"ritzy" poems
Thrown away carrom men
Hunting for the queen
Grey white turqoise marbles
a spinning top on the table
an electric motor a gadget then
bifid nibbed fountain pen
Cassette wheels and a chip of steel
ran faster than ritzy hotwheels
tazos and trumps spurred triumphant jumps
peacock clay in redolent sandalwood
I collected and carry in the treasure of childhood
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
I am wading out knee deep into the evening's drinks.
I let my eyeballs take a dip as my wallet plays the breaker.
You'd think the woman had tourettes the way she tries to wink.
She flirts no better than the sisters who oft walk god's acre.
Maestro, another!
A black suit hammers ritzy tusks somewhere across the bar.
The waves upon the wires lap across my eardrum's shore.
My lonely, daydream doll is finally called off from afar.
I'm far too low and far too blitzed to enjoy another bore.
Maestro, another!
When I recall how we met, I transubstantiate my veins
with hopes to find a fertile mound to plough to rude degrees.
Too many furrows to recall, but still your name remains.
So, still I hunt for lonely moths who dance beneath marquees.
Maestro, another!
Why does every truth align with all the stars at night
only to scatter just as broken glass when morning breaks?
Every wholesome oath I swear to cherish all my life
melts with every dewdrop my lawn's unkept blades shake.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 3:05 AM UTC
I want to go back
To Crackerjacks
And KoolAid on ice.
Ice cream sandwiches
And Chick O Stick candy.
That would be so nice.
Double feature matinees
At the local movie show
With cartoons in between.
Car crashes and then the
Cliff hanger serials
Were the best we’d ever seen.
Things like snow days, and
Skinny dipping swimming holes
Great on hot summer days.
And matchbook motors
On the spokes of our bikes
After school every day.
Snow cones and soda pop
Then we turned in the bottles
For two pennies to by sweets.
Snowball forts in the winter time
That were serious business
On every neighborhood street.
Things were so simple then
We each had a list of what
We wanted Santa to bring.
Some wanted ritzy stuff
And others only wanted
A **** Tracy decoder ring.
Life was almost all about
Going to school and then
Waiting for classes to let out.
And though there are joys
For grown girls and boys
It felt good to run and shout!
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:26 PM UTC
Oh, Joseph, we love this fine and ritzy party
No, through the poppy fields we rode a cart, see?
I agree, but at that time the lake was dry
There were castles and spires and dragons this high!
Joseph, what a very, very good party.
--At times, I find there are never parties
But it has been so long since this trip I’ve started
So long from home, with the pain of thought-wandering
Wander, wonder if the dead sit so pondering
In their solitude.
What time find men to thought-wander when dead?
Where seconds breathe lifetimes, bleed red
And when will thought-wandering cave in my head?
The stammered squabbles of parties bled
Out into my hearing.
--Oh, I simply cannot believe the things he says
My dear, did he philosophize about his pauper days?
Lord, how she would twist and turn the conversation
She’d laugh and cheer and nod, all to appease him
Do you hear them now?
--In no earthy place could one ever find such a cracked imagination
Go, and thought-wander the depths of my empty nation;
You’ll find a few dismantled towns, a statue, gold;
A statue of me, built by me, where parties were held
Even there you won’t find it.
Perhaps, if one could find, some lonely corner
With shadows and planks in the heart of the world
Where the dead would sit and the dead would ponder
The fuss and precision of their last friend, the coroner
There you may find it.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 9:37 PM UTC
Dirt and Soil are two very different entities:
Dirt ruins sidewalks with villainous hieroglyphs
Tainting mounDs of snow betwIxt blackenEd dishonor,
Staining calloused hands with failed attempts at beauty.
Soil energizes budding stems of life
Beautifying chiLd-rIdden parks along suburban aVenuEs,
Painting hard work and dedication on weathered fingertips.
Everything around me is glimmering with the remnants of a luxurious Soil bath at a ritzy hotel,
While I am clutching my shaking body, sitting in a puddle of mud amidst a ***** tsunami.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
Payday to payday
Is there any other way?
I’d call out a mayday
But what would I say?
I’ll pay it back someday?
But there is no way.
The outlook is gray.
Nothing saved for a rainy day.
Coins jingling in the pocket
Paper money makes no sound.
The coins are pennies and a dime
That I just found on the ground.
Some days my nest-egg can
Be counted as just a few cents.
I have grown used to living without
Much of a sense of recompense.
Payday to payday
Is there any other way?
I’d call out a mayday
But what would I say?
I’ll pay it back someday?
But there is no way.
The outlook is gray.
Nothing saved for a rainy day.
Nothing like any kind of income
About which I can easily brag.
No shiny stuff, never any bling.
No limo, no Rolex, no swag.
Though I did once dream of
Living in a ritzy sprawling place,
That kind of daydreaming is
For someone who won the race.
Payday to payday
Is there any other way?
I’d call out a mayday
But what would I say?
I’ll pay it back someday?
But there is no way.
The outlook is gray.
Nothing saved for a rainy day.
It’s often called The Rat Race
But I have a problem with that.
I saw a whole lot of fat cats
But I never saw even one rat.
I think it’s better to call them
What they actually happen to be.
They’re hard workers, underpaid.
They’re the working class, they’re me.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 4:19 AM UTC
Stories always seem to start in the summer
Not as in
"begin"
or for the first time
be conceived,
but when they live
Winter is dormant,
all the laid groundwork
beneath frozen grass,
yellow-green ice shards
protruding from their
chandelier garden
Hopes and
wishes and
dreams and
sadness and
loves
Pent up
for the past 9 months,
emotional gestation
released in
a bacchanalian
of shameless
feelings
and ritzy wine-coolers
Drink from the goblet.
Fear of the Kool-Aid
has past.
It's immortality.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
Secretly sprinkle my dust over Newt Gingrich's high fiber breakfast cereal . Or placed in the air plenum of a ritzy hotel whereby the elite should get a minuscule whiff of hardscrabble living , thrown on the interstate so as not to feel out of place , run over repeatedly by people that were forever needy ..By all means please pour me liberally over the Baked Alaska at any tax payer funded high price , 'hob knobbing' government extravaganza ! Usher my remains across a green farm pond to be eaten by catfish and passed to the bottom , carousing with the snails and the worms forever seeking cover . Perfectly content , hiding in the mud hoping not to be discovered ..
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
Unstable rabble
ill in mind, body and soul
unfulfilled and desperately unhappy
fearful always, insecure, lacking and inadequate
skeletons in cupboards, shaming secrets hidden aplenty
false, fake, white-washed and all semblance soulless nonentities
vacuous sad pathetic weak and academically challenged majority
ignorant belligerent bellicose cowards, drunkards n mob shysters
rise, rise. rise
jump, jump. jump
do the twist n put the boot in
stand up and bellow
you can't loose your chains
your self loathing is too great
your shame and pains hurt all the time
you are reminded of your insignificance always
your helplessness and your weaknesses shames you
you always have to fake it, scrape, beg, borrow and steal
the aggrieved spectators as talents, wealth and the ritzy drive past
rise, rise, rise
jump, jump, jump
do the locomotion and spread the ****
scream and shout
hurl slander and lies
fight like cowards and bully
get badass and wicked and mean
get ****** angry and get ****** even
leave your bacon butties and fry the greedy pigs
forget your chips and come chip the brains of the tyrants hogs
put down those pints and lets keep this momentum of hate alive so
rise, rise, rise
jump, jump, jump
do the stoning and lets move like Jagger
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 3:47 AM UTC
i just love the monday gray sky, mixing nicotine phlegm cough-up roughage taking part of my larynx and the oesophagus wall off while drinking coffee and melted hazelnut flavoured ice-cream (baileys).
european languages tend to stress an atomised syllables,
therefore encouraging a “cheating” mechanisation of the tongue,
don’t get me wrong, due to the lack of diacritic
in english, we have a wide diversity of accents,
no scot would say a posh yes, but rather say aye
like a pirate to a squire in a top hat...
the asiatic languages tend to twin letters rather than breed them
as unique and segregational, but then come across the problem
of outspoken dyslexia: cat ketchup.
the asiatic countries solved the matter in the rubric:
ni in
hon noh
ar ra
el le
po op
hence so much grammatical schrapnel in european languages,
the prepositions and the conjunctions etc.
it’s no wonder the complexity of compounding H or He or O
within CO2 or H2 or EtOH is necessary as is pictographic
representation in mandarin;
but it does make the european languages very musical,
actually that's what defines european languages
their musicology is due to phonetic approximation
of their characters a - z, alas if that were the sole +
on the matter... it's also a strand of languages
that fakes concerns, lies, and sees a quick gain
crafting a breed of ohs and zeros in the millions
for no apparent reason other than self-promotion,
white snail caviar pearl chandeliers ritzy champagne and yachts;
no wonder we have a second alphabet! i.e.
onomatopoeia /ˌɒnəˌmætəˈpiːə/.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
Driving alone at dusk
on what they see as roads,
roads that take them far.
I see the gravel beneath,
and my pebbles soaring far
Desolate benches they see,
where I see sunny ghosts,
ghosts still having a bash.
For they own the benches now
just like they always have
Ritzy glass shops,
where once, the setting sun
meant end of days play,
and it used to break hearts.
That streetlight across the ground,
where lie the forlorn shards
Busy cross roads,
coz the glass runs out of sand
Only once had it stopped,
my beats had counted seconds,
and I had held her little hand
New lives and new faces,
new past and its traces
New loves and their journeys,
new desires and their burnings
They sing these songs truly
but only I know,
and stars vouch for me,
how the tunes used to be
Nothing so fragrant,
nothing so nostalgic,
not even the love of hers
Call me a timeless poet
if I can cast my timeless childhood,
into half so timeless words
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 4:36 AM UTC
At the sound of the bell
rush the lunchroom
where melting hot cookies
make a sweet perfume.
Some kids have brown bags
names scribbled in pen,
while other kids have nobody
to pack bags for them.
Those are the kids
sitting on the lawn.
Smoke stuck in their shirts
from cigarette smoking moms.
They have ***** hands,
purple under eyes,
holes in their shirts,
and shoes untied.
They are kids
that don’t have names.
So easily forgotten
and forgotten again.
I’m among them,
the lonely, lunch-less, wild,
torn clothes and tangled hair.
“Problem child!”
Then there are glass eyed kids
ritzy and rotten
with button up shirts
of egyptian cotton.
They garble their candy
they snicker and crunch,
while us kids on the grass
watch their giant mouths munch.
I am used to what happens
every September.
It’s my birthday
my parents never remember.
but my friends present me
a candle to light
and I make a wish
they hold my hands tight.
*I wish
that we could all look out
for one another.
I wish
that we could be
each others
sisters and brothers.
I wish
that we could not be alone
and live together.
I wish
that we could make
our own family
that lasts
Forever.*
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
Man, you keep on spillin’
More than you’re a fillin’
So, you should never ever get all ya money
Where ya be gettin’ all of ones honey
You’ve inherited a handful of ritzy
An amount I’d say is just a little itsy bitsy
But I was born with a face full of glamour
So I guess now, I’m ritzy and glamorous, and so much more
You always did have a small mind, no matter
If I had to choose between you and my ex, I’d take the latter
‘Cause your always showing off to your friends
Think ya cool, cruisin’ Rodeo Drive, in a pimped out Benz
Little mama’s boy, hiding below those colored skin sketches
Paying for a little salad on the side, ‘cause they all let ya call dem *******
I own it now baby and I know its all from you
You owe me much more than what’s already overdue
You made me who I am today, even if it took over a decade
You showed me the figures I spent on your entertainment tab
But ya never were really that good at basic math
So before I left, I let the police know, you’re a sociopath.
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 7:15 AM UTC
The feeding space to German pilots supports drinking
games holy Dream sleep, dog rules are a donkey to the
tongue and the language of the child's Radio is a spiritual
Wall sporting friends like Naraka Nature's Old Brown
China Open convinced the Italians watching the Park;
the Song's truth Spans part of the European assembly
of the Mountain glass; Some rooms at King Devi's
and in cities to write relaying the Hours; many calls
have been made for those that easily dance
to finger, fingers' fingerprints in a loud Jaguar robot's Old Country Location,
Center the children in Museum Street, Willie, an International
Asian Master of Science's inner world, wildlife issues;
And the remembrance of Arabia, the best computer
of a poem: the dark age Bloom of speech, Vico of the vitamins,
the hard earth, created do not, to buy fields for the issues,
Modern Family: like a cloud, soft foods with much industry and Secrets,
of course he would come up as the smoke
of the Remindance the natural Books ECB is said,
to day of memories, care is said to the glory of the first part
of the enemy thinks that the money of
Quim's twin, O Lamb of warm water, feet of a hexameter
coupled with the Mirror of the Spanish nobleman
eating in ritzy Einstein's, the sister of peace.
The average poet gets a big kick out of the commandments
of the invisible to walk the blow with a loud voice
in the Asterella Kiss, the ladies to go to the chief of the mind.
To who goes two hundred to stop the revolution
with alkameric socks and hand movements of grape alcohol.
Inwarding frozen Hills, harbors give their parents smoke, India says
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 4:12 PM UTC
The vivaldian violin on
the sweet green grass,
the melodious moon
oozing sensuous bass,
'Tis a time drenched in
delicate honey delight.
On the luscious grass,
I swoon under the moon
as you, with a fine gaze,
send my mind to a maze.
The maddening wine
in your twinkling eye
invites the amorous vine
to rise high, up in sky.
As I see the ritzy river
embracing the rivulets,
lakes amidst lakelets,
islands around islets,
offer life in a new hue,
all in one fine you.
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC