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"roofing" poems
Fading Sun... I was looking at the graying sky. Trying to chase a fading sun I peeped above the pointed leaves of the Yucca tree My eyes were met by little bursts of orange stars And oblique sunbeams... emitting fading brightness Through the bushy leaves of the Sampaguita plant. I was waiting for the moths to appear Near my lighted candle, But a gusty wind blew, and made the shell chimes Sway back and forth...left and right Round their base and through, Until all five chimes made pleasant music With the cool, whirring wind. I was waiting for the late afternoon sky To turn to elephant gray To highlight the yellow glow from the street lamp So I could test some newly hung Christmas lights And the capiz lantern outside the french windows But the rainshowers came all at once And i found myself wet, from the pouring rain. I was waiting...and saw a changing sky The rain, just tip-tapping on the roof A much cooler air blowing... Bringing sprays of mist on my face... Suddenly emerging...the shape of a bat or two, Flying, crashing, through the dripping red palm tree. On the horizon, sun was now a dipping balloon If there's any, i would wait for any kind of moon. On the garden chair, i sat And just above me, came a regular stray cat I heard its paws lightly scratching The wet surface of the fiberglass roofing. I still wait...and contemplate on hopes and prayers I wait...for a lot of dreams to come true i wait, for this long day to be over While the night creatures, In their own tones and tunes Have started to croon... Sally Copyright October 16, 2015 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
0
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
FADING SUN
Fading Sun... I was looking at the graying sky. Trying to chase a fading sun I peeped above the pointed leaves of the Yucca tree My eyes were met by little bursts of orange stars And oblique sunbeams... emitting fading brightness Through the bushy leaves of the Sampaguita plant. I was waiting for the moths to appear Near my lighted candle, But a gusty wind blew, and made the shell chimes Sway back and forth...left and right Round their base and through, Until all five chimes made pleasant music With the cool, whirring wind. I was waiting for the late afternoon sky To turn to elephant gray To highlight the yellow glow from the street lamp So I could test some newly hung Christmas lights And the capiz lantern outside the french windows But the rainshowers came all at once And i found myself wet, from the pouring rain. I was waiting...and saw a changing sky The rain, just tip-tapping on the roof A much cooler air blowing... Bringing sprays of mist on my face... Suddenly emerging...the shape of a bat or two, Flying, crashing, through the dripping red palm tree. On the horizon, sun was now a dipping balloon If there's any, i would wait for any kind of moon. On the garden chair, i sat And just above me, came a regular stray cat I heard its paws lightly scratching The wet surface of the fiberglass roofing. I still wait...and contemplate on hopes and prayers I wait...for a lot of dreams to come true i wait, for this long day to be over While the night creatures, In their own tones and tunes Have started to croon... Sally Copyright October 16, 2015 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
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42
i'm not proud of nicknames... but then again, i find nicknames to be the archetypal form of endearment - a "belittling" with warm affection... i didn't have a nickname in primary school... the girls tried, rabbit... Danielle... i remember Danielle calling me rabbit, why? the way i ran... jumping in between running steps... i like Danielle,a brunette, with enough freckles to make her a ***** ginger... high school? Goldilocks named by Graham... or Chewbacca by Barry.. i was the only man attempting to grow long hair.. a mullet wast the running joke, among the Ian crowd... university? no nickname... shitty time... while industrial roofing took off, working for my father? Picasso... i was meticulous with the tar... but lately... my grandmother has a nickname for me... because of my beard... these days i'm know as Castro... i'm not proud of nicknames... but i didn't make them up! i wish i had... that being said... nicknames are quiet endearing... i'd love to see Danielle once more... see how much the freckles took over her complexion; Danielle... **** me... what an ****** name... like m first love in the English tongue... the moment i heard it... Sam-anth-a(h)... curly hair, darkened blonde, mingling an autumnal-cherry mahogany with chocolate cinnamon... **** i've been so erotically mobilized / motivated... from such an early age... Danielle & Samantha... nicknames... and the rest is, history.
0
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 10:04 PM UTC
i'm not proud of nicknames
Clouds are forming layers   The sky is turning gray Wind is dancing happily The trees begin to sway Creatures crawl inside Fires stoked up to heat Hatches battened down Prayers said for the wheat The ditches might flood Roofing will be torn apart But Idaho storms are lovely Like a beautiful work of art.
0
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 3:50 PM UTC
Idaho Storms
walking through the big flea market off of highway 19 north of Tampa looking for whatever and something curious and kitsch or campy merchants selling in the parking lot used blenders and old cameras burnt out or faulty devices DVD cases and game cartridges old rednecks shout out opinions in a cacophony of drawled signifiers representing visions of despotic rulers reigning a tyranny of taxes and decline old glass containers and windshields shine scattering high afternoon sunlight in the Sunday sky sitting and resting used and content waiting waiting for the wear and reduction of time the market continues into indoor aisles criss-crossing within a ramshackle structure plywood walls supporting sheet metal roofing an aroma of every greasy food wafting into one people wrapped in worn fashions whites in Ts and denim muslim women in headscarves a black deputy strapped down in uniform the deputy enforces commerce laws around the alternative marketplace a variety of commodities are still available bongs and e-cigs and incense and **** **** parakeets cry out down one aisle a stack of blue aquariums drone a bubbling hum the stench of cedar and rat **** and hamsters reptiles basking in the arid glow of heat lamps all is right in America’s America the flea market is the floorboard of that promise an opportunity for anyone to begin or start again and over and over a liberal conservatism can be guarded well with rifles or tazers at bargain rates a conservative liberalism is applied openly in the atmosphere of everyone for anything and everything the dream of the flea market a black market and a carnival all of America’s cheap art on display its people swirled into one equal in their struggles and desires reaching for resources and derivatives buying low and selling higher stealing and selling short walking through the big flea market on a hot and cloudless Sunday afternoon looking for whatever or something it’s a fun thing to do originally posted to my blog https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com on 4/27/2014
0
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
flea marketing
walking through the big flea market off of highway 19 north of Tampa looking for whatever and something curious and kitsch or campy merchants selling in the parking lot used blenders and old cameras burnt out or faulty devices DVD cases and game cartridges old rednecks shout out opinions in a cacophony of drawled signifiers representing visions of despotic rulers reigning a tyranny of taxes and decline old glass containers and windshields shine scattering high afternoon sunlight in the Sunday sky sitting and resting used and content waiting waiting for the wear and reduction of time the market continues into indoor aisles criss-crossing within a ramshackle structure plywood walls supporting sheet metal roofing an aroma of every greasy food wafting into one people wrapped in worn fashions whites in Ts and denim muslim women in headscarves a black deputy strapped down in uniform the deputy enforces commerce laws around the alternative marketplace a variety of commodities are still available bongs and e-cigs and incense and **** **** parakeets cry out down one aisle a stack of blue aquariums drone a bubbling hum the stench of cedar and rat **** and hamsters reptiles basking in the arid glow of heat lamps all is right in America’s America the flea market is the floorboard of that promise an opportunity for anyone to begin or start again and over and over a liberal conservatism can be guarded well with rifles or tazers at bargain rates a conservative liberalism is applied openly in the atmosphere of everyone for anything and everything the dream of the flea market a black market and a carnival all of America’s cheap art on display its people swirled into one equal in their struggles and desires reaching for resources and derivatives buying low and selling higher stealing and selling short walking through the big flea market on a hot and cloudless Sunday afternoon looking for whatever or something it’s a fun thing to do originally posted to my blog https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com on 4/27/2014
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53
Coming from your humble and holy houses each morning bringing blessings, your lively and cheerful "Good Morning!" sounds - all the power and energy that a good life brings. Living by the light God gives you every day, eschewing electricity, and all of the worst that it brings with it, teaching your children and loving your wives with gentleness and devotion. Ruben, Glen David, Marlin... did I spell these right? I only heard your beautiful, traditional names in your own, clear, grounded voices, as we began to know each other, while you travelled back and forth, from bright and early each day, onto our ailing roof. Tearing into four layers of old, sickly roofing tiles with your wonderful vim and vigour, a healing began that went deep, deeper every day, as we absorbed the precious fortune of having you in our midst. Your chosen, Amish lives inspired us, and still do, as we still, quite often, hear the echoes of your footsteps above us, each one a prayer and an affirmation of lives well-lived. One fine afternoon, one of you stood straddling the very top of our steep old roof line, and that image of a man mastering his craft, invested in a life that blesses everyone he cares for, and teaches by example, everyone he meets, will stay with me for all of my days.
0
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 7:11 AM UTC
Available Light
gallows on the rooftop where window washers go                             to suspend metal gibbet             quick hinge, raise and lock secure against the weather whipped                                   combed and packed snow     ice crusted dunes strain the winds over the buildings roofing                                  an extreme combing exposure                                  doubtlessly they'll be no labor done today On the seventh floor i watch from behind               an environment sealed window               wolfing my lunch on a short break                                 in the warm fire escape i watch a solitary worker is ejected from a hatch in the exterior wall                                       cuffed by a spasm of wind he descends a short bolted ladder               and makes a geared approach crouching his weight against the wind             he drags a heavy kit             mummified in protective clothing               passing my spot and he then heads outward                     towards the bounds of the rooftop he mends a stable stance one foot close to the edge the rest of him in a low defensive pose clips his harness to the gallows stands to take a confident beating             of the breath stealing                       brawling winter gale he radios for the gantry to be raised
0
Mar 10, 2022
Mar 10, 2022 at 2:07 PM UTC
suspend
gallows on the rooftop where window washers go                             to suspend metal gibbet             quick hinge, raise and lock secure against the weather whipped                                   combed and packed snow     ice crusted dunes strain the winds over the buildings roofing                                  an extreme combing exposure                                  doubtlessly they'll be no labor done today On the seventh floor i watch from behind               an environment sealed window               wolfing my lunch on a short break                                 in the warm fire escape i watch a solitary worker is ejected from a hatch in the exterior wall                                       cuffed by a spasm of wind he descends a short bolted ladder               and makes a geared approach crouching his weight against the wind             he drags a heavy kit             mummified in protective clothing               passing my spot and he then heads outward                     towards the bounds of the rooftop he mends a stable stance one foot close to the edge the rest of him in a low defensive pose clips his harness to the gallows stands to take a confident beating             of the breath stealing                       brawling winter gale he radios for the gantry to be raised
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38
The skies hung heavy and black, casting a somber mood over the world below. It was as if the heavens themselves were burdened with the weight of yesterday's sorrows. The fields, once vibrant and alive, now wore a grey smile, a reflection of the tears shed in days gone by. As night fell, the symphony of crickets filled the air, their chorus echoing through the stillness. It was a quiet night, interrupted only by the gentle handover of the sun to the moon. The air carried a pleasant scent of dew, a reminder of the rest that awaited all living things. And amidst it all, the tiny footsteps of rain danced upon the asbestos roofing, a thief of nature sneaking into the sounds of peace. In the midst of this atmospheric symphony, a wooden kitchen door ticked with the passage of time. It creaked open and closed, its rusted iron hinges adding to the melody. The door seemed hinged in thought, attached by fears and darkness. It formed a latch, and night became its key, locking away the light and welcoming the shadows. As I stood there, my feet grew cold, chilled by the ice-like glass of my fragile character. A towel hung limply from the handle of the cupboard, a silent witness to my dry mouth and the skeletons of my past that haunted me, beyond my control. But amidst the darkness, comfort found its way to my side, persistently offering solace. It was a visitor, never truly staying, but always there when I needed it. In my mind, I set up a spare room, a sanctuary for fleeting moments of respite. And in those rare moments, a sparing thought would gently grace my mind, offering a glimmer of hope. Yet, even in the midst of this fragile peace, a shadow lurked behind me. She knew my name, intimately aware of the battles I fought within myself. The empty room, once a sanctuary, grew heavy with the weight of my inner demons. Like a fallen angel, I descended into the depths of my own despair, the falling rain mirroring the tears that stained my soul. And in a whisper, a secret was revealed in my ear: depression, depression, depression. And so, my depressing thoughts found me once again, enveloping me in their suffocating embrace. The world around me faded into the background as I became lost in the labyrinth of my own mind.
0
Oct 21, 2023
Oct 21, 2023 at 1:58 PM UTC
Trapped
The skies hung heavy and black, casting a somber mood over the world below. It was as if the heavens themselves were burdened with the weight of yesterday's sorrows. The fields, once vibrant and alive, now wore a grey smile, a reflection of the tears shed in days gone by. As night fell, the symphony of crickets filled the air, their chorus echoing through the stillness. It was a quiet night, interrupted only by the gentle handover of the sun to the moon. The air carried a pleasant scent of dew, a reminder of the rest that awaited all living things. And amidst it all, the tiny footsteps of rain danced upon the asbestos roofing, a thief of nature sneaking into the sounds of peace. In the midst of this atmospheric symphony, a wooden kitchen door ticked with the passage of time. It creaked open and closed, its rusted iron hinges adding to the melody. The door seemed hinged in thought, attached by fears and darkness. It formed a latch, and night became its key, locking away the light and welcoming the shadows. As I stood there, my feet grew cold, chilled by the ice-like glass of my fragile character. A towel hung limply from the handle of the cupboard, a silent witness to my dry mouth and the skeletons of my past that haunted me, beyond my control. But amidst the darkness, comfort found its way to my side, persistently offering solace. It was a visitor, never truly staying, but always there when I needed it. In my mind, I set up a spare room, a sanctuary for fleeting moments of respite. And in those rare moments, a sparing thought would gently grace my mind, offering a glimmer of hope. Yet, even in the midst of this fragile peace, a shadow lurked behind me. She knew my name, intimately aware of the battles I fought within myself. The empty room, once a sanctuary, grew heavy with the weight of my inner demons. Like a fallen angel, I descended into the depths of my own despair, the falling rain mirroring the tears that stained my soul. And in a whisper, a secret was revealed in my ear: depression, depression, depression. And so, my depressing thoughts found me once again, enveloping me in their suffocating embrace. The world around me faded into the background as I became lost in the labyrinth of my own mind.
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51
Proclaimed the paper-cutout placard on the table: Clothless gray plastic-surfaced round. In this immense faux-stone (concrete?) Faux-English country house We escape to the top of the stairs: The no admittance sign is no deterrent. The iridescence of your skirt is captivating But all I can remember is living in a castle like this one When I was a little blonde nothing And feeling the way I do now, As if there's been no transformation, no progress. Maybe there has, And this band must be pretty great To keep this many old white people dancing so enthusiastically For such a long time: An ancient one with a Christmas-themed vest Foxtrots with a once-lady in a polyester pants suit Thin hair dyed roofing-tar black, suede kitten heels clacking. The world's a **** strange place. Even if we feel like we aren't quite awake, We'll adjust our stockings and fill our plates With that mystery-shrouded gelatinous citrus dessert And our plastic cups with apple cider, light beer, 7-Up. Endure a few more minutes on this rented dancefloor with me Because they're playing love shack And who doesn't smile at the mere notion of the B-52s?
0
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 3:10 PM UTC
Crum Creek
Bass rattles the roofing of the warehouse Tonight we are truly alive The alcohol and synthetic drugs course through our blood Three people stuffed in a cubicle Snorting lines of coke and adderall from the screen of a smartphone A truly modern menagerie The image of a woman confined to my mind Searching desperately though eternal chasms Tunnel vision and weary eyes I don't know when the nights end or begin It's a psychosis that developed within me many years previous The product of a generation with no forethought Each pill popped was one less worry of the future Synapses destroyed with such nonchalance Enjoy the looming sadness We, doomed to repeat You, doomed to relive Each shot to the arm takes it's toll The toll may not be obvious now but in your twilight... The wrinkles shall show and the scars continue to glow, punctures in your flesh allow me to know. I saw your mind decay before my eyes Your body emaciated, your legs so fragile I wish you hadn't experienced life to such a degree I wish you had stopped me. But alas, I stand here with my company Another line Another One more Level the score One more pill and another tab One more drag before I pass it back To replicate my Mother and my father.
0
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
Help Is At Hand For The Ones That Need It Most.
once you claim to not have not experienced all the fooling with women in youth and exhausted the libido... you never really want to claim a need for their company while ageing and growing jealous when her stories emerge over drunken conversations when her friends get invited - i mean, it's almost like you have a ***** stitched to your forehead that is a reminiscence of youth not claimed - indeed old age is hell for women... and youth the hell for men - in between there are children... feminism is an odd-ball... it's this rebellion against an ageing patriarchy... men who sway power... what a weird and wired fetish of thinking... why would i claim companionship with a woman if she experienced all the sensual freedoms in her youth... while all i got is a freedom of a range of professions? exertion of one muscle here, exertion of another muscle there... had i stuck to full-time industrial roofing i'd probably write one poem a week... oh please, let's not obstruct with too much consciousness of how poetry is defined, that's for english teachers to rekindle hopes of a Shakespeare resurfacing while ignoring Milton in the curriculum ante-vitae... no, when youth is not allowed mutual pleasures... the following concerns for life suddenly disappear... there's no acidity relevant to it, no abhorrence, no need to testify a revenge... it's all a matter of comfort... and it's more comfortable to be without a woman than with one, considering the pelvic-pivot-of-sex was not strained well enough to settle down into a friendship with women... since my own sensuality was barely scraped to consider a friendship... instilled in me, the idea of two potential flints scratched for a spark... but nonetheless remaining two rounded marble spheres that dimmed the lights... i felt it too opposing to consider a half measured sensuality forced into a platonic love... i might as well have been born a homosexual.
0
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
curriculum ante-vitae
once you claim to not have not experienced all the fooling with women in youth and exhausted the libido... you never really want to claim a need for their company while ageing and growing jealous when her stories emerge over drunken conversations when her friends get invited - i mean, it's almost like you have a ***** stitched to your forehead that is a reminiscence of youth not claimed - indeed old age is hell for women... and youth the hell for men - in between there are children... feminism is an odd-ball... it's this rebellion against an ageing patriarchy... men who sway power... what a weird and wired fetish of thinking... why would i claim companionship with a woman if she experienced all the sensual freedoms in her youth... while all i got is a freedom of a range of professions? exertion of one muscle here, exertion of another muscle there... had i stuck to full-time industrial roofing i'd probably write one poem a week... oh please, let's not obstruct with too much consciousness of how poetry is defined, that's for english teachers to rekindle hopes of a Shakespeare resurfacing while ignoring Milton in the curriculum ante-vitae... no, when youth is not allowed mutual pleasures... the following concerns for life suddenly disappear... there's no acidity relevant to it, no abhorrence, no need to testify a revenge... it's all a matter of comfort... and it's more comfortable to be without a woman than with one, considering the pelvic-pivot-of-sex was not strained well enough to settle down into a friendship with women... since my own sensuality was barely scraped to consider a friendship... instilled in me, the idea of two potential flints scratched for a spark... but nonetheless remaining two rounded marble spheres that dimmed the lights... i felt it too opposing to consider a half measured sensuality forced into a platonic love... i might as well have been born a homosexual.
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45
.*oh i've seen the face of horror, on the face of strangers i've encountered in the middle of the night, governing the scenario with a puritanical good will... no... the look on their faces is hardly bemused... people face the mask they're about to wear, that of παρηγοριά (Parigoria - **** along with Skia... that's two demigods in one afternoon's worth of sitting), unorthodox parrot demigods, **** no, i've seen their faces, when i volunteered to steer a van through a speed barrier, just up the road... whoever jumped out of the car to counter my initial claim: to help... photographic memory... he looked like he was about to **** himself... i've seen the face of fear, but not an indicative fear, of per se... more... a confused, fear... the huh? approach... i never thought in a million years that goodness, selflessness could be so terrorizing; guess there's always a place and time, to be proven wrong.* and when the ape became man, where did it look? it domesticated tigers, shrunk them into cats... and figured: **** it... let's have a mentality of a lion... after all... the females of the species do all the hunting, the males are nothing more than a ***** bank... whenever useful... although: i'm pretty sure... that the construction industry will not be infiltrated, quiet as much, or not at all, as the army has been... **** what a sexist environment... no women carrying bricks, or buckets of hot roofing tar... WE SHOULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! sense the ridicule? i hope you do...        because i'm far from, giving into the giggles.
0
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:55 AM UTC
lazy lion / face of horror
.*oh i've seen the face of horror, on the face of strangers i've encountered in the middle of the night, governing the scenario with a puritanical good will... no... the look on their faces is hardly bemused... people face the mask they're about to wear, that of παρηγοριά (Parigoria - **** along with Skia... that's two demigods in one afternoon's worth of sitting), unorthodox parrot demigods, **** no, i've seen their faces, when i volunteered to steer a van through a speed barrier, just up the road... whoever jumped out of the car to counter my initial claim: to help... photographic memory... he looked like he was about to **** himself... i've seen the face of fear, but not an indicative fear, of per se... more... a confused, fear... the huh? approach... i never thought in a million years that goodness, selflessness could be so terrorizing; guess there's always a place and time, to be proven wrong.* and when the ape became man, where did it look? it domesticated tigers, shrunk them into cats... and figured: **** it... let's have a mentality of a lion... after all... the females of the species do all the hunting, the males are nothing more than a ***** bank... whenever useful... although: i'm pretty sure... that the construction industry will not be infiltrated, quiet as much, or not at all, as the army has been... **** what a sexist environment... no women carrying bricks, or buckets of hot roofing tar... WE SHOULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! sense the ridicule? i hope you do...        because i'm far from, giving into the giggles.
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31
I watch the loping invalids in the courtyard nil by nil by nil feet How to describe a sensation such as heat to them? The interminable sun and so on I wonder if they understand that Light itself is not heat whereupon the bell sounds their minds divide and fog in the somnolent air I look at a Dupuytren in the room Cord around the chair His clothes hanging off him Trying to move his remarkable shock of hair From his eyes My room looks out beyond the yard It is high up - precarious Through that picturewindow, the world without is framed, beyond the walls the oldtown spires and roofing I see my own sadness, my impotence In every inch of the heights the girls come back, propping black bikes against the gate; my legs are wrapped in a blanket and I feel nothing below my waist Through a system of cables and consent my companion molls in Bergonic poise each day the room behind his eyes receded, the heart lessening the birds gathered around the bathroom doors to be fed He read about Escher in bed waiting to be plugged unbeknownst rigours of treatment, and unbeknownst methods until he forgot those days in Margate the sound of his nieces and everything he read about Escher – the light makes dull the precision of the thorn
0
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
light courted, coursed
My roommate is vacuuming the apartment I'm thinking about distances past to present, empty to overflowing, shattered to whole doctor your wounds are bleeding again and I don't have the proper training we toil and toil beneath the gaze of an oblivion too much sweat on the brow to take the time to ask why my heart is a runaway train my brain the penny on the tracks there's no such thing as non-civilian casualties hungry is as hungry does it's just the nature of these lives our carrot on a string I thought I caught a taste once only to bite my own finger It hurts, but the pain is just motivation to keep on living and all of those lessons and truths she whispered in your ear on dreaming nights are still the reason your heart beats the way it now does wake the hell up perfect does not exist and you are going to be fine fix the roof you are going to be fine
0
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
Roofing
As a resident of hope village be very thankful - If for breakfast you have just a cup of water, Say a big prayer to Baba and be very grateful. Know ye that someday things will get better! When stock in Hope Village, be very grateful! I once lived there and boy, life wasn't so easy, I remember how I would look so very sorrowful, Using a bowl of water to shave, that's crazy! Especially when I used old T-shirt as towel, And rotated an umbrella as part of my roofing life was hard but hope was on another level, I knew that answer to my prayers was coming. Despite the fact that I lived in abject poverty- Hope made my condition seemed less pathetic - All my situation was under God's own authority, And my goals and objectives were authentic. Never give up, hardship is only a transit camp. One day your rescue Angel will come souring, With solutions illuminated with a bright lamp- Lights you'll always need as you go hustling! To the residents of Hope village, never despair- If wind of change is yet to blow in your direction, Stay strong Hope village, real rescue is in the air, It surely will if the Almighty is your connection. I see you are a resilient bunch, so be very strong! Though trials will come, hold on and be resolute, Blessing for those with deep hope never goes wrong, From a veteran of the movement, I say a big salute! I pray you will keep to the fundamentals of hustle - Know that on that very special day of God's reckoning, Your stars will dance to success' beat, not struggle, And the village's talking drums will echo your blessing. Everyone far and near will know reward time has come. People of hope village, come get your reward for courage, Say goodbye to yesterday and say to tomorrow, welcome! Soon, your last sight of the mango trees in your village- Will be a breathtaking thirty five thousand feet far below. As the white magic bird climbs hosting your dusty heels, Sad faces will say bye and friendly faces will say hello. There you'll know how the answers to your prayers feels! Someday you will return as a great hero to your village, To lament on the audacity of hope and your very own story - With motivational messages to give everyone some courage, Poverty will no longer be the main topic, it'll be history ! #Vanguard-poetry23 twitter @ivanclappers
0
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
Hope Village
As a resident of hope village be very thankful - If for breakfast you have just a cup of water, Say a big prayer to Baba and be very grateful. Know ye that someday things will get better! When stock in Hope Village, be very grateful! I once lived there and boy, life wasn't so easy, I remember how I would look so very sorrowful, Using a bowl of water to shave, that's crazy! Especially when I used old T-shirt as towel, And rotated an umbrella as part of my roofing life was hard but hope was on another level, I knew that answer to my prayers was coming. Despite the fact that I lived in abject poverty- Hope made my condition seemed less pathetic - All my situation was under God's own authority, And my goals and objectives were authentic. Never give up, hardship is only a transit camp. One day your rescue Angel will come souring, With solutions illuminated with a bright lamp- Lights you'll always need as you go hustling! To the residents of Hope village, never despair- If wind of change is yet to blow in your direction, Stay strong Hope village, real rescue is in the air, It surely will if the Almighty is your connection. I see you are a resilient bunch, so be very strong! Though trials will come, hold on and be resolute, Blessing for those with deep hope never goes wrong, From a veteran of the movement, I say a big salute! I pray you will keep to the fundamentals of hustle - Know that on that very special day of God's reckoning, Your stars will dance to success' beat, not struggle, And the village's talking drums will echo your blessing. Everyone far and near will know reward time has come. People of hope village, come get your reward for courage, Say goodbye to yesterday and say to tomorrow, welcome! Soon, your last sight of the mango trees in your village- Will be a breathtaking thirty five thousand feet far below. As the white magic bird climbs hosting your dusty heels, Sad faces will say bye and friendly faces will say hello. There you'll know how the answers to your prayers feels! Someday you will return as a great hero to your village, To lament on the audacity of hope and your very own story - With motivational messages to give everyone some courage, Poverty will no longer be the main topic, it'll be history ! #Vanguard-poetry23 twitter @ivanclappers
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46
Gusts, pushing and pulling, tearing at the roofing, rattling the window panes, howling down the chimney, screeching around the corners of the house -- the house that always stands on number five, no matter what the combination, the co-ordinates nor which way the chicken feet turn, keeping me awake at night, lamenting La Mort . . . But after the seventh year, the wind and I came to an agreement: Crowing at fifty-two tantras an hour was far too slow.
0
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
The Witches of November
peaceful quiet things you can only get when sitting on your roof. relaxing alone with the breeze in my hair stars fighting above me with the city lights below trying to be the brightest horns honking on A street people greeting and cursing eachother at 11 pm dogs bark and howl but my head still is calm my thoughts are able to find meaning and logic now that I'm away from children hiding in my closet or stomping on my stairs or mom popping in my room and asking broken record questions like 'how are you?' and 'did you finish your homework?' I just want to stay up on my roof watching the stars fight forever.
0
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 7:19 PM UTC
roofing
I've been touched by.... the morning symphony orchestra of birds, rain tickles dancing on asbestos roofing, calm winds; of one gentle breeze plunging mangoes, brown leaves rustling away for new to follow, the sounds of life in the cheers of children's play, oh—touching experiences of a beautiful day. So as I speak... I say to you—not to bite words of expression, let the voice of life in your lungs be lively, out a loud in the quieting despairs of often, to the ears open to the sounds of hope acclaimed, teach the young, and so too teach the old of extra portion, the spirit of worth within us, echoes out in action, letting those words you speak be in the physical, in conscious, guided by Spirit—becomes lyrical.                                 _And all in all, do it all with love._
0
Jul 16, 2022
Jul 16, 2022 at 6:42 AM UTC
Touch, speak & love
*understand my misogyny, what sort of woman would force a child upon a man when she secures a belief in the man's knowledge that she's taking anti-contraceptive pills while he was content to adorning a ****** given his lack of ****** ferocity of agonising the ******** as the owner of ******** strange to create laws worthy of society and civilisation by unlawfully trying to bind man with such expectations that could come to pass with time and deliberation, to imagine binding man to pavement and street-lamps within nomadic thinking? what sort of woman does that?! a rich one, i am assured, one who bemoans travelling to Edinburgh from St. Petersburg because of a love affair, the same one who wouldn't travel to London from Edinburgh because the man had to become a roofing prodigy and not a chemist... well adorned ***** of the deep... two apartments in St. Petersburg and apparently one in Moscow... farewell dear pearl... hello a purse of moths - now hear how my heart flutters for anyone but you, you the aurelian sadist to my butterfly heart: - real men do not cry. - but to music, what other compliment is there   if not for man to cry and not   go mad like Odysseus' jealousy   of being the sole interpreter of the sirens's wails   waxing shut the ears of fellow sailors?   if man cannot cry for music   then woman is in debt of crying for cannon   fire! vide cor meum!
0
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
aurelian sadist (lepidopterist)
A Key, an Envelope, and a Mouse I had just gone to the mail box, to pick up the mail riding in my golf cart, with my mouse by my side the key was in my left hand, when I tried dodging a snail I tipped to the left, then to the right, everything I tried the key flew away, I grabbed my mouse by the tail but it was no use, watched a pole and my cart collide the envelope squirted the other way, reaching to no avail I bounced out the other side, and landed right on my pride I was lying flat on my back , with my arms I did flail I hurt my neck, no my arm, no, I think I might have died maybe I had to much to drink, just one too many ale maybe it was actually more, my brain was pretty fried people were now starting to gather, wondered if I needed bail they were gasping, and yelling, help him up somebody cried the mouse was licking my face, I heard someone mention jail could not get my *** to budge, no matter how hard I tried the envelope was stuck to my head, so was a roofing nail think I must have wet myself, an idiot, this can't be denied the key was found up my **** when removed I started to wail holy mama mia I yelled, it was stuck and had to be pryed tipped my cart back on its wheels, the engine sang a funny scale you sure that you're ok, I'm just fine, you know I lied grabbed my key, my envelope and mouse, and outa there I hi-tail pretended nothing had happend, and continued on my ride Gomer LePoet...
0
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 4:40 PM UTC
A Key, an Envelope, and a Mouse
It is eight o'clock, after dinner... Only distant stars adorn a blue-black moonless sky Quiet evening, no voices screaming, No vendors calling... Not one nocturnal sound, to prove the night's existence I hear numbered footfalls above,  A slightly, heavy weight, presses on the fiberglass roofing Silently informing,  Very careful not to startle me with the roof creaking I am not scared of its presence, for it knows... This is me...I do not fuss, I do not bellow There is no one else, it is only me it always follows, Hidden in the dark, on me it never lurks... A welcome cloaked friend, this stray cat in the shadows... }}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}} Sally Copyright 2014 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
0
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
TUESDAY NIGHT
*oh, what glorious things the canadians and americans think of the british, in their set narrative when a tragedy plagues these isles; mainly stressing the british concept of tolerance. well... perhaps the morbid politeness toward muslims, that the hindus didn't get, back in the 1960s? hmm... or the bourgeois media class... with their affectionate portrayal eastern european builders... well... **** me, are all my brethren builders? we all seem to be builders all of a sudden, like that's something to demean people of skill. you know how degenerate english builders are? how unskillful they are, in the roofing trade? my father can show me roofers with 20 years worth of "experience", and the photographs are worth a good long pause, and lament... they were changing the tiles on my roof, and one night, with heavy rain pouring down, water was seeping through my ceiling... scots were known to be the best roofers in the 1990s... replaced by poles.* anyway, talk of graphemes... polish has, in all honesty, four potentials to become graphemes, i don't know how, but they could become unique script elements... alas sz cz rz dz are in their own category, distinct from the category of grapheme... it's almost a shame, the four being digraphs... oh... and you know that there's a trigraph in the english language? you know it, i'm sure... y = why, but no one will tell you that that is a trigraph, even the dictionary won't tell you it's a trigraph, it'll tell you why is either an adverb and exclamation or a noun... but never that it's also a trigraph of what is also a monograph, represented by y... and perhaps, just perhaps, this is just one of those mysteries worth excavating from the tombs of the tetragrammaton, and set against a rosetta stone of the modern era... in what becomes of the hebrew serif י... perhaps, well, only possible in english the trigraph why... encompassed in the monograph that's y; and that's only one h short to complete the equation.
0
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
graphemes vs. digraphs, trigraphs, monographs
*oh, what glorious things the canadians and americans think of the british, in their set narrative when a tragedy plagues these isles; mainly stressing the british concept of tolerance. well... perhaps the morbid politeness toward muslims, that the hindus didn't get, back in the 1960s? hmm... or the bourgeois media class... with their affectionate portrayal eastern european builders... well... **** me, are all my brethren builders? we all seem to be builders all of a sudden, like that's something to demean people of skill. you know how degenerate english builders are? how unskillful they are, in the roofing trade? my father can show me roofers with 20 years worth of "experience", and the photographs are worth a good long pause, and lament... they were changing the tiles on my roof, and one night, with heavy rain pouring down, water was seeping through my ceiling... scots were known to be the best roofers in the 1990s... replaced by poles.* anyway, talk of graphemes... polish has, in all honesty, four potentials to become graphemes, i don't know how, but they could become unique script elements... alas sz cz rz dz are in their own category, distinct from the category of grapheme... it's almost a shame, the four being digraphs... oh... and you know that there's a trigraph in the english language? you know it, i'm sure... y = why, but no one will tell you that that is a trigraph, even the dictionary won't tell you it's a trigraph, it'll tell you why is either an adverb and exclamation or a noun... but never that it's also a trigraph of what is also a monograph, represented by y... and perhaps, just perhaps, this is just one of those mysteries worth excavating from the tombs of the tetragrammaton, and set against a rosetta stone of the modern era... in what becomes of the hebrew serif י... perhaps, well, only possible in english the trigraph why... encompassed in the monograph that's y; and that's only one h short to complete the equation.
Continue reading...
31
The tinge of secondhand cigarettes fill the air, Meshing with the scent of a stale motel. The waft of solitary *** lingers on the unmade beds. The dilapidated roofing, cracked and chipped, Threatens to fall on its ghostly residents, Who care little for the subpar shielding, Which lets in the acid rain and crumbs of insulation. The outside, which was once filled with children Blowing bubbles, filling the moving air with floating life, Now rests as a statue grey, unnerving in stasis. Behind the front desk stands the concierge- As timeless as the cobwebs in the corners and Dust on the grandfather clock, long since unmoving. "He was once a great man, as tall as Yggdrasil itself" Residents were once told. Now he stands grey and hunched, As his residents lay sedated and soft.
0
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC
The Second Lightning Rod
the sun beats on my shoulders. the autumn breeze ruffles my hair. i walk happily. the path is laid clearly. the destination is near. i near your location. the house is in front of me. the siding and roofing is deteriorating. i knock on the weakened door. the door blows down. the house is too worn down. i barely recognize it. the color is different. the memories are gone. i am without a childhood home.
0
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
gambol.
I read your comments I do agree That you are you And I am me I don't tell fibs My poems are true I fell off a roof before Have you ever fell too Roofing is a dangerous job As are some other jobs too And I,d just got two words 4 the spellcheck Thank you I,m not as bright as others As you already know by a mile So I really got to ask you What is a pluviophile??
0
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC
Pluviophile