were his constant companions were hard to miss it must have been how the
poles felt when they saw the Germans on the march. They had a menacing sound long before they laid a
little love on you, your life’s last moments filled with terror until you realized they turned the corner and
went another way how selfish you felt as you sang someone else is going to die today give me a fire
breathing dragon any day. Poor oh pop sinnard never got any business just one kid drinking a vanilla
shake his special thin hamburger I bet that guy could get a hundred burgers out of a pound of ground round
well the pin ball machine was wide open I guess the kid got even for the hamburger there was a certin
Song on the juke box something about eighteen miners scrambled from a would be grave there he stood
all alone Big bad John. Let me tell you Pop knew it he heard it every day I think he stated crying for the
miners one day or was something else on his mind.
Well I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you about what was going on in the other part of the country west
coast on 101 going to Frisco going south 101 on the other side Jan and Dean the Beach boys came a live
for a mile and a half every blond guy and girl and all the hot rod chromed out zooped up cars of every
Description was headed to Laguna Seca to the races all the while we were in a Volkswagen bug military
haircuts civies on we looked like a bunch of confused narks like were going to fool any one in that car
And garb we were wearing not to worry hippies are not long on thinking especially when they stood on
the corner in the height and Ahbury in broad day light selling *** for a nickel a lid slang for five bucks you could get
small glad bag of Royal Gold hashish or do what the winos do get a bottle of thunderbird or ripple what
ever know this Wolf Man Jack is blasting the air waves from Mexico since he violated the rules our hero the
man could talk jive and if you were high you thought he was divine I guess you surmise I wasn’t a
Christian at this low point in my life but the Monterey Pop festival was in full swing. The line up Janis
Joplin Jimmy Hendricks mama and the Papas Otis Redding of Dock of the Bay fame and a cast of
Thousands of hippies you couldn’t find a bare spot down town Monterey sidewalks grass the kind you
walk on doorways every where a hippie and not a bar of soap among them. Know this you have been
tamed by time and age but to duck your head forget it this world won’t see your kind again.
Oriana Irene Jan 2014
The ice skating rink
The Rockefeller tree
Cielo on Thursday night in NYC,

The holidays, Christmas
New Years Eve,
The Orange bowl
Church
My baptism

Two months and twenty nine days of memories
I am left with these
And you?

Happy without me.
slave is someone who does not have authority over their own lives slave is someone subservient controlled dominated by somebody something slave works very hard for little or no pay slave is property of somebody something slave is someone forced to obey

sycophant is someone servile who overly flatters more powerful individual for personal gain sycophant is bootlicker brown-noser fawner flunkey doormat lackey lap-dog yes-men parasite toad-eater (pause reposition) somebody possessed of excessive vanity may cultivate sycophant swarms

side by side they stand clothed in black not quite similar the one slightly taller possibly because the other suffers poor posture perhaps they are related because in odd way they appear alike or of same ilk yet upon closer scrutiny it becomes apparent they have very little or nothing in common the taller one with troubled sad eyes the other smiling obsequiously the taller one more muscular ***** from working menial labor the other with curved spine slumped shoulders because of undue bowing and crouching while blowing smoke up other people’s *****

sadist is someone who attains ****** gratification by inflicting physical pain shame to other people sadist is someone who delights in excessive cruelty degradation to others

******* is someone who achieves ****** pleasure from being hurt humiliated abused dominated punished often self-inflicted ******* is someone who enjoys being harmed misused mistreated ignored by others

sadomasochist is someone who gets ****** gratification by alternately or simultaneously enduring hurt causing pain to somebody else sadomasochist is combination of sadistic masochistic tendencies in someone who obtains ****** pleasure from inflicting submitting to pain cruelty

sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator who gains pain through pleasure 2000 miles from equator IED cell phone detonator sycophant dilettante ***** up to sadistic art critic or publishing editor on escalator while below on main floor of shopping mall ice rink figure skater pirouettes bows to nominator surreptitiously bribed by infiltrator mutilator
Anna Lo Dec 2012
stands alone today and tells a story to clouds
(putt putt)
the worst has happened at the days end
and the frozen orange Gallon
like ice has chosen to now become hand
all in all more or less
3.78lbs put in plastic wrap.
stands alone in the dollar market surrounds with fleeting thoughts sometimes forgotten
today at days end lost while
****** sun at times lost in ******* ******* snake movie
pouring into the retina of the brainless child
o mi babbino mi caro,  past is the skating rink of hell but
knock yourselves out in deep perpetual insanity of whats, hows and neverminds.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosallyc­an be adisappointmentsometimesbutwestillloveherbecausesheis just whatwe callfamilyandfamilyissoimportanttoidentifyoneselfinaworldofchaosc­alledearthoooooooooooooooooooooooooo
computer glitch and error of the metaphysic naiveté of the skating rink of hell near the ******* ******* snake movie in the story of the white trashed oppressively personified virgo at the dollar market holding a gallon of orange juice that costs more than $7.65 because it's apparently organic and thereby magical.
kirk Oct 2018
Who owns Jack Jones, is he part of your clan?
Does Mr Jones actually exist, is he a real live man
Why does he resemble Boyd, is this part of his plan
Jack is such a manly name, but so is Phil and Stan

Don't use "Boy" within your name, you'll impose an adult ban
Boyish names are not much good, there not like John or Dan
You wouldn't call grandfathers boys, or say girl to your nan
Stop abusing ol' Jack Jones, and avoid Boyd if you can

Boyd is easy to avoid, its easier than we thought
An alteration has took place, but that's what Boyd has sought
Elusiveness is not too smart, because already you've been caught
We've worked out who Jack Jones is, and it accounts to nought

Your lacking iron clad alibis, nothing is set in wrought
It's criminal to own Jack Jones, so please would you abort
No rights to use another name, your being a bad sport
Is Boyd considered as a name, or is it "boy" for short

Intellect is not too strong, that's only what you think
Using an alias is unwise, if you show a photo link
Why bother changing to Jack Jones, how low you gonna sink
Your mother's been kept in the dark, about releasing your white ink

Is Jack Jones the one, who's been sinking in the pink?
Wasn't it Boyd's low ***** count, that went inside the mink?
You are skating on thin ice, when there's cracks in the rink
Just who owns Jack Jones, when Boyd's back from the brink

Identities are broken, just what did you think you'd gain
Your just a ******* imbecile, to think you'd relieve the strain
You can't hide yourself away, you must be quite insane
It's not as though your mother lives, in germany or Spain

Everyone knows who you are, it's in your face and plain
It is just pathetic to make Jack Jones the main
Jack Jones is just too common, you should try a name like shane
Just don't **** about with names, or Jack Jones will be jocks Jane

Your ashamed of what you've done, you try to skulk and hide
You didn't mind the ******, or having your fun ride
Be a man and not a "Boyd", it's time to turn the tide
Come on Boyd you did not avoid, legs that were astride

Morality is in pursuit, but you have no sense of pride
Who's Jack Jones supposed to be, now  sperms slid down the slide
Other aliases may exist, do you have bits on the side
Or are you only interested, when things are open wide

Is Jack Jones the father, or is he born from rubber clones
Boyd is the spitting image, he's been seen on mobile phones
Hostile namesake takeovers, do you have *** slaves and drones
There's no sense in your deception, because this isn't Game of Thrones

We don't want identities stolen, you borrow names like loans
Jack's already being used, it's a name that someone owns
Maybe names can hurt you, as well as sticks and stones
So cease in your activities , you don't know who owns Jack Jones
This poem is dedicated to Mandy who influenced its writing
When you tell yourself
You will fall in love
Is when you fall the hardest

I hit the dry pavement with a smack
We were at the ice rink at fifteen
And you said those three words
With a heart full of fear
I said them back

I was so right to be afraid

It's starting all over
And I'm gonna run
But sometimes
Running hurts
Just as much as that **** pavement.
Social Network, droll and at times informative: keeping me in tune with out of tune people. Except, this time you did something different. This time you took a life from my web of friends a trend of late: One loss to cancer, one to a fatal accident, another to pneumonia, and the rest deceased from overdoses. It’s been so many that the track marks are beginning to show across my veiny webs, long black thin trails leading to round puncture wounds where the touch of cold steel kissed your skin, stroked your hair back, and slowly laid you to bed exactly where you sat. This network doesn't show me the nights you cry curled in the corner, it doesn't reveal the moment when the ocean came crashing into the Steel Pier you are, tearing away lumps of mangled frame work from beneath, soaking brine and rattling support beams that you depend on. A smile instead manages to froth along the pages scrolled like white curled lapping shorelines pushing foam further up the sandy coast with each eroding wave.  Now I stand in the wave of your wake; among seagulls flapping their dense thoughts and cretinous like minds and memories each vouching for the validity of their affirmations about the soul whose body is now center stage like a porcelain doll on a shelf to be displayed and examined exposed to all with each and every flaw highlighted so that they can have a chance at reciting her history, origins, funny moments, and fatal mistakes. The difference here is that there is no makers mark; there is no branded tag, no little black book of logs from which we can pull and decipher or recall every waking moment of your life. The reality is that for those of us who lost touch with you all that we know now is only history or what we thought we knew. It’s such *******, I’m not a historian, I really was your friend back then, but because of that I don’t remember ****, just the frame of the picture within, the shell of who you were, of what we did. I can tell you it was fun: the Bacardi filled Gatorade bottles, the sound of your laughter diluted in an intoxicating environment of rollerblades on the rink-floor, contemporary music and house beats reverberating against the circling congregation of equally happy and inebriated teenage youths. But how could I ever describe you today, who you were when you passed. That is not something I can claim as some of these birds squawk. Your social posts were a false facade. Obviously there was something I missed, what was it. Was it so subtle? So much like a light breeze fluttering at the thin frayed thread of a seam that I could have seen but didn't care enough to realize it was there. Were you just a tumbling leaf among a forest of fresh autumn arrivals lost in the vastness, one among millions? It pains me to admit that as much as I would have liked to have been a friend to you during your dark times, I too was in a dark place of my own and in turn was deaf and blind to the billowing smoke signals that tried to underline and emphasize the sorry plights of others. I wish you could have told your story yourself, could have left a memoir of the ****** up thoughts that zipped through behind your eyes while you filtered the layers of **** served in white paper bags that this world seems to dish up like a fast food chain of heartbreak and deep ruts, while every so often rewarding us with a mistakenly placed toy or salad to “make up” for the rest of the empty calories served. I've tried so long to be an optimist, to look at the glass half full, but that glass is shattered on the floor right now, I broke it. My life hasn't been easy, not many people’s lives are and that’s life, I understand that much. If it isn't raining it’s snowing, if it isn't snowing it’s hailing, and if there isn't any precipitation it’s either hot or cold as hell and you have to fight through it to make it to the next day. I’m taking the shoes I wear now off so I can step on that pile of excrement they call a glass half full, half empty. Give me the pain, it hurts and the tears burn as they roll down my cheeks while I stare at this half a cent card with your face on it and some mass produced poem on the back listening to the ******* eulogy mutterings of everyone around me, but I want that. I would take this shuttering pain, this volcano of discharged emotions erupting from the shaking core of my body. I would take it any day over the numbness that is ******. Wasn't your child a life raft? Wasn't he the duck it or **** it of your life? Had you not a fiancé to whom which you could have rested your beaten structure on? Did you not have an array of support, a field of pile driven beams to share the weight in it all? Or was it a mistake? Was it a fault of somebody else that provided you with the birthday batch of ******? When you blew out the candles and smiled behind the thin line of adumbrating smoke that sketched out the soul behind your eyes did you think to yourself, today will be the celebration and cessation of my birthday; a bitter sweet memory for all who know me: on this day she was both born and deceased. Today she began to live and learned of death. I will never have the answers for the many who continue to fade into the credits of their dismal painful lives, but I will never stop trying to understand and I will never learn to forget or let go. This blood in my veins detest the cold steel rush that so many of you have tasted, that so many of you ran to when no one was listening, when no one was looking, when no one could comprehend you anymore and the only languages you spoke were procured from endless nights on the cushioned wooden floor as you drifted off among the silver linen clouds, as you left this body on earth and spoke with angels perched over the smoke stack that overlooked the back-lit-keyboard of lights that was your city, your town, your home while the strand of rubber slowly fell from your arm. We couldn't hear you, and those **** angels seem to weave such a pretty tale sometimes when you forget that you are speaking to your own deceitful mind. I will learn that language, I will look for those signs, I will place a candle on the sill beckoning every friend of mine to come and share with me in person. Let me reach into that white bag and see what is inside, I’ll eat whatever you pull out whether they are empty calories or not, preservative filled fries cold or hot. You are my friends and Social Networks are a lie, just a wall to hide behind, an occasionally droll and informative medium, until you die and then there is nothing left to pretend to say or be.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Sights and sounds of the sixties
Soon you will be going to the class reunion I over exaggerate as you head for the door I think my kids
Think I not only read ally Oop in the comic strip they act like I knew him personally. Here is what they
Don’t know let’s start easy when you’re setting in the country club and there is a lull listen with your mind
It not that far to the end of the golf course from the west south corner to the first road that is an eighth
Of a mile every hot rod man or girl already knows that. Play the song GTO in your head going to shut
Them down GTO. Listen to Jims engine howl he had it stroked and bored out in Taylorville you can do
that when daddy owns a bar to bad howl will turn to sobs really. Glen’s driving a dodge cornet with an
automatic on the floor sixty six factory line job you wouldn’t know it by looking Glen blew him away
coming out of the hole never touched or came close at top end Glen was a lone well I told you what Jim
was doing.
Strain a little more you can hear a fifty five chevy leaving the Dog & Suds headed for Elvers Skating rink
he floors it finally he lets it back off what a sound as that glass pack muffler rips the night air see any
Dinosaurs got rid of that old feeling yet. Out on the street here comes the bad with a capital B Lee miller
Is driving his fifty five Chevy burnished brown all the chrome plus the door handles are gone inside and out it is a
Dream are you getting it yet I’m talking about your achievements. Kenny Krivage is over at Rocks burning
cigarettes through five dollar bills on his arm before he was just a good looking kid then the sixties got
Him you were either at rocks or hiding from those that went there. Lot safer drinking cherry coke with
Janice at the hometown cafe even Karate didn’t protect you at rocks the Neece kid even taught it but
when you got a fist of fives coming at your head it not time for theory its time for action. Who can forget
the pied piper Jim Handy was the shortest guy in town unless you were in the first grade but the gang of
six foot behemoths that were his constant companions were hard to miss it must have been how the
poles felt when they saw the Germans on the march. They had a menacing sound long before they laid a
little love on you, your life’s last moments filled with terror until you realized they turned the corner and
went another way how selfish you felt as you sang someone else is going to die today give me a fire
breathing dragon any day. Poor oh pop sinnard never got any business just one kid drinking a vanilla
shake his special thin hamburger I bet that guy could get a hundred burgers out of a pound of ground round
well the pin ball machine was wide open I guess the kid got even for the hamburger there was a certin
Song on the juke box something about eighteen miners scrambled from a would be grave there he stood
all alone Big bad John. Let me tell you Pop knew it he heard it every day I think he stated crying for the
miners one day or was something else on his mind.
Well I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you about what was going on in the other part of the country west
coast on 101 going to Frisco going south 101 on the other side Jan and Dean the Beach boys came a live
for a mile and a half every blond guy and girl and all the hot rod chromed out zooped up cars of every
Description was headed to Laguna Seca to the races all the while we were in a Volkswagen bug military
haircuts civies on we looked like a bunch of confused narks like were going to fool any one in that car
And garb we were wearing not to worry hippies are not long on thinking especially when they stood on
the corner in the height and Ahbury in broad day light selling *** for a nickel a lid slang for five bucks you could get
small glad bag of Royal Gold hashish or do what the winos do get a bottle of thunderbird or ripple what
ever know this Wolf Man Jack is blasting the air waves from Mexico since he violated the rules our hero the
man could talk jive and if you were high you thought he was divine I guess you surmise I wasn’t a
Christian at this low point in my life but the Monterey Pop festival was in full swing. The line up Janis
Joplin Jimmy Hendricks mama and the Papas Otis Redding of Dock of the Bay fame and a cast of
Thousands of hippies you couldn’t find a bare spot down town Monterey sidewalks grass the kind you
walk on doorways every where a hippie and not a bar of soap among them. Know this you have been
tamed by time and age but to duck your head forget it this world won’t see your kind again.
Anoushka Jain Jan 2015
Shackled hands and bowed heads,
Screams of those who slowly bled.
In the middle, laughing in cold demise,
Fuelled by all those howling cries,
Stood a man with heart black as ink,
Pain and sorrow made his rink.

A little girl, with a golden smile.  
Her father was her eternal mile.
Love of a mother, stolen by ink,
Tears flew from every blink.
Stolen away was her father too,
Truly hidden in the blue.
An oath of revenge, sliced the night.
In search of ink went, her eyes bright.

The pen of life replaced by a sword,
In front the inkheart known to hoard.
Slice, the sword cut through his heart,
And charred black ink stained the dart.

No one with an ink black soul,
Can live for long in galore.
Slowly Karma takes its place,
And no human can create a brace.
Francie Lynch Nov 2015
Aine sits in our big chair,
Her legs stretched out,
Her feet are bare;
I'm counting ten wee toes for her,
Toes I love so dear.

They lead her from the crib to stairs,
Though never far from loving care;
Those ten wee toes we love so dear,
Will take her far,
Will lead her there.

They'll get ***** in the garden
While laughing in the rain;
They'll be her fins
When she swims,
They'll wiggle
When she sings.

They'll tap out eighths and quarters
When she plays her songs;
She'll slip them into runners
For a race to last life-long.

They'll get cold on the rink
When she plays our game;
We'll rub those toes quite vigorously
To warm the ice-cold sting.

They'll fit right into heels and pumps
When she plays her game;
But for me those liddle toes of hers
Will always be the same.
"our game": hockey
MARIO Aug 2018
Dew
Hear the dull pitter patter, sip my drink
Climbing no ladders, life's a hockey rink
But that's how I like it, do the **** my way
Lay low for a bit, then come out to play
Every day, it's like this every day
Cosmic endless work with no pay
I wake every rise and taste the dew on my tongue
I bake every fall and taste the smoke in my lungs
Nothing changes where my heart sets itself
Except my handsome unhinged mental health
If anything could change this world for the better
It'd be if every evil had it's own scarlet letter
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Our Town

This is a reminisce exclusively dealing with childhood so let’s skip about the hood
Were any of you standing in the alley at Rudows Friday night with a raffle trying to win a pony?
I never won but by the picture she shared Donna had a horse to ride thanks to her shutter bugging
We have a photo journal of sorts that preserve our precious memories and I thought Reed handled it
I guess he holds the distinction for Pana news Photography and over the years has done a fine job
Can’t forget George’s how about Mr. murry from murry’s TV skating at Price skating rink I bet every one
Got one of those famous rides home Mr. Price and his wife would have that little truck full almost
Dragging the bottom and I swear it didn’t matter where you lived you had a free ride home. That was
Pana sorry girls will leave you out a moment but Whities pool hall any one for cut throat or a little game
In the back, or watch his son the pool shark clean out a sucker who tried to beat Greg. I could never get
My head around and miss prim and proper school teacher misses white is mother and wife all those
Years if she went there she was dressed like Jackie Onassis dark sunglasses London fog rain coat and
Head scarf remember those I don’t care there are two killer women one in a silk colorful head scarf and
A long haired beauty in a cow boy hat I guess it would look better in jeans. Can’t leave this out on that
Note a long skip out of our town into our country Colorado Springs at a chevron gas station sorry here I
Go boy talking this vision picture Raquel Welch I can’t believe I didn’t miss spell her name I got from
School what was important then add Sophia Loren blue jeans so tight if she gave you change and
Dropped a coin and hit those pants any where dude, do some serious ducking because its ricochet time
That sounds French how appropriate those French think of everything even the speech therapist at
Lincoln school wa la one heart attack at a time please even this flash light I use to type in the dark is
Getting hot back to this vision now finish with a Dolly Parton top without going to a weird extreme then
Long black raven hair and don’t dare ask me what did she sound like who was listening my Cherokee
Eyes probably were clear back past my ears. Then the most gorgeous cooperies skin I want to know how
In the red man’s crap did they lose, First Colorado and then the rest of the war? Well I had my own set
Of problems the girl in the my car would have been a little up tight if I would have hailed her a cab it was
A long way back to Pana and I don’t think this was a liberal section of Colorado Springs where her
Husband over in the gas station would let his wife date. By this time I didn’t look to bad and I started
My life long effort of mastering the use of words but on the inside I was pretty much a dufus I will take
An out the stars were not lined up I couldn’t even figure out some way if only the gas tank would run
Down the gutter you no a never filled tank well two things my jaw was tired of laying on the ground and
Wearing a gas hose and nozzle for a necktie I didn’t think I could pull it off literally sorry after that
Recounting this fool isn’t going back to our town as the hippie mixed with a beatnik would say I’m gone.

— The End —