"rowling" poems
My First Day at Hogwarts
On a Saturday morning,
I woke up in pain.
Perched on top of my head,
Was an owl shaking its mane.
As I focused my glance,
the owl got clearer.
There was something clutched in its beak;
a pale yellow letter.
When I opened it,
words started to bloom,
Mr Y. Vartak,
The inner bedroom.
‘You have a place
in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
Points will be taken for wrong,
and awarded for bravery.’
I showed it to my parents,
Who were not at all surprised.
They were in fact very happy,
I am a wizard I realized!
We took a plane to London,
Visit Diagon Alley.
In a hurry to buy my first wand,
robes and stationery.
It was the first of September,
so we hurried to Kings Cross.
We got to platform nine and three quarters,
after struggling through the chaos.
I had everything in my trunk,
I had nothing more to get.
My parents surprised me,
by giving me an owl as a pet.
I got a seat in the Hogwarts Express,
and put my robes,
There was a boy opposite me,
he was juggling bewitched globes.
We got off the train,
At Hogsmeade Station.
There was an amazing castle,
that was beyond my imagination.
We rowed across the lake,
sitting on boats,
It was getting colder,
so we pulled on our coats
We entered the hall,
Full of eyes.
There was a roof above us,
that represented the vast skies.
There was a dusty hat,
in the middle of a stage,
It had a rip near the brim,
so it looked older than its age.
A professor named Minerva,
Put that hat on my head.
The rip opened like a mouth,
Interesting is what it said.
The Sorting Hat as it was called,
said that he had to think some more,
After a while it yelled:
‘He’ll go in GRYFFINDOR!’
I joined the Gryffindor,
at the Start-Of-Term Feast.
We were so involved I talking,
we cared for our sleep the least.
After the feast, we departed,
for Gryffindor Common Room,
Outside the portrait hole, there was,
a shiny black broom.
I changed from my robes to my nightdress,
lay down watching the dying ember.
My eyelids were getting heavy,
I walked into a deep slumber.
This poem is written by me,
Yash Singh.
Specially written for my favourite,
Joanne Kathleen Rowling.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 7:20 AM UTC
I've now coined the diagnosis "Portable Hoarder" - Carrying my life in bags and duffles, pockets and sleeves.
Accumulating more baggage than would fit in a **** terminal.
But now, I am home. Me, and my ***** laundry. And I don't fit anymore. Crammed amidst my past. Falling out the door; Spilling across my floor.
Me, myself, and Marshall.
**So, TONIGHT
I'm cleaning out my closet.**
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 7:20 AM UTC
All your dreams are made of
Cloudy lemonade
The places you hide in filled with
Sheet music
All the words you say seem to be
Soft lullabies
The difference between dreams
and reality
Is the line between smiles and smirks
Is the line between crying of joy and grief
The line between laughing at a memory long lost
And crying because of a current joke
The line between Aristotle and Rowling
Or just the horizon.
All you ever say is that you'll
be allright
But don't you realize that
All your dreams are made of
Cloudy lemonade?
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 4:37 PM UTC
I want to write
And I want to write far
Farther than distance and
Farther than a mile feels when you're
Expected
To run in gym class.
I want to
Inspire.
And the word seems
Thick
Like elephant skin
Or those
Cracked leather jackets that bikers wear.
It seems 'out there'
Like a planet
Somewhere that we
Haven't sent probes to.
In the middle of swallowed up
Space.
But I want to
Inspire
Like
J.K. Rowling
Or
E.B. White
Or
J.R.R. Tolkein
And all of those other
Blocked up
Official sounding
Initials.
I could have initials.
Be E.M. Tyler or just
E. Tyler.
And people would
Wonder what the E. stood for
And one day I would
Sign an autograph
"Emily"
And they would call
The New York Times
And the search would be over
And ambitious fans
Would exclaim in exhuberance.
And they wouldn't have even read my book yet.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
As potential grew, a desire to write, disclosed to few
Imagination immerse, but yet to thirst for knowledge, accrued ambition address
All aboard the express, thoughts of Harry, a plot to marry
From fanciful flights to greater heights
Capturing such visualisation, twas the formation
Characterisation, of wings to soar, with metaphor
From Dumbledore, yet taking shape
Professor Snape, assume the plot, lest thoughts forgot
A forest to roam, a philosophical stone
Such creative flair of which to share
Joining of the dotted line, artistic mind
Transporting train, journeyed acclaim
Of whom to impede, the will to succeed
The ability to write, the capacity to teach, the desire to reach
An impetus for change, a literary role, a priority
Of which to seek with tenacity
Beyond horizons, beyond confines, stand undefined
Awe-inspire, great readership, a due reply
To simplify, a noble shift, outstanding writer in the midst
Dynamic plot from pen to page, persistence through to published stage
A realised dream, challenge overcome
A victory won definably, stocked supplies to library
Broomstick flight phenomenon, a mystical tale was to become
Would generate, the bus of Knight, to render right
A rebuilt life, a legacy made
From chosen craft to final draft, a world of creativity
The right to type, to innovate, an intriguing wait
A shining star that would liberate
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 3:10 PM UTC
-something real. Something strong and sturdy, believable. I want to write words that are heavy with lightness and dark with their brightness, to draw on a page a life so unbelievably real, so inconceivably mine
in creation
I want to write
-not just love. Not a ***** with a couple of drink-mangled bugs. I want to write about that feeling of blood churning and the warmth of emotion not physical feeling, to put into words the unwordable joy of being in the presence of
not just anyone
Anyone. Like the not-platonic-non-romantic affection that Rudy would not fail to hint at, that so-wanted kiss that Liesel gave, it wasn't so much the action as the meaning behind it. Like that itch on Death's ear when Liesel he came near, not to take her yet, but to steal her story, to live through it. To feel the words dance in his void, non-niceness, the infinite meanings and the power of phonic combinations.
They allow even Death to live.
I want to write like Zusak, like Rowling, like me.
I want to write
-the philosophies. The thoughts and wishes and wonders of a minority. I want to write about those opinions of those whose voices are too small and their souls beautifully lit up but unseen, their ideologies so unmistakably right but also naive and innocent, to stage their feelings from transition to transition
their words to the wise
I want to write
-characters so flawed. Each with an inner splendor most radiant, but with their fields of starless black and heads that wander from this to that. I want to write lives and people so different, with not-so-good lives and not-so-normal features. People who, though lacking thereof, cliche the right things and believe
in the wrong
The wrong. Their thoughts and meanings about life and beyond, undesirable and judged but that is the human mentality, such as Hazel Grace felt about her casualties and Alaska Young wondered about the labyrinth's unending game. So standard at first, but then Gandalf came and Bilbo learned the differences between Hobbit and the untame. The reasons and purposes of life's grand living, through the eyes of those whose faces are shunned.
Hermione wasn't just a bibliosiac.
I want to write like Green, like Tolkien, like me.
Alas, the clock, a stained moon, it darkens, and the prejudice of people as well as the pride, unfortunately Austen couldn't lessen so much. Stereotypes triumphantly sit on the throne with their Mary-Sue maids catering from head to toe. I can't barge in, object to the crowning, because today I admit it: my writing is dying.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
On the first night
of the full moon,
the primeval sack of ocean
broke,
& I gave birth to you
little woman,
little carrot top,
little turned-up nose,
pushing you out of myself
as my mother
pushed
me out of herself,
as her mother did,
& her mother's mother before her,
all of us born
of woman.
I am the second daughter
of a second daughter
of a second daughter,
but you shall be the first.
You shall see the phrase
"second ***
only in puzzlement,
wondering how anyone,
except a madman,
could call you "second"
when you are so splendidly
first,
conferring even on your mother
firstness, vastness, fullness
as the moon at its fullest
lights up the sky.
Now the moon is full again
& you are four weeks old.
Little lion, lioness,
yowling for my *******
rowling at the moon,
how I love your lustiness,
your red face demanding,
your hungry mouth howling,
your screams, your cries
which all spell life
in large letters
the color of blood.
You are born a woman
for the sheer glory of it,
little redhead, beautiful screamer.
You are no second ***
but the first of the first;
& when the moon's phases
fill out the cycle
of your life,
you will crow
for the joy
of being a woman,
telling the pallid moon
to go drown herself
in the blue ocean,
& glorying, glorying, glorying
in the rosy wonder
of your sunshining wondrous
self.
2.2k
J.K. Rowling is the latest
to call herself a bloke.
Three Bronte sisters
Made up male names
So they could write,
Not vote.
George Elliot
Was the nom de plume
of a British lady fair.
In Victorian times
It was de riguer
For a girl to feign
a pair.
Distaff scribes
Are not alone
In borrowing a name
Sam Clemens took
As “nom De Guerre”
The river cry
“Mark Twain”
And Stephen King
Who writes so fast
That he’s in overdrive
Adopted Richard
Bachmann as a name
And used it
for some time.
George Orwell
Once was Erich Blair
Lewis Carroll
was Charles Dodson.
“The Hobbit”
Was my nom de plume
But now
I haven’t got one.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:57 AM UTC
This is not about you
This is not about me,
This ain’t really ‘bout anyone-y, honey;
I’m a liar, for Christ’s sakes!
Sure, sure,
THIS one is about me,
That much I can say,
But everything else?
‘Twas all fake.
I am an ink-and-paper conman,
Because that is how I choose to make a living.
Hate me, if you so dare,
For if you do,
Then you, too, hate the likes of
Rowling and Twain and Wells and Hemingway
Shakespeare and Spielberg and Lucas—
Oh, yes, read up,
Lies upon lies in black-and-white!
We are similar in such a way
Which creates alternate worlds and feelings
And beings of different kinds;
We are those who love to implant things
Into your subconscious mind.
What is true to you,
But false to all,
Is the picture you happen to imagine
When you flip pages and have a ball!
Semantics, my dear,
It is what takes you on a trip
Across a flexible lexicon
Where words are invented and used anew;
Where instead of shoes, you wear foot-canoes.
Your favorite books and movies and songs,
All figments of enigmatic mind,
But,
Is it really all that wrong?
Our lies are
For your enjoyment,
And the good of mankind,
An escape from what’s real,
It brings you to light,
Without this work,
There’d be no color to life.
And that’s why we’re liars
In black-and-white.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
I have two scars on my face; neither one's very visible anymore. One I received at age three (late 1992), falling face-first into a dry riverbed on my first camping trip. I landed hard, my forehead colliding with a crescent-shaped rock. I remember my father turning me over, my vision going red, the blood flowing into my scleras and pupils. The rock missed my right eye by millimeters. When J.K. Rowling published Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone in 1997 my peers began calling me "Harry." Dark-haired, bespectacled, similar scar -- whole package. My comeback: "They should call Harry Potter 'Chris Gorrie', I had the scar first." Not until ten years later, when The Deathly Hallows was released, did I realize Harry was "born" in 1980.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:16 AM UTC
In a world of your imagination, who do you see? What do you see? Could it be..
.a paradise untouched by man?
A place you can escape?
Dare I say it, a place you could feel safe?
In a world of your imagination,
are there any wars?
Have you opened all the doors?
Do you have somebody to love?
Don't be afraid to share!
We may never get to see it in person.
But that's never stopped us before!
And if Rowling or king are any indication,
a world of your imagination
could inspire a generation.
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 7:58 PM UTC
Claire
Your voice like bells
resonates through my mind
as memories of your brilliant smile
clouds my thoughts
and the glimmer in your eyes
resides in my fondest memories
for you see
you were there
maybe not physically
but more than anyone ever has
the simple paragraphs you'd write
causing an unbeknown smile to cross my cheeks
as warmth flooded through me
you are the epitome of beautiful
on the inside and out
Remember when we first met?
7 months ago
you were posted on
Just a Band *****
and with a few simple comments
you stole my heart.
after a few days of
threatening to kidnap bands
cuddles
and Dexter
I awoke to a wondrous surprise
you
asking me to be yours
i was hesitant at first
i didn't wanna hurt you
You meant to much to me.
but i agreed.
knowing what would happen would be something
only J.K. Rowling could explain
magic.
But alas we fell a part
Only to be brought back together
and to exchange three precious words
I love you.
now you see,
I'm not the type to exchange words of those caliber
for I know the weight of those words
as do you
So i knew when you said
I love you too
you meant it
and i hoped you knew i meant it to
we've gone on like this for nearly a year now
though we may break up
and see others
we're always drawn together
and I cant explain it
and i don't think anyone else can either
When i see you smile i melt
your eyes make me feel like I'm having a heart attack
but a good one
because I'm not gonna die while you're still beside me
you mean the world to me
and at risk of sounding creepy
I think your the one
and I need you
and
I love you.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
I want to let my emotions fall onto a page just like I imagine someone who makes money at writing doing
I imagine they sit in front of their computers
just typing endlessly; as if the ideas just flow from their fingertips
without the slightest effort
I don’t know if that happens or not
I've never actually met a successful writer
But, I imagine that John Conolly didn't always have great ideas
I’m sure J. K. Rowling didn't just throw Harry Potter on to a page without using the backspace key on a few paragraphs
or hell, maybe even whole chapters
I know I have the capacity to write wonderful fiction
I just have to get over the fear of sounding stupid
I can fix that
I have great ideas
First things first, I need to learn when to stop
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 9:27 PM UTC
Eliot, Wittgenstein, Melville
J.K. Rowling, James Joyce, Confucius
Possibly even Shakespeare (a good guess)
Teachers teach.
Professors profess.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 6:29 PM UTC
For those who, whenever they chase pavements,
stare at the adjacent road that mimics the starless night sky
And inside their heads they pretend
that they unknowingly trip on a crack on the cement,
so that they could find an excuse to use the incoming vehicle as an escape goat for life
Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!
To the men high upon beams and chains and towers, overlooking the city skyline
filled with people tracing the sidewalks like ants in a single file,
who think to themselves: the fall will probably hurt less than the onslaught of words
coming from their wives for giving them a hard life
Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!
I lift the crystal in my hand to the women who, no matter how battered and tattered are their skins,
choose to paint their faces with whatever powdered pallet they have
even though Rowling's metal wand sits beside their makeup inside the drawer of their dresser,
waiting for them to take their own life
Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!
And to the students who have never gotten over their childhood traumas
and to the bullies who never outgrew the bruises from their fathers
that no matter how much it hurt you,
you never chose to end everything with a slipknot or the edge of a blade or with battery fluid you found in your garage,
I envy you
So, let's raise a glass to you too for not doing so!
I raise my half empty glass to all those who failed to take away god's gift
To the men and women who failed in fear of abandoning their children
I spill the contents of this wine glass
in honor of the sons and daughters of wealthy politicians, who succeeded in receiving eternal punishment for taking their lives
And to those who regret that they failed in their first try, please,
don't throw away your life
You are exquisite, you are tantalizing,
you are worthy of a million praises like the saints we see on mosaics and church pieces
Your works are rousing and they enflame the tiniest of sparks in at least one person's heart
be ravenous and unmerciful when improving your craft
Let's raise a glass!
Because as you are reading this, the glass of wine I have been carrying high above my head
had already spilled on the parchment where I have written these words with utmost care
So, will you raise your glass to me?
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
Dear Brendon Urie
this impossible year your songs were the only thing that put vigor in my blood, and feeling in my limbs. Until we feel alright. In my darkest hours your songs made my skeleton want to dance, made it dance, it always danced to your music. Always forever I will dance to your music.
Dear Brendon Urie
I'm all dressed up and naked. A tiktok, that was all it was, innocently scrolling through tiktok with my friend (though one could argue with her feed it is never innocent), I saw it. Do you know when you have the dream that you're naked at school? This is a hundred fold worse. I was not naked, but something tore certainty from my body. The music that had help build be up burned my structure. You can set yourself on fire
Dear Brendon Urie
Girls love girls and boys. I came out as lesbain a few months ago. You gave me a space to explore that, you said ‘its ok to be queer’, then you punched me across the face. Homophobe was not usually even close to the row of adjectives I reserved for you but now it is.
Dear Brendon Urie
Just another LA Devotee. I thought for a second that tik tok was like voter fraud in Wisconsin, false claims made by uneducated people. Then the truth hits, no women lies about ****** harassment, no fan lies about your racist monologe at a concert, nobody lies about someone saying the n word, no one lies about you laughing at a ablelist joke. You are not as shiny as you appear. The glitter dancing on the skin. The decades might've washed it out.
Dear Brendon Urie
It's better to burn than to fade away. For years I have watched each of my heros burn
Dear J.K. Rowling,
Dear Gloria Steniem.
Every author I ever loved homophic.
Dear Kevin Clash
Dear Michael Jackson
Dear Bill Cosby
Every artist I every loved accused of pedophila
Dear lance armstrong
Dear basketball players
Every athlete I aspired to be like a drug used
Dear Bill Clinton
Every politican I admired accused of ****** assault
You have all proved to me that there are no heroes that there is no one to look up to.
I am sad more than angry, sad that you couldn’t be bothered to love the world as they love you.
Nov 13, 2020
Nov 13, 2020 at 7:52 AM UTC
you sit there with a blank page or screen
wanting to be the next Rowling or Rankin
words fail to come, you write words but nothing seems to make sense
then at midnight, words flow more freely
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
Age 12,
not a single tension of this world,
standing at a standstill,
And shouting ,'fuck the whole universe'
age 13,
failed first time,
everything was fine,
except my parent's pride,
age 14,failed again,
for my pride,
my mum made me change my school once again,
I didn't feed on sun,still for everyone I was an alien,
thanks to Harry, Ron and Hermoine,
I learnt friendship from a friendship which I never got,
thanks to J.K Rowling too,
she's the reason why these rhymes make much more sense to me than those value of pi's do,
age 15, failed once again,
but no worries,
cause I know I am going to change the game,
that doesn't mean I don't cry,
don't worry,
when someone asks me,
I never tell them 'why?'
I read Edgar Allan Poe to Dan brown,
did not leave even a single account,
but still the main question remains,
will these words going to take me somewhere,
or even anywhere else,
or I too, will became a 9 to 5 slave just like everyone else.
-my story by adarsh Singh.
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 8:07 PM UTC
I apologize for my offensive tweet. I know that my words caused real harm, and for the next two weeks I will be spending time in reflection, meditation, and healing yoga at my Colorado ranch. I am also donating $100,000 to Black Marxists Anonymous.
I humbly ask forgiveness for the insensitive remarks that I made on my friend’s 1985 middle school yearbook page when I was 13. I know that my words caused real harm. There is no excuse for my poor judgment, and although my supporters mean well by pointing out that I was an adolescent, I do not agree that I should not be held to the same standards as a contemporary adult. I have spent time with my pastor examining my deep sinful nature.
I regret my costume at the Met Gala. I know that cultural appropriation causes real harm, and for a white woman to wear a dress adorned with feathers is an insult to Native Americans. I have auctioned off all of my turquoise jewelry and donated the proceeds to a Diversity, Equity and Inclusion Committee studying ways to improve BIPOC representation on the Met Gala planning committee. I have engaged a Native shaman to guide me to a path of understanding via guided Ayahuasca use.
I take full responsibility for standing next to Ned, my former best friend, in the photograph that has recently emerged of us at a friend’s wedding last year. Ned’s inexcusable remark on Tuesday that “All lives matter” is deeply offensive to me and today I join the diverse community that is boycotting his performances. I am ashamed that I ever called this person my friend.
I regret ever working with J.K. Rowling. She is a transphobic hatemonger who deserves our scorn and contempt. I realize that she will continue to espouse her bigoted views, because her fans do not care, Harry Potter lives forever, and she’s a billionaire who probably lives in a castle. But I will continue to post my outrage on my Facebook page so that…anyway, Rowling *****
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 11:26 PM UTC
In the beautiful words of John Marcus:
“Sometimes words are a little too hard to catch. They flit and flutter all over the place almost impossible to catch, taunting and teasing me with the worlds I could create.”
And the last part caught my attention, upon reading it. “…taunting and teasing me with the worlds I could create.” Cause I've written a novel, and currently I'm writing its sequel, and I essentially created a whole world. A whole global history, a whole global culture, a whole everything on a global scale. George Lucas, that literal genius, created a whole galaxy, far, far away, along with Martin Goodman creating a whole universe, Gene Roddenberry created a whole world on the USS Enterprise, JK Rowling created the Wizarding World, Angie Sage created one of my favorite worlds, the world of a seventh son of a seventh son with a name with seven in it.
Writers, in their own genius creativity, write worlds into existence, cover to cover, create them and steer them in a beautiful direction: forward.
And then I remembered. God created man and women in his image, and God literally spoke creation into existence, and the Bible recorded the event into literary immortality. So if God spoke (literally) everything into existence, and we fall short of His Glory eternally, then couldn’t we create worlds? Not, like, literal, physical worlds, but maybe a literary world, like authors do?
A world you could get just as lost in?
And words, words, the beautiful creation of the written form, constantly taunt and tease me, they challenge me, they call out to me to keep creating and writing worlds into existence. But we don’t need to write worlds into existence to make our words amazing: even I myself have written small phrases, not just worlds, but sometimes even the smallest things have the biggest impacts. (IE, my toddlers.)
(John Marcus has a beautiful mind, seriously, it repeatedly blows mine away. Keep doin your thing, dude.)
:;,
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 11:20 AM UTC
A-Z
A, B, C for comedy, I think I said it once to Mr. Jack Dee,
But 'e forgot, gee it's getting hot; you see the pressures on me.
But I, J.K. Rowling am not,
'Ell bent on becoming the next Eminem, I'm not;
Oh no! M and N, I forgot.
Oh I'll ask Bob, Bob can I have a ***
Q, you **** said Bob Holness to me.
They should have bleeped it out; yes more tea please,
Said I to you, the V.W. driving tease.
She soon became my ex, don't ask me why.
I've got to go now, so say goodbye.
I've got to catch some Z’s.
(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 11:42 AM UTC
"If you can't feed a hundred
Feed just one"
She said
Yet millions of mouths today
Are not properly fed
She said that luck is nothing
Only "preparation meeting opportunity "
Yet to the date,unluckiness
Is cursed infinity!
She said that "you can achieve anything
If you've got enough nerve"
But yet cowardness
Is ready to be served
"Being treated like a second class citizen"
She was now tired
Yet millions like her today
Have their black color inquired
"Alone we can do so little
Together we can do so much"
Said, the famous blind girl
Yet her unity, is trapped in a hutch
"A child, a teacher, a book and a pen
Can change the world" she said
But yet millions of them today
are considered illiterate instead!
Essential things, quoted beautifully
By Hellen kellar and Malala Yousufzai
Hundreds of courageous ones, to be set free
As asked by Oprah Winfrey
Thousands of them to be loved
Said by Mother Teresa, our beloved
Can you ignore these sayings?
By Rose Parks and JK Rowling
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 3:38 PM UTC
Sitting on the bus not knowing where to look,
Lady in the seat in front engrossed in her book
Woman in seat opposite glances then looks away
Upon realising that the book is Fifty Shades of Grey,
“Is your book a good read?” she says “I can't tell by the cover”
The reader mutters “It’s a story about a girl and her wealthy handsome lover”
The woman gives a wry smile and looks down at her coat
She’d read it herself six months ago but wasn't one to gloat,
“I’m reading J.K. Rowling but it's not a Harry Potter,
It's called The Casual Vacancy, Simon Price is such a rotter”,
Silence falls and five minutes is spent,
Observing the appearance of an elderly gent
Immaculately dressed, both suited and booted,
Back-seat youths start to swear and the air is polluted,
The man shakes his head at 'the youth of today’
“Bring back conscription” the driver hears him say,
He reaches in his pocket and takes out a mobile phone
Twenty missed calls from cold-callers,
Why can't they leave him alone?
He looks across at the bookworm
The girl can sense his stare
He hesitantly asks her “what's that book called you've got there?”
She showed the man the cover and then he did declare
"Fifty Shades of Grey's an apt description of my hair"
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 4:39 PM UTC
Mindlessly
running
down roads
dark shadows
etched
witches fingers
gnarled stretched
ready
to ******
his
skinny child's body
and hide it
beyond the reach of
the sun.
Breathlessly
trying to outrun
the secret
life
of private parts
and thief's touch
on rainy afternoons
and stifling evenings.
Hearing his
feet
on gravel
like snapping
kitten bones.
Sweat droplets
tickling ears
long stifled tears
threatening to escape
dusty dry
eyes.
The muted raven call
silently
screaming
into the
afternoon sky
to a sunday school deity
to provide a place
where his
ruthlessly exposed heart
and always
remembering
mind
could stop and rest
awhile.
Suddenly
dead
heart burst
memory erased
blood calmed
dry eyes
focused
no escape
from tomorrow
and tomorrow's
tomorrow.
Dennis Rowling
03.30.15
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC