"scampered" poems
(i want love in these woods)
while walking in
the quiet woods
humidity causing
blonde hair to stick
to my neck
on wooden path
my footsteps move
and on highest railing
a squirrel beckons
i smile /a real smile/
she stops
as if listening for my footsteps
then scampers forward
a few more feet
stops...tilts her head
eyes gleaming
listening for me again
i think she is the squirrel queen
bidding me to follow her
to my lover
waiting in the woods
i want love in these quiet woods
in the quiet night
under the moon
*oh what a night
that would be
with you*
the smell of the leaves
the sound of the crickets
eyes twinkling
soft blankets
this night
you should whisk me away
to a place in the woods
but, alas
the squirrel queen
scampered into the woods
and i'm sitting
at a picnic table
in filtering sunlight
sticky
transfixed
heart pounding
dreaming of
love in the woods
with you.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
I had a collar once
Of black leather and sky blue fur
And it fit me snugly
It was all I could ask for.
When my thoughts rampaged
As they do very second of everyday
I'd wrap it round my neck
And the noise would fade.
They called me a freak.
They looked at me in disgust, I was shamed
Because they don't understand
The need to be tamed.
Whether round my neck
Or around my wrists and ankles
Without a tether, I fret
Thus, for that collar, I am thankful.
I once felt guilt
Worse than any other pain
It weighed me down
As though it waterlogged my brain.
And all I wished
Was to atone
For a whip
To sing to my bones.
*"Why invite pain?
God, she's disgusting?
She's ******* insane!"*
The words said to me.
But how could they know
How much I wanted to cry?
How much I wanted discipline
To ease the guilt in my mind?
I once heard a scream
And it scampered down my spine
Like it was a living, sentient being
Infiltrating my mind.
And I'm sure I'd be a pariah
If I ever told anyone
I wanted to cause that scream
To make it sound like painful salvation.
I once cried
I hurt myself as comfort
And the feeling of that pain
Was so very sweet and so very short
And they'd call me a fool
Yet I still crave pain
And they'd think of me badly
For what I can't contain.
See, I'm far from vanilla
I'm far from innocence
Because all life gave me
Was cold and cimmerian.
There's a word for what I do
A lovely acronym
And it's so far from vanilla
Most describe it as a sin.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
There was a cat named Crazy Christian
Who never lived long enough to *****
He was gay hearted, young and handsome
And all the secrets of life he knew
He would always arrive on time for breakfast
Scamper on your feet and chase the ball
He was faster than any polo pony
He never worried a minute at all
His tail was a plume that scampered with him
He was black as night and as fast as light.
So the bad cats killed him in the fall.
5.3k
Her ribs crackled, in the skeleton night.
And I remember my mouth on hers,
where atomic fish hooks attached our lips.
Where there was nothing like kissing
like our God wasn't dead.
She was accused of killing a taxi driver
in the Brazilian underbelly.
Smoking a cigarette, she dropped it on the ground,
spat on it, and crushed it with her bare foot,
saying she fell in love with the way
his sleep-drenched body lay.
And I told her to stay home.
And I told her that they'd find her.
But she didn't stay home.
And they did find her.
Chasing her through the Babylon brush,
insults were thrown and so were balloons of gasoline.
Each pink, yellow, and green vessel floated in the air, as an internal opera heightened.
And sour splashes spread across her body,
as she fled from the vigilante mob.
The children danced along the panoramic horizon she ran beside,
laughing, pointing, singing.
The slumbering sorrow of the situation became evident,
and she started to feel the calm of fleeting life.
Her dreams aborted and her ideals became fallacies,
and with the sound of fuzzy motors in the background, her heart leapt and her feet slipped.
Rope ate into her, wrapping her like the orphaned recklessness of each set of eyes that painted her.
She squirmed amongst the cheers.
She cried with every thrown beer and balloon.
The empty-eyed males gang ***** her.
The women covered the children's eyes,
and the children tried to move their mothers' hands.
And I pushed my way through the crowd.
And I saw her smothered in blood, beer, and gasoline.
I wanted to halt the hurricane that destroyed morality.
But I am a coward.
Frozen by my fear, I, too, am a murderer.
And a murderer I'll always be,
for the burning of all that was good.
Sudden flames soared towards the sky.
Laughter escaped as molotov cocktails exploded onto her body.
Her head turned towards the crowd,
as flames scampered across her face.
I saw in her, what I never saw before,
which was the human race.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
I remember from my first memories with all senses humming waking up on Sunday mornings to the squealing seagulls. The smell of briney sea air was sharper
On most sunny sunday
mornings I would awken and lay in bed wake..dreaming for what seemed like hours.
The smells of grandma's rose and flower garden mingled with the smell of sunny Sundays.
The BBC wafted in through kitchen and bedroom windows.Mozart and Sinatra tag teamed against The Ink Spots and, Stan Getz. The Swallows flew back to Capistrano on yearning wings.
Then up and out on walk and sprint to the Caribbean sea, a gem coated shimmering twinkling dancing blanket of rising sun meets amniotic blue churning as froth and mist drifted in a sunday sermon from the water's deep and shallow.
A bubbling embrace as sprint turns to
Swan dive into the Sunday morning sea.
Seven day ritual baptism in the Sunday morning sea...at one with and free.
Now.
A sprint to the bobbing fishing boats that never drew fish from their restfull retreats of the morning Sea.
Breakfast
The sounds of tinkling teacups another ritual as granny stirred brown sugar and condensed milk into a carmel swirling with Johnny Cakes and coconut oil fried eggs waiting and wafting out
To the Sunday morning sea.
My Puppy and me then down through the flower garden.
Of we scampered with cares falling away and secrets to share while throwing stones into
The Sunday morning sea
My puppy named Ranger,barefeet and knee pants the hot sting on my ankle from a chastising fire ant rudly stabs at my reverie
As far as the horizon will let.
My imagination flees and unfetters to shores unknown that kiss and caresses my Sunday morning sea.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
He was up late again, reading one of his many comic books, when he heard the usual scratching at the back porch. So engrossed in his title, the youth ****** from his chair and crept toward the window. A band of large masked creatures scurried off into the gloomy, moonless night. The boy thew on his coat and grabbed a flashlight and camera as he headed out onto the back porch. He glanced at one of the raccoons just as he scampered into the gigantic black berry bush below his field. The boy decided to take a closer look. He started to move toward the giant bush below his field when he suddenly tripped over something on the ground. As he across to his feet, he noticed a small door covered with branches and dirt. He brushed away the ******* and stared at the small door in the ground. With out much thought, he put his shacking hand to the handle and slowly opened the door. Hundreds of tiny stairs led their way to a huge room, miles wide and long, but only about four feet high. The room was quiet, he was about to scream when he heard the same scratching noise that was at his back porch, only this sound was louder. The boy slowly turned. His heart pounding in his chest; his body like steel iron. Then, a sudden hush goes over the whole room. He opened his eyes to meet a four foot raccoon staring at him. The animal lifted his head to the boy and whispered, "tag, your it!"
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Them bastardized youths fell outside, dizzied by a reality unsolved.
Their maws scowled judgment and drooled Pabst down improbable bodies each of them lay in the stink of subtle conformity.
Fiercely unique culture beasts starved away in suburbs; Wikidrifting, those drugged litterbugs scampered.
Dropout fish fast against the current of their time, tired from dancing through desperate crowded nights and disparate lonely dawns, dangling degrees and the specters of success burning incessant their pride.
They were the ******** made so over time contracted by blind parents to nine-to-blithes in which quiet desperation, credit nooses, and irony were the small print.
They were carpenters afraid of their hands. With chisel to headstone, they lied on the hoods of used Japanese cars, panning the radio for a real connection and gazing up at vanishing constellations.
They were their poison and they their elixir, but a cold cigarette was a much quicker fixer of Helplessness Blues and the back of a Bible where a brief intellectual wrote “I am suicidal.”
For how does the turn of the epigram read to those who care less with every new beat of a drummed-up society so high off its piety that seeing stars vanish is simply a shame?
Those ******** dropouts tragically remiss, those Supertramps, Kerouacs, Cohens, and wits.
They were the alternative, urbanite fools that littered alleys with Greek fables and Tibetan tattoos.
Criterion flash cards and the literary canon allowed them to flirt with god in verse and art clues until Pollock’s canvas did rip off their eyelids which left them to know only Socrates knew.
They danced and they writhed, then ****** to pass time, and kept on their passions till lost were their minds. Then they all died, those blasphemous ********
But at least they washed on the back of their crimes.
At least they danced.
At least they were.
And there may be something to movement in chaos.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
A gravekeeper by trade
burying the dead to stay alive
with a green thumb and *****
the unused earth oh how it strives!
Fat tubers and roots
green leaves with red veins
small vines sprouting fruits
even a small section for grains
The gravekeeper never goes hungry
his family never starves
he loves living in the country
and his plot of earth that he carves
One day two fresh dead
and a rat, maybe two scampered by
soon a sickness to be widespread
day by day how that multiplied!
More bodies into the earth
how did his garden shrink
he was crying and crying
this gravekeeper didn't know what to think!
Should he be happy for business
should he be sad for the loss
is he crying for his vegetables
or is he crying for the bodies that are tossed
Little by little did the green become stone
his loved ones feast on a diet of worms
now he, a lonely gardener of bones
sits and watches as his world burns
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 8:47 AM UTC
Total parrot care
Cried the signboard
In the narrow sleepy by-lane
I gave it a dreamy stare.
I have been too rare on this road
Coming this way was no need
But when I chanced upon that signboard
My search ended for parrot feed.
Is there anybody there?
I echoed de la mare
Found none at the counter
Not even the shopkeeper!
Dismayed I looked around
If some human semblance could be found
But fell nothing in my gaze
Other than a parrot in a cage!
Turning to leave I was stopped by a voice
*Find here sir a variety of choice
Not just parrot feed
Under one roof all that they need.*
Who is speaking I asked in awe
There wasn’t a human face I saw
But could tell it with certainty
There were eyes watching me.
*Don’t leave sir without the delicious pellet
Once you take it you’ve to come back
Serves well a parrot’s palate
The bird loves this crunchy snack.*
It now emerged who was playing the trick
I was hearing parrot speak
None other there not one human folk
The shop was run by parrot talk!
*I scampered out with one long hop
Disappeared the lane the parrot shop
I was tossing on my sweated bed
By this funny dream that rocked my head!*
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
Blue sky, green sea,
hands of wind tickling
the coconut trees,
in the catamaran,
afloat the rolling waves,
a love smitten pair,
he and she, loosing themselves
in each other's eyes.
White spray from high waves,
rain on them, they gleam.
afternoon sun, fizzes down,
air is filled with laughter and joy,
pure magic of love,
the kind one experiences
when nature extends its hands,
to love for a dance of exuberance.
A shoal of colorful fish, swimming too close,
jump up to amuse them,
bringing much cheer.
Swinging on the waves
the sea keeps company to their craft.
**That day flew away and joined the repository of memories.
He and she scampered through the arches
waves after high waves erected,
took voyages far, through troubled waters.
But never, could they forget,
the laughter and joy that day represented,
when they stood together,
or went on to their separate ways.**
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 9:16 AM UTC
Little azalea
on the corner;
You gave me quiet joy
year after year.
I promised you;
vaguely, as I scampered past
that one day I would snap your picture,
crop it just so
press you in a tender frame
and adorn you
above the fireplace
or in the gentle gazebo
watching as we sip lemonade
and murmur about the weather.
But you have withered
and your buds no longer clasp the dew.
I told you that it was no matter;
that the picture will always live
in my mind.
Yet my memory fades
and I can't even recall
that subtle twist of your fresh limbs
and what was that shade of pink?
I must confess to you
that in the Spring
I will plant a little azalea
above your cracked, buried, splintered bones
and scamper past to hang a dimestore sketch
of some nameless azalea
in the gazebo.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
after a healthy
snowfall
I took to the park
to hike through
the woods with
Sweet Pea
on a friendly hill
near the entrance
I watched a father
and his miniature
purple scarved
pink bundled daughter
deep in the throes
of giddy play
slide down the
slight slope
daring the fates of
bodacious joy
I joined in their
smiles, lifted
by girly giggles
sung from
the secure lap of a
bear hugging dad
as the disk
whirled through
the snow
when the
thrilling ride ended
the little one
scampered after her
hooting daddy
as they climbed
the hillock for
another round
of glee
a few days later
Sweet Pea and I
returned to the park
the footprints
and sled marks
of our intrepid
joy riders were
fading, receding
into the march of
a waning season
though the
happy tracks
in the melting
snow will
surely vanish
the footprints
of that day will
remain fresh
alive forever
in the mind
of an elderly
woman, recalling
the thrilling giggles
and secure bearhugs
of a love blest youth
Music Selection:
Los Lobos:
Somewhere in Time
Oakland
2/5/14
jbm
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
The elevator opened on the 46th floor, to a small foyer and one plain, grey door
The door opened and a young girl, 10ish, in a blue, polo, tennis dress, said, “Hi! I’m Karen, you must be Anais. Will is around here somewhere. Aren’t you pretty, though? You go to school with Lisa? No wonder Will likes you.”
She skippingly ushered me from a bright, windowed, off-white, staircase entryway, into a deep-red, mahogany paneled library. A persian cat was soon underfoot, purring and winding around my legs.”That’s Misha,” Karen said, “just shoo her away if you don’t like cats.”
I stooped down to pet Misha who eagerly offered herself to be petted and admired. As I stroked her charcoal fur, Karen said, “Let me get Will,” as she scampered off.
A gold framed, impressionistic painting, pin-lit in bright crystalline light, hung over a fireplace. In the painting, two girls, in summer hats bright with startling red bows and yellow flowers, were sharing a book. The colors were rich, deep and swirling - it looked very much like a Renoir (I know my French artists). He’d done a whole “two girls” series. I drew closer - it wasn’t a print.
Though dazed by the opulence, I hadn’t missed what Karen had said. Will liked me. I longed to interrogate her about how exactly she knew Will liked me, and what form, exactly, Will’s liking took.
I know Will and Lisa (who would be joining us in a minute) are just friends. Not that it matters, we’re heading back to New Haven later - but Karen’s statements were capable of activating a girl's guy-dar.
Karen, wearing socks but no shoes, came to a sliding halt, on the wooden floor, by grabbing the door frame to stop an otherwise complete slide into the library. “You guys are going to the Ritz for lunch?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder, in a way that indicated that she knew the answer quite well.
The Ritz Carlton is a block away and our mission was to grab the food and bring it back here to eat. “Mind if I join?” she said, before I could answer her first question, all wide-eyed, blinking impatience.
“I don’t mind at ALL.” I said, Karen whooped and was off again down the hall. “I’M COMING TOO!” she yelled. I chuckled, knowingly - I’ve been there - I’m a little sister too.
Nov 27, 2021
Nov 27, 2021 at 12:41 PM UTC
It sat on the tip of her finger
oh such a diminutive fellow
never knew how small and cute
was this sweet amphibian called newt
I had only seen them on telly
and I know it sounds rather silly
but to see one in the flesh
was a revelation and gave me the *******
The porous skin
of this silky thing
it's mouth would struggle with a slug
this adoring sweet micro little thing
It just sat there as cool as a cucumber
I told my daughter to a shady leaf put under
and as he slowly scampered away
my daughter and me did bid him adieu
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
Born and reared in the city of Bridgeport,
where the trash arose from Long Island Sound.
The seagulls appeared, then vanished from sight,
wafting and diving through radiant sky.
Some inlets and harbours, lapping the shore,
while sounds of young voices screamed with delight.
Marvelous moments to form our delight.
Skipping through the busy streets of Bridgeport.
Heading south down Park, to visit the shore.
Where all you could hear was the visual sound,
of airplanes and balloons, gracing the sky,
alive in my mind but quite out of sight.
The crystalline sparkle came into sight,
to everyone’s pure and simple delight.
We watched as the clouds emerged from blue sky,
over the stunted skyline of Bridgeport.
Suddenly the clamour, the noise, the sound
came crashingly close to the rocky shore.
With silence removed from that muffled sound,
bemoaning the graphite and speckled sky.
Searching and groping for inner delight.
pasteurized thoughts over the sandy shore.
Memorized pictures brought into our sight,
a lost time; in the bowels of Bridgeport.
Sail boats and tankers came upon the shore,
out of the distance, and into my sight.
All I could hear was breath of the sound,
with glee, laughter, and a certain delight.
The slums became the city of Bridgeport,
reaching endlessly toward the dancing sky.
Adrift; at peace, and awashed by the sound,
flippantly airy as ground touched the sky.
I strolled and smiled with love lost delight,
scampered along on our copious shore.
Aware that my flight was love at first sight,
on the coast, in the city of Bridgeport.
Amped delight amid the light of our sound
misconstrued Bridgeport scraped close to the sky,
up to the shore and again out of sight.
Apr 10, 2011
Apr 10, 2011 at 5:15 PM UTC
The door and the doorway
form a cocoon around my
fingers and this metamorphosis
is still lovely because instead
of a butterfly I get bruises.
and white hot knuckles.
and a raspy throat when
afterwards I asked myself where
the air scampered
away to I think it’s hiding
under my bed and in the
piles of clothes that I
left on my floor because
every time I tried to pick them
up
I picked
up
the phone instead.
Don’t talk to me as if I’m
the last string holding the
tag on your bed sheets together
hile telling me that
I’m the last string keeping
you away from a 200 foot fall
while you’re bungee jumping
how do you expect me to
snap you back in place every time
you wander
I am not elastic.
it isn’t me that turns your
words into cobwebs in this breeze
I’ve heard everything you want to say to me
1000 times before
at least
give me a square of time
for my own thoughts
to act as a feather duster
in the attic of my mind.
to clean up your cobwebs
where you nested once,
you lay your eggs inside of me
and there are 2000 tiny animals
ravaging what I was saving for us
what’s left of my mind
I have a bottle cap and
a glass heart that you
copped from DC
you’re still running
and these bottles of vicodin
and oxycodone are chasing you
but you haven’t yet realized
that you’ve already tripped
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
Once Sadie O’Leary’s dementia
Brought her to ‘Whispering Pines’
A nursing home at the edge of the woods
Where she played in earlier times
Her loving son bought her Nikes
For Sadie was sturdy and strong
Her sneakers got quite a work-out
Whenever the door alarms bonged
That happened almost daily
Sadie escaped out that back door
Into the woods she scampered
As I raced to fetch her once more
A good headstart down the timeworn path
Now overgrown and winding
While I just turned 30- so winded
Sadie’s ahead at 90
Sadie O’Leary kept going
So wiry and wiley was she
I heard the alarm bells ringing
Far away from Sadie and me
Sadie, wait! Where are you going?
She was determined like no other
Her nostrils flared when she declared,
“I’m going to have lunch with my mother!”
Finally able to reach her
Grasping onto both of her hands
Remember she died years ago?
Your mother’s house no longer stands!
"Don’t you think I know that?!”
Glaring into my eyes brightly
Turning round to go back
Sadie gripped my hand so tightly
A comfortable symbiosis
Her foundation by the stream
Tomorrow we'll go together
Who am I to spoil her dream?
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
We've been together for four years.
After a lovely vacation on the beautiful island of Maui, Hawaii, I present to her a small, felt box, small enough to fit in my hand.
I open it.
A hamster the size of a thumb lays there, gasping for air as the oxygen comes rushing back to the tiny creature. His little lungs were straining with effort.
She gasped at the sight.
One would think that my decision to keep a hamster in an airtight box for no other reason than to entertain her would be an alarm bell of sorts.
It wasn't. Not to her.
She called me honey and named it powdered sugar, right before it scampered away, searching for freedom anywhere on this big sandy place, only to drown when a crashing wave swallowed it whole, mercilessly washing away its tiny footprints.
A better name for the hamster would be...
Our relationship?
Anyway. She tends to only call me monster, now.
If only she had heard the alarm instead of the wedding.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 2:50 AM UTC
I am sure, it might be midnight somewhere
Sun long gone to where I'll never know
Moons sing songs while rivers flow
Gashing and sifting between rocks
Crashing with utter silence
Everything breaks apart
Leaving scars in the heart
That can only be healed by being apart
We are together only at the start
But in the end the storm is going to tear us apart
Soon the storm will pass and I will love again
Looking toward the horizon
I took a deep, long breath
And dove into the water
Sinking slowly, deep into the blue
Elephant, which means the dream was about to come true
And then something amazing happened
Something I could have never imagined.
Pains me to think of the money I will never see.
Awash in the blue, I am losing my mind
Mind of a squirrel going nuts
Scampered down the street, needing more food
But he couldn't find any so he went home and got high
Lost his thoughts and began to cry.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
Fear not, doubt's dark whispers,
embrace the testing ground.
We face the same old existential dreads -
the unexpected twist, the vague essay prompt.
Genial birdsong mocked our anxious morning
and squirrels still scampered unconcerned.
“You’re a beautiful bundle of stress,”
I assured Lisa this morning
as I handed her her water bottle.
Dec 14, 2023
Dec 14, 2023 at 11:48 AM UTC
We met in February,
snow painted red-bricks looming,
flaring nostrils crisply inhaling;
we scampered across the boulevard
doused in the wake of passing tires.
We kissed on a Wednesday,
economically sharing a cab,
considerately a chaste peck,
stirring up a faint blush
while you clutched my hand.
I fell in love one morning
wrapped in a paradox of your limbs;
I extricated myself miserably,
condemned to hard labor
from nine to five.
You called me today,
the unrecognized number
churning cement in my stomach,
an answer to the the seven digit prayer
I left this morning on your pillow.
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 2:51 AM UTC
You used to disappear for months at a time
I was too young to understand but I did anyways
You hurt me like you hurt yourself
The difference is I remember
As children we were sad and tragic misfits
Hell bent on escape of some kind
You used to try to jump out of second story windows
Enough to break eternal but not to close your mind
I found you once trembling in the kitchen
In your pocket was a handful of capsules
Ran for help and with reinforcements recommitted you
You told me I could stop you now but there would be a tomorrow
Your depression worsened and school became your nemesis
You singlehandedly proved how cruel and evil children can be to others
A victim of your instability and chemical imbalance
A social untouchable, they kicked you and you scampered under the porch
The progression across the spectrum of moods made you manic
I could handle you when you had lost hope, but you became unpredictable
Needing everyone’s help, you couldn’t bear to act alone
Always making scenes we were bashful when in crowds
I picked you up after class and you showed me your self-assigned art project
Your room was filled with them, scribbles on the walls
Poetry and carved incantations and letters
Just the way you were when you lived in the hospital
I will always remember when I was first allowed to visit
Your expression dull, eyes dead and voice hoarse but constant
Your babble was brilliant even though you spoke in tongues
Drew me equations, diagrams, promises and master plans
I keep them still and hope that you will make no replications
Reminder of the horror that goes into reparations
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 3:34 PM UTC
He sat there behind the table,
with his glasses sitting on his nose,
and his skin sitting on his bones - both loosely,
the way you’d expect someone to sit
after 75 years of good, but hard, living.
“The trick is-” he said
deliberately pausing to shift the weight of the sentence
toward the upcoming words
“you have to wipe away all the things you don't want to see."
He said this as he scribbled his name
inside my new copy of his old book
smiling in that gentle old man way.
I scampered away like a schoolboy
feeling like an idiot
having rambled at him
in my best impression of a scholar
- like a kid wearing his dad’s oversized suit.
I talked at him about
how well he captures a moment in poetry
like this former US Poet Laureate
wasn’t aware of his talent
and I was somehow the first
delivering the good news.
As I wander the campus,
having escaped my embarrassment
I think back to a poem he read tonight
about watching an old couple sharing a sandwich.
It was an ode to love,
an image you can see in any sit down restaurant,
literally anywhere in America.
He focused in on this couple,
in this diner
at this moment
apart from time, like a moving still life
forever framed by his words.
He wiped away the screaming kid
and its overwhelmed mother in the booth to the left,
the table of teenagers playing hooky to their right,
and the underpaid twnetysomething waitress
who clearly didn’t want to be there anyway.
He wiped away all of that distraction
and unearthed this beautiful moment
this pure example of true love-
A sandwich cut from corner to corner
by the shaking hands of a man
whose glasses sit upon his face
and skin upon his bones
all the way you expect a man to
with woman he’s loved for forty years
with whom he shares everything.
I think about the moments I have missed
the poems never writ
because I was staring at the waitress,
who clearly didn’t want to be there anyway.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
When William walked
They stayed in pace
And when William stopped
They backed away
Williams women knew their place
They prepped the food
They cleaned his place
They shined his shoes
And shaved his face
But oh Williams worth
Was a wayward lot
Dampened darkly
Away and aloft
Sparkly hamperings
In the trunk of his car
Scampered starkly
Alone in the dark
So far far and away
They exclaim
Oh Billy!
Ol'Willy has his fame
Flames but to his back
As he walks away
Really just another *****
A wiley killer killen em
Wily nily willing or not
He's lovey dovey
Shovey punchy
Always feelin hot
When with his silly thoughts
He sees the holes in their knots
And gets off on their thoughts
For the love of the pop
The pop of the ma-gotts
Sopping mind rot
He gets it alot
And when he stops
He froths throbs
Weaves and bobs
Wheezes and sobs
Then sneezes and hes off
To either burn a stable
Or poison a troth
Severe a cable
Or just turn it all off
Offering lovelessness
Amidst pimps
For he is the way
The way of the worlds
Lawful in his lawlessness
He is the glint
Of the harbinger
The bringer of depth
The flint
Of the match maker
Closer to per-fect
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC