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"seaboard" poems
Gliding deftly along the city street rolling quick and constantly onward to some unknown scene, some backward park in the nighttime smoke curling from these parted lips, moist and inviting calling me somewhere I've never seen. New day, new night new feelings, rage in delight fill me with your hilarious entropy, knock my quarks into the next century, will you please? Now you're smoking the pipe and all at once you are free between you and me, this smoke is thicker and sticks like glue, wispy and dreamy and the world spins and calls Toltec telephone company can't pay me for all those calls collected and rendered obsolete Sun god dead as that silly calendar meme Amaterasu, and Imma tell you these ladies in the picnic table buried alive for boxed lunch and god's brunch Jesus ******* Christ and a indelible roster of good guys, to which we all must strive to live and die behind, never moving forward chasing our tails like a sick dog under the jasmine runner between the decades-old tanbark imported from overseas dead trees dead canine and oh isn't it just divine? You see it, pretty lady. I can see it hiding behind your eyes the things you don't tell the others because you're afraid if they found out, you'd be crucified. Well honey I hate to inform, With KGB efficiency that these love-a-dumbs aint Methuselah, they'll be dead! long before your flood of tears tears me from the land ballistas me across the great expanse to some strange Ararat of the eastern seaboard, or maybe wash me deep along the 80 into the desert sands and tiles on a leaky cell phone screen desperately trying to dial home on low battery, realizing all this was one big deferred dream, baking in the sun and shriveling oh well, back to the grindstone-- all those lies plucked your nose, gotta cut it back to size, 'else your soul it'll outgrow Don't worry honey bee It hasn't happened to me, and We know with calcuable mathematical truth that it'll never happen to you.
0
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
TimelessWave
Roller Derby
Gliding deftly along the city street rolling quick and constantly onward to some unknown scene, some backward park in the nighttime smoke curling from these parted lips, moist and inviting calling me somewhere I've never seen. New day, new night new feelings, rage in delight fill me with your hilarious entropy, knock my quarks into the next century, will you please? Now you're smoking the pipe and all at once you are free between you and me, this smoke is thicker and sticks like glue, wispy and dreamy and the world spins and calls Toltec telephone company can't pay me for all those calls collected and rendered obsolete Sun god dead as that silly calendar meme Amaterasu, and Imma tell you these ladies in the picnic table buried alive for boxed lunch and god's brunch Jesus ******* Christ and a indelible roster of good guys, to which we all must strive to live and die behind, never moving forward chasing our tails like a sick dog under the jasmine runner between the decades-old tanbark imported from overseas dead trees dead canine and oh isn't it just divine? You see it, pretty lady. I can see it hiding behind your eyes the things you don't tell the others because you're afraid if they found out, you'd be crucified. Well honey I hate to inform, With KGB efficiency that these love-a-dumbs aint Methuselah, they'll be dead! long before your flood of tears tears me from the land ballistas me across the great expanse to some strange Ararat of the eastern seaboard, or maybe wash me deep along the 80 into the desert sands and tiles on a leaky cell phone screen desperately trying to dial home on low battery, realizing all this was one big deferred dream, baking in the sun and shriveling oh well, back to the grindstone-- all those lies plucked your nose, gotta cut it back to size, 'else your soul it'll outgrow Don't worry honey bee It hasn't happened to me, and We know with calcuable mathematical truth that it'll never happen to you.
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59
Summer raining on the Eastern seaboard I liked you better before November, personally There are metal shards floating in this bathwater Their own tiny islands of pain A mirror in shards face up on the floor Guess that is just another 7 years of bad luck Pennies are dropping into the bathtub Copper going plink plink plink Tiny rivulets running their paths That's just the sound of my lifeline going down the drain, again Smells like metal and tastes like pain Red river gushing from my veins Locked door trying to staunch the flow of secrets Head swimming to the tile floor clink clink clink Scars these days open so easily Like the Raven said, Nevermore
0
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
oldstarsigns
Death in a Bathtub
Summer raining on the Eastern seaboard I liked you better before November, personally There are metal shards floating in this bathwater Their own tiny islands of pain A mirror in shards face up on the floor Guess that is just another 7 years of bad luck Pennies are dropping into the bathtub Copper going plink plink plink Tiny rivulets running their paths That's just the sound of my lifeline going down the drain, again Smells like metal and tastes like pain Red river gushing from my veins Locked door trying to staunch the flow of secrets Head swimming to the tile floor clink clink clink Scars these days open so easily Like the Raven said, Nevermore
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17
then I am wearing black suit, white shirt, black tie, pockets full of tissues, most crumpled, mostly used, like my spirits If it's 2pm, I am in Augusta, in a baptist church, a nice jewish boy, fixing his askewed tie, doing what The Lord commanded of him If it's 2pm, I am in Augusta, sunny and 72 Farenheit, inside of me its a different forecast, y'all decide the condition, the condition I'm in I'm in the way back row, humming so softly, me and Johnny C. nobody hears, nobody cares, *She stood in the crowd and shed not a tear But sometimes at night when the cold wind moans In a long black veil she cries over my bones She walks these hills in a long black veil She visits my grave where the night winds wail Nobody knows, no and nobody sees Nobody knows but me* nobody knows, I am there, nobody sees, nobody believes, but god only knows I am here my spirit taken here unasked, unaided, unabated did not have to fly, the ship that was to take me, busted on the rocks for *the words that are used to get the ship confused will not be understood as they’re spoken for the chains of the sea will have busted in the night, will be buried at the bottom of the ocean* still If it's 2pm, I am in Augusta, at a funeral, my words gone silent, even store bought stock phrases, so sorry for your loss, not for sale, all gone, all aloft, all sold out on this Sabbath day If it's 2pm, I am in Augusta, in some form of which not readily acquainted, my new context a riddle, never knew this morphosis till now, until it was needed, all on that day If it's 2:45pm can't understand all these people standing over me, and the sidewalk taste in my my mouth it appears I appeared on east 57th street in my New York City, it appears I appeared to have fainted dead away, asking me not where how or when, only why, and I have no answers for them or me or anybody who dare asks a quest, commencing and ending in why must have been the heat, but decide then and there maybe go visit my Jordan and my grand children
0
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
If it's 2pm on the Eastern Seaboard
then I am wearing black suit, white shirt, black tie, pockets full of tissues, most crumpled, mostly used, like my spirits If it's 2pm, I am in Augusta, in a baptist church, a nice jewish boy, fixing his askewed tie, doing what The Lord commanded of him If it's 2pm, I am in Augusta, sunny and 72 Farenheit, inside of me its a different forecast, y'all decide the condition, the condition I'm in I'm in the way back row, humming so softly, me and Johnny C. nobody hears, nobody cares, *She stood in the crowd and shed not a tear But sometimes at night when the cold wind moans In a long black veil she cries over my bones She walks these hills in a long black veil She visits my grave where the night winds wail Nobody knows, no and nobody sees Nobody knows but me* nobody knows, I am there, nobody sees, nobody believes, but god only knows I am here my spirit taken here unasked, unaided, unabated did not have to fly, the ship that was to take me, busted on the rocks for *the words that are used to get the ship confused will not be understood as they’re spoken for the chains of the sea will have busted in the night, will be buried at the bottom of the ocean* still If it's 2pm, I am in Augusta, at a funeral, my words gone silent, even store bought stock phrases, so sorry for your loss, not for sale, all gone, all aloft, all sold out on this Sabbath day If it's 2pm, I am in Augusta, in some form of which not readily acquainted, my new context a riddle, never knew this morphosis till now, until it was needed, all on that day If it's 2:45pm can't understand all these people standing over me, and the sidewalk taste in my my mouth it appears I appeared on east 57th street in my New York City, it appears I appeared to have fainted dead away, asking me not where how or when, only why, and I have no answers for them or me or anybody who dare asks a quest, commencing and ending in why must have been the heat, but decide then and there maybe go visit my Jordan and my grand children
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88
Now an annual autumnal literary festival visit to our island redoubt, the snow geese come honking down, in linear formation warning itinerant human beachcombers of their arrival on the beach runways of our sheltered island This TripTik recommended diversion, is a pleasure long anticipated by them, seen as an intellectual rest stop, with excellent sea snacks cuisined, flying down the Eastern Seaboard keeping Interstate 95 on their right, an avian version of GPS Our birds, follow a minor route, commencing in Nova Scotia, the farthest north of all the species, never making it to Mexico, ending their travelogue in Georgia, lest their true species be confused with other kinds of Floridian snowbirds Sit by my side they do, one by one in assigned seats, on the now scrawny grass blanket, their attention span famously long, unless a school of striped bass seen on radar in the vicinity I, on my Adirondack throne, a poetry reading to intone, with more-than-occasional audience input, considered their right most fair Critics one and all, animated animal devotees of the arts, unafraid to express their thoughts, oft in unison or in unharmonious John Cage cacophonies of disagreement Sadly, I only speak local seagull, thus their effusive exege(e)ses and criticisms, either damming or acclaim, indistinguishable, their only "tell" is if they stick around for just one more...day... That my poetry they did favor was a conceit I feigned to believe, loving their attention even if not deserved, for in their service, and nature's too, I am now trained to sit and wait, a minor stitch in a famous tapestry, for well I recall Milton's words: *"God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts: who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait."*
0
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Sitting, Waiting, Serving the Snow Geese
Now an annual autumnal literary festival visit to our island redoubt, the snow geese come honking down, in linear formation warning itinerant human beachcombers of their arrival on the beach runways of our sheltered island This TripTik recommended diversion, is a pleasure long anticipated by them, seen as an intellectual rest stop, with excellent sea snacks cuisined, flying down the Eastern Seaboard keeping Interstate 95 on their right, an avian version of GPS Our birds, follow a minor route, commencing in Nova Scotia, the farthest north of all the species, never making it to Mexico, ending their travelogue in Georgia, lest their true species be confused with other kinds of Floridian snowbirds Sit by my side they do, one by one in assigned seats, on the now scrawny grass blanket, their attention span famously long, unless a school of striped bass seen on radar in the vicinity I, on my Adirondack throne, a poetry reading to intone, with more-than-occasional audience input, considered their right most fair Critics one and all, animated animal devotees of the arts, unafraid to express their thoughts, oft in unison or in unharmonious John Cage cacophonies of disagreement Sadly, I only speak local seagull, thus their effusive exege(e)ses and criticisms, either damming or acclaim, indistinguishable, their only "tell" is if they stick around for just one more...day... That my poetry they did favor was a conceit I feigned to believe, loving their attention even if not deserved, for in their service, and nature's too, I am now trained to sit and wait, a minor stitch in a famous tapestry, for well I recall Milton's words: *"God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts: who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait."*
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58
My Old Flame My old flame, my wife! Remember our lists of birds? One morning last summer, I drove by our house in Maine. It was still on top of its hill - Now a red ear of Indian maize was splashed on the door. Old Glory with thirteen stripes  hung on a pole. The clapboard was old-red schoolhouse red. Inside, a new landlord, a new wife, a new broom! Atlantic seaboard antique shop pewter and plunder shone in each room. A new frontier! No running next door now to phone the sheriff for his taxi to Bath and the State Liquor Store! No one saw your ghostly  imaginary lover stare through the window and tighten the scarf at his throat. Health to the new people, health to their flag, to their old restored house on the hill! Everything had been swept bare, furnished, garnished and aired. Everything's changed for the best - how quivering and fierce we were, there snowbound together, simmering like wasps in our tent of books! Poor ghost, old love, speak with your old voice of flaming insight that kept us awake all night. In one bed and apart, we heard the plow groaning up hill - a red light, then a blue, as it tossed off the snow to the side of the road.  Lowell Robert (1964). “My Old Flame” (p. 5). For the Union Dead. Farrar, Straus & Giroux, NY.
0
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 9:49 AM UTC
mark-w-meehan
My Old Flame, by Robert Lowell
My Old Flame My old flame, my wife! Remember our lists of birds? One morning last summer, I drove by our house in Maine. It was still on top of its hill - Now a red ear of Indian maize was splashed on the door. Old Glory with thirteen stripes  hung on a pole. The clapboard was old-red schoolhouse red. Inside, a new landlord, a new wife, a new broom! Atlantic seaboard antique shop pewter and plunder shone in each room. A new frontier! No running next door now to phone the sheriff for his taxi to Bath and the State Liquor Store! No one saw your ghostly  imaginary lover stare through the window and tighten the scarf at his throat. Health to the new people, health to their flag, to their old restored house on the hill! Everything had been swept bare, furnished, garnished and aired. Everything's changed for the best - how quivering and fierce we were, there snowbound together, simmering like wasps in our tent of books! Poor ghost, old love, speak with your old voice of flaming insight that kept us awake all night. In one bed and apart, we heard the plow groaning up hill - a red light, then a blue, as it tossed off the snow to the side of the road.  Lowell Robert (1964). “My Old Flame” (p. 5). For the Union Dead. Farrar, Straus & Giroux, NY.
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47
the red heat at last broke across the misshapen backs of two old crows lifting from The Omen Tree to cast the day's last shadow on our lengthening lawn. and Jess turned to me stern like she'd might well never see the sun again and said It's in my blood, Sloan, it's rocket-bone fever I know it and it's got right a good hold on me, too.         rocket-bone, she says, where your legs need to "go"         her eyes wide like each one could take off any minute         to unknown destinations each a little fighting piece of Jess. and I said I love you Puck but you know you're wound right up, tighter than baling wire and no amount of rocket fuel is gonna rip you away from me so         guzzle up buttercup rocket-bone or no you got         nowhere else to go and hell baby you know even the         Titan Two Class missile herself's got a home. because I love you Puck and I know how it goes and if it ain't kerosene in your bloodstream it's the president calling on the telephone saying you've won come on down or it's flesh eating fish in our neighbor's pool old Gloria Whitford, mother to eleven, who you're certain you killed in a duel.         and I said I'm gonna take care of you Puck cuz         you're a crazy *** ***** and full up with **** but         baby you're still built outta rocket parts.         and every bit of you is still a fighting piece waiting to blow         hit every city on the eastern seaboard you rocket-bone you         and warheads or no hell I bet the President then even would phone, if I ever let you go.
0
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
j-Arturo
rocket-bone
the red heat at last broke across the misshapen backs of two old crows lifting from The Omen Tree to cast the day's last shadow on our lengthening lawn. and Jess turned to me stern like she'd might well never see the sun again and said It's in my blood, Sloan, it's rocket-bone fever I know it and it's got right a good hold on me, too.         rocket-bone, she says, where your legs need to "go"         her eyes wide like each one could take off any minute         to unknown destinations each a little fighting piece of Jess. and I said I love you Puck but you know you're wound right up, tighter than baling wire and no amount of rocket fuel is gonna rip you away from me so         guzzle up buttercup rocket-bone or no you got         nowhere else to go and hell baby you know even the         Titan Two Class missile herself's got a home. because I love you Puck and I know how it goes and if it ain't kerosene in your bloodstream it's the president calling on the telephone saying you've won come on down or it's flesh eating fish in our neighbor's pool old Gloria Whitford, mother to eleven, who you're certain you killed in a duel.         and I said I'm gonna take care of you Puck cuz         you're a crazy *** ***** and full up with **** but         baby you're still built outta rocket parts.         and every bit of you is still a fighting piece waiting to blow         hit every city on the eastern seaboard you rocket-bone you         and warheads or no hell I bet the President then even would phone, if I ever let you go.
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31
what's the matter lady moon is always waning smile fragrant paining grind those whitewashed tombstones into a fine dust and blow it my eye so i might cry over you and the distance and have it be half hearted but still textbook lacrimosa
0
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
pablo-ignacio-marin
Eastern Seaboard Girls
what's the matter lady moon is always waning smile fragrant paining grind those whitewashed tombstones into a fine dust and blow it my eye so i might cry over you and the distance and have it be half hearted but still textbook lacrimosa
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10
startling images of earthquake destruction mangled bodies strewn hitherto charred flesh of orphaned infants lie motionless on the partially uplifted hospital/ monastery floor trying to lift and remove rubble in a desperate attempt to locate the sobbing baby which I can hear, but not see – 34 train cars piled twisted metal sitting in an oil and chemical spill hazmat teams stare blankly at the massive carnage overwhelmed by the mayhem and poisoned by their presence within hours the first responders have passed, the last moments.. chocking and gurgling on their own blood creeping up from internal damage – wide-eyed militants stand armed at the entrances to FEMA camps angrily shouting and pushing American citizens into places of detainment while laughing about failed democracy – night after night I wake from terrible dreams…. Mt. Hood major eruption ending Portland and impacting the Columbia, Juan De Fucca slippage Oregon and Washington coastline in shambles thousands dead and bodies lost, rogue asteroid smashing headlong into the Atlantic seaboard leaving near ½ of our 308 million washed away like the Atlanteans or the Egyptian Kings of old, sweat coated sheets have become the norm…. nightly visitations of misshapen faces poking and prodding, looking at the Cascades as harbingers of radioactive derbies and witnessing the physical decline of its natural inhabitants, the ever propagandized deadly threat of extremists bent on killing innocents, my tired eyes only wish for peace – It is not kosher to refer to oneself as a prophet or seer or the future, but those of you who choose to blindly accept that everything remains the same will only be remembered through songs and tales yet unwritten –
0
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
s-lyman-temple
Never claimed to be Nostradamus
startling images of earthquake destruction mangled bodies strewn hitherto charred flesh of orphaned infants lie motionless on the partially uplifted hospital/ monastery floor trying to lift and remove rubble in a desperate attempt to locate the sobbing baby which I can hear, but not see – 34 train cars piled twisted metal sitting in an oil and chemical spill hazmat teams stare blankly at the massive carnage overwhelmed by the mayhem and poisoned by their presence within hours the first responders have passed, the last moments.. chocking and gurgling on their own blood creeping up from internal damage – wide-eyed militants stand armed at the entrances to FEMA camps angrily shouting and pushing American citizens into places of detainment while laughing about failed democracy – night after night I wake from terrible dreams…. Mt. Hood major eruption ending Portland and impacting the Columbia, Juan De Fucca slippage Oregon and Washington coastline in shambles thousands dead and bodies lost, rogue asteroid smashing headlong into the Atlantic seaboard leaving near ½ of our 308 million washed away like the Atlanteans or the Egyptian Kings of old, sweat coated sheets have become the norm…. nightly visitations of misshapen faces poking and prodding, looking at the Cascades as harbingers of radioactive derbies and witnessing the physical decline of its natural inhabitants, the ever propagandized deadly threat of extremists bent on killing innocents, my tired eyes only wish for peace – It is not kosher to refer to oneself as a prophet or seer or the future, but those of you who choose to blindly accept that everything remains the same will only be remembered through songs and tales yet unwritten –
Continue reading...
60
you spun silk across the skyline as the frail sun spilt, onto the far-eastern seaboard, while those consistent clicks fell resound and washed away down the drain behind the blanket ran to pitch as the clamourous small hours from city centre disband the overcast to stillnesses and grandeur of emptied haloes, trickling with dust, so i open my muddied lungs and laugh; for now i know i have kept fallin' anew all along, if i think i think i will be alright will i make it through this night? will it be any better, in the dawn's soft light? i'm not afraid anymore, though. we were star-crossed, but for one single moment: the sky tore wide, and all inside of your ribs, the constellations swum where once i'd only found doubt, inside your eyes the lights played out melodies in time, as dawn opened up beneath us.
0
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
tom-mccone
so it's dark and my heart's still beating.
you spun silk across the skyline as the frail sun spilt, onto the far-eastern seaboard, while those consistent clicks fell resound and washed away down the drain behind the blanket ran to pitch as the clamourous small hours from city centre disband the overcast to stillnesses and grandeur of emptied haloes, trickling with dust, so i open my muddied lungs and laugh; for now i know i have kept fallin' anew all along, if i think i think i will be alright will i make it through this night? will it be any better, in the dawn's soft light? i'm not afraid anymore, though. we were star-crossed, but for one single moment: the sky tore wide, and all inside of your ribs, the constellations swum where once i'd only found doubt, inside your eyes the lights played out melodies in time, as dawn opened up beneath us.
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23
On the Eastern seaboard, it’s just as hard to wake from another dream where you’re drowning as it is on the West Coast. Some time, perhaps mid-October, I swallowed a handful of some unmarked happy hollow in a bottle with a child-safety cap I struggled to negotiate. I crawled out of my window to be under the canopy of the Midwestern sun to feel the blissful peace of some form of oblivion; and when I didn’t wake, when I was devoured by grave worms, I fed the roots that bore a beautiful dogwood which blossomed in the springtime.
0
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 11:10 PM UTC
benjamin-lockwood
Dogwood
On the Eastern seaboard, it’s just as hard to wake from another dream where you’re drowning as it is on the West Coast. Some time, perhaps mid-October, I swallowed a handful of some unmarked happy hollow in a bottle with a child-safety cap I struggled to negotiate. I crawled out of my window to be under the canopy of the Midwestern sun to feel the blissful peace of some form of oblivion; and when I didn’t wake, when I was devoured by grave worms, I fed the roots that bore a beautiful dogwood which blossomed in the springtime.
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17
For Lucinda I tightened my bandana On my sun-kissed skin I rubbed my three-day beard God, I need a shave God, I was going god knows where I thought I was heading for old El Paso As I picked my pack from the floor But I stopped as I started for the door. Life is just empty When you’re walking alone. So wherever you’re going, girl I want to go there with you. I sit there and watch you sleep So innocent and so peaceful. Last night’s cherry lipstick Last night’s Vanilla ***** You gave me the freedom to stay; Lucinda I could ramble a thousand miles But what Good would it do? I’d still hurt in the old familiar way I’d just be sweating I could go coast to coast, seaboard to seaboard And never find the light But the light’s right here, in your eyes, You gave me the freedom to stay. I sit on the bed and just look Look at you in awe What’s the point in chasing a falling star? When the light’s in your heart Why keep on running, when here you are? I could ramble a thousand miles And never see the light in your eyes again.
0
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 7:36 AM UTC
dan-hinton
You Gave Me The Freedom To Stay
For Lucinda I tightened my bandana On my sun-kissed skin I rubbed my three-day beard God, I need a shave God, I was going god knows where I thought I was heading for old El Paso As I picked my pack from the floor But I stopped as I started for the door. Life is just empty When you’re walking alone. So wherever you’re going, girl I want to go there with you. I sit there and watch you sleep So innocent and so peaceful. Last night’s cherry lipstick Last night’s Vanilla ***** You gave me the freedom to stay; Lucinda I could ramble a thousand miles But what Good would it do? I’d still hurt in the old familiar way I’d just be sweating I could go coast to coast, seaboard to seaboard And never find the light But the light’s right here, in your eyes, You gave me the freedom to stay. I sit on the bed and just look Look at you in awe What’s the point in chasing a falling star? When the light’s in your heart Why keep on running, when here you are? I could ramble a thousand miles And never see the light in your eyes again.
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33
Tolling hungrily the hollow bell High in pious belfry hung. Lofty words as pride dictates From deep in cavernous dwellings To keep a doctrine as a young lady Keeps hope of the future Locked in a chest -- The ritual of past and present Notions. Receding line at edge of seaboard Feeding on dry land the Watery grave Filled with borrowed sentiments Adrift. The open sea -- open sores of Prejudice Cut off from inlets of vision and Reason. Preserved as Lenin's body under Glass.
0
Dec 27, 2024
Dec 27, 2024 at 10:42 AM UTC
DanielTucker
Vain Tradition
Tolling hungrily the hollow bell High in pious belfry hung. Lofty words as pride dictates From deep in cavernous dwellings To keep a doctrine as a young lady Keeps hope of the future Locked in a chest -- The ritual of past and present Notions. Receding line at edge of seaboard Feeding on dry land the Watery grave Filled with borrowed sentiments Adrift. The open sea -- open sores of Prejudice Cut off from inlets of vision and Reason. Preserved as Lenin's body under Glass.
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15
Go on then and type type type away into the gloom of a dying Eastern seaboard, waiting and watching for a glimpse of that rotting corpse you call a messiah, yes the prophet of power reeking of stale cigarette butts and old ****** Type type type the day away buying your worthless flowers and plastic ******* palm trees as you shed pieces of your soul like flakes of aluminum shavings metal snowflakes trailing behind your beat up industrial exterior. Type type type through the sickle cell night wallowing in the animal urge to go dance naked round a roaring fire and make sweet love to Anglo-Saxon girls lost in moonlight on a bed of pine needles only to realize that those dreams are just as sallow and jaundiced as the *** on the rusty iron corner that you know you will someday be sacrificed to. Type type type till the pink lips of sunrise claw their way out of another shuddering dawn to find you red eyed and drunk screaming obscenities at the computer screen and wondering how the dead certainty that filled you with passion and verse the night before could wither away into the hollow crevices that forever wink up at you out of the gangrenous ******* chest wound of American Dreams.
0
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
jon-daniel-shierling
Typeset
Go on then and type type type away into the gloom of a dying Eastern seaboard, waiting and watching for a glimpse of that rotting corpse you call a messiah, yes the prophet of power reeking of stale cigarette butts and old ****** Type type type the day away buying your worthless flowers and plastic ******* palm trees as you shed pieces of your soul like flakes of aluminum shavings metal snowflakes trailing behind your beat up industrial exterior. Type type type through the sickle cell night wallowing in the animal urge to go dance naked round a roaring fire and make sweet love to Anglo-Saxon girls lost in moonlight on a bed of pine needles only to realize that those dreams are just as sallow and jaundiced as the *** on the rusty iron corner that you know you will someday be sacrificed to. Type type type till the pink lips of sunrise claw their way out of another shuddering dawn to find you red eyed and drunk screaming obscenities at the computer screen and wondering how the dead certainty that filled you with passion and verse the night before could wither away into the hollow crevices that forever wink up at you out of the gangrenous ******* chest wound of American Dreams.
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31
They come in waves Each one receding And a fresh breaker each meeting To lap against the seaboard Phases,  individually different Like seasons changing They bring me reasons To wish for steadier climates Markedly too many cloudy days And frosty iced beaches Frigid and barren sand dunes Glossy with the sheen of nothingness Phases, always redundantly taunting It cycles with the moon As the tide rises Deluge swelling to a riptide A clumsy waltz, gravity and satellite Fuller and more violent With each movement Threatens to deepen any second The further it pulls The farther the tendency creeps in Shoreline expanding,  threshold capsizing Each pulse a tender beat I walk barefeet in the shallows Timid to dare to wade too deep Past the places I'm comfortable enough With the feeling water against my exposed skin And from here I can find stones to skip Why would I trade leisure for treading The sunset on the horizon looks far more beautiful when You can stand to see it Phases, they help me remember I'm breathing Because how can you bear to be alive If you're not feeling You're not truly living
0
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
rlmoore
Phases
They come in waves Each one receding And a fresh breaker each meeting To lap against the seaboard Phases,  individually different Like seasons changing They bring me reasons To wish for steadier climates Markedly too many cloudy days And frosty iced beaches Frigid and barren sand dunes Glossy with the sheen of nothingness Phases, always redundantly taunting It cycles with the moon As the tide rises Deluge swelling to a riptide A clumsy waltz, gravity and satellite Fuller and more violent With each movement Threatens to deepen any second The further it pulls The farther the tendency creeps in Shoreline expanding,  threshold capsizing Each pulse a tender beat I walk barefeet in the shallows Timid to dare to wade too deep Past the places I'm comfortable enough With the feeling water against my exposed skin And from here I can find stones to skip Why would I trade leisure for treading The sunset on the horizon looks far more beautiful when You can stand to see it Phases, they help me remember I'm breathing Because how can you bear to be alive If you're not feeling You're not truly living
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37
Far moost o' me three score minus one year tethered upon terra firmae where planet Earth doth veer (spins upon the global axis (tilted 23.5 degrees from the plane of its orbit around the sun), terrestrial genesis (perhaps accompanied for Pete's sake by Gabriel blowing his horn) in all honesty unclear boot more oven concern points to thermonuclear and/or subnuclear war, particularly at forefront of thine primate noggin actively hypothesizing theoretical armageddon, when non plus ultra gravitates with e pluribus unum necessitating each individual to bend over and kiss his/her rear goodbye unless total merciless queer hue loss atomic fallout immediately incinerates e'en the moost savvy profiteer, which aforementioned prognostication arose from overbear ring hazy, hot and humid dangerous heat spell near lee approximating insufferable temperature nearing triple digits (along Eastern Seaboard of United baked States makes this human, an immediate convert to climate control (though he happened tubby already) basking, glorifying, and luxuriating within delightful 60º Fahrenheit mere really expressing gratitude for such creature comfort donning my stretched out birthday suit, (yet thee moost comfortable leisurewear then thrift store "special bag mountain of clothes as mooch as Yukon sales," no matter mine ill mannered mirrored reflection doth jeer at such a sorry sight, and/or laugh reading interlinear monologue colloquy, which message gleaned between lines, and should this poem be red aloud, thy ******** passion linkedin with humming HVAC, ye would hear courtesy hove cochlear (hollow tube in the inner ear) sensitive to deafening sounds...so beware!
0
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
matthew-scott-harris2p
An Aire ' Bout Central Air
Far moost o' me three score minus one year tethered upon terra firmae where planet Earth doth veer (spins upon the global axis (tilted 23.5 degrees from the plane of its orbit around the sun), terrestrial genesis (perhaps accompanied for Pete's sake by Gabriel blowing his horn) in all honesty unclear boot more oven concern points to thermonuclear and/or subnuclear war, particularly at forefront of thine primate noggin actively hypothesizing theoretical armageddon, when non plus ultra gravitates with e pluribus unum necessitating each individual to bend over and kiss his/her rear goodbye unless total merciless queer hue loss atomic fallout immediately incinerates e'en the moost savvy profiteer, which aforementioned prognostication arose from overbear ring hazy, hot and humid dangerous heat spell near lee approximating insufferable temperature nearing triple digits (along Eastern Seaboard of United baked States makes this human, an immediate convert to climate control (though he happened tubby already) basking, glorifying, and luxuriating within delightful 60º Fahrenheit mere really expressing gratitude for such creature comfort donning my stretched out birthday suit, (yet thee moost comfortable leisurewear then thrift store "special bag mountain of clothes as mooch as Yukon sales," no matter mine ill mannered mirrored reflection doth jeer at such a sorry sight, and/or laugh reading interlinear monologue colloquy, which message gleaned between lines, and should this poem be red aloud, thy ******** passion linkedin with humming HVAC, ye would hear courtesy hove cochlear (hollow tube in the inner ear) sensitive to deafening sounds...so beware!
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57
why is it that at 38,000 feet above the sea, the words come steady easy? ~~~ heart and head soundlessly conversing, as the body southernly traversing, along the Atlantic Seaboard latitude, quiescent, his manners and attitude, sure where he is physical destined, unsure where he is living bound this time, his designated place, a blue leatherette stoop, identifiable as Seat 23C three seats, rowed across, four letters, aisle down, the crossword question; what rhymes with "don't y'all know it" - must be that word, poet why is it that at 38,000 feet above the sea, the words come steady easy? almost as if, they grow excited by their return to the angelic upper atmospheres, from whence they fell, to a planet where mundanity revels nothing to say, plenty to feel, like I said, the head and the heart confer, a baby born poem emerges bawling and crawling, lolling and drawling, southern style poem does not state a particular, direction unknown, disposed to the philosophical, it forms, then reforms, stymied but satisfied ironical, posing while reposing, the newborn's query repitiously millennial, why? the answer too, an airborne pollen perennial, just because march 8, 2016 somewhere between nyc & Fla. 11:20 pm
0
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
why is it that at 38,000 feet above the sea, the words come steady easy?
why is it that at 38,000 feet above the sea, the words come steady easy? ~~~ heart and head soundlessly conversing, as the body southernly traversing, along the Atlantic Seaboard latitude, quiescent, his manners and attitude, sure where he is physical destined, unsure where he is living bound this time, his designated place, a blue leatherette stoop, identifiable as Seat 23C three seats, rowed across, four letters, aisle down, the crossword question; what rhymes with "don't y'all know it" - must be that word, poet why is it that at 38,000 feet above the sea, the words come steady easy? almost as if, they grow excited by their return to the angelic upper atmospheres, from whence they fell, to a planet where mundanity revels nothing to say, plenty to feel, like I said, the head and the heart confer, a baby born poem emerges bawling and crawling, lolling and drawling, southern style poem does not state a particular, direction unknown, disposed to the philosophical, it forms, then reforms, stymied but satisfied ironical, posing while reposing, the newborn's query repitiously millennial, why? the answer too, an airborne pollen perennial, just because march 8, 2016 somewhere between nyc & Fla. 11:20 pm
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49
She sits alone with her ancient thoughts she's sat till she's covered in grime she never moves from her rocking chair she just wiles away the time. What does go on inside her head? what does she really think? the pain has made her look so sad with eyes that rarely blink. Her hands are hard and calloused the cracks are etched so deep you sense she feels some fearful hurt but never does she weep. Some say she's sat for thirty years They say she loved a sailor It's also said all hands were lost The prey to a ghostly whaler. That ship set sail from Mulgrave Port With fifteen men on board The seas were rough and wind was hard but fin whales beckoned Nor'ard. A listing ship in thick fog banks the crew fell to watery graves they now haunt the eastern seaboard or rest beneath those stormy waves. So the old crone will sit there forever she knows that her man won't return she'll sit there and rock while she's waiting to join him when Death calls her turn. ©Joe Wilson - Lost ships...2014 (originally 1992)
0
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
joe-wilson
Lost ships...
She sits alone with her ancient thoughts she's sat till she's covered in grime she never moves from her rocking chair she just wiles away the time. What does go on inside her head? what does she really think? the pain has made her look so sad with eyes that rarely blink. Her hands are hard and calloused the cracks are etched so deep you sense she feels some fearful hurt but never does she weep. Some say she's sat for thirty years They say she loved a sailor It's also said all hands were lost The prey to a ghostly whaler. That ship set sail from Mulgrave Port With fifteen men on board The seas were rough and wind was hard but fin whales beckoned Nor'ard. A listing ship in thick fog banks the crew fell to watery graves they now haunt the eastern seaboard or rest beneath those stormy waves. So the old crone will sit there forever she knows that her man won't return she'll sit there and rock while she's waiting to join him when Death calls her turn. ©Joe Wilson - Lost ships...2014 (originally 1992)
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29
It's all quiet on the Eastern seaboard today, As we pause for a century of Armistice Days, Can any armed conflict pave the way, For the peace on Earth for which we pray? To the Anzacs upstairs we give a wave, Our tribute to our young troops so brave, We hear ghosts of cannons roar asunder, Today we all stop to wonder, We'll never know what they went through, To make a future for me and you, Red poppies are flowering again, The silent bloom of a lost generation, So we pause for a century of Armistice Days, Let's hope for peace to be our way, Yes, it's all quiet on the Eastern seaboard today, "Thank you" is what we'd really like to say!
0
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC
julie-grenness
ALL QUIET...
It's all quiet on the Eastern seaboard today, As we pause for a century of Armistice Days, Can any armed conflict pave the way, For the peace on Earth for which we pray? To the Anzacs upstairs we give a wave, Our tribute to our young troops so brave, We hear ghosts of cannons roar asunder, Today we all stop to wonder, We'll never know what they went through, To make a future for me and you, Red poppies are flowering again, The silent bloom of a lost generation, So we pause for a century of Armistice Days, Let's hope for peace to be our way, Yes, it's all quiet on the Eastern seaboard today, "Thank you" is what we'd really like to say!
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16
From America's coast to coast Along all it's cities streets Is the country that I love From sea to shining sea From the beauty of the Blue Ridge To it's vast Kentucky grass I love the New York City sky scrapes As much as the Rocky Mountains pass There's no more beautiful of a sight As the Atlantic's morning sunrise Or standing by the Pacific Watching as the sun says its goodbyes I love the mystery of the Bayou Down Louisiana way As well as the shinning beauty of All of Minnesota's lakes All the way to the mountain tops of Washington To the open sky of the Mid-West From Chicago and its urban blues To the jazz played in Memphis Whether up and down the Eastern seaboard Or along the coast out West All that's seen in between Nothing more and nothing less Is more beautiful in all the world God has truly blessed America Home of the Brave, land of the Free America, my country
0
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
mike-hauser
~America~
From America's coast to coast Along all it's cities streets Is the country that I love From sea to shining sea From the beauty of the Blue Ridge To it's vast Kentucky grass I love the New York City sky scrapes As much as the Rocky Mountains pass There's no more beautiful of a sight As the Atlantic's morning sunrise Or standing by the Pacific Watching as the sun says its goodbyes I love the mystery of the Bayou Down Louisiana way As well as the shinning beauty of All of Minnesota's lakes All the way to the mountain tops of Washington To the open sky of the Mid-West From Chicago and its urban blues To the jazz played in Memphis Whether up and down the Eastern seaboard Or along the coast out West All that's seen in between Nothing more and nothing less Is more beautiful in all the world God has truly blessed America Home of the Brave, land of the Free America, my country
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28
A very big and very dark dog, wandering the docks of a seaboard town. he'll leave sodden prints in a three paced jog ready to follow waves all the way down. He is ***** faced and bearded like a man I used to know. Soon he will be off to disappear and go beneath the cover of a velvet snow. I'll still be here as years go by and the moon changes tides collecting dust and years as I wait to be your bride. The mutt lived long and wise I fed him bones, and he kept me warm with wooly fur and chocolate eyes. He was waiting for a man as well and passed away, so peacefully when frost first fell. I had no idea they would bury my heart in the backyard with him so I will continue to sit and to listen. For the hustle of a broken jog and a now grown boy looking for a very big, and very dark dog, a day of broken joy.
0
Mar 20, 2024
Mar 20, 2024 at 10:16 PM UTC
shewritesalone
Canine Loyalty
A very big and very dark dog, wandering the docks of a seaboard town. he'll leave sodden prints in a three paced jog ready to follow waves all the way down. He is ***** faced and bearded like a man I used to know. Soon he will be off to disappear and go beneath the cover of a velvet snow. I'll still be here as years go by and the moon changes tides collecting dust and years as I wait to be your bride. The mutt lived long and wise I fed him bones, and he kept me warm with wooly fur and chocolate eyes. He was waiting for a man as well and passed away, so peacefully when frost first fell. I had no idea they would bury my heart in the backyard with him so I will continue to sit and to listen. For the hustle of a broken jog and a now grown boy looking for a very big, and very dark dog, a day of broken joy.
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26
slowly, darkly, creeps the creeper upward, gently, softly, seeking subject subvert, squeezing, choking, round and round it winds so, clutching, grasping, as in Hitchcock slide-show, chloroplast it seeks, in the silence it you speaks, in dreaded game o' hide-and-seek, deadly snare that slides and sneaks binds together wild and weak tames them unto mild and meek deftly, smoothly, pulls you up on seaboard, unawares he smiles at you, plants his tentacle deep in you, plays on you as keyboard, poisons inner mind-ward, extradites your innocence, chaste and untouched inner sense, skillfully and neatly you are his.
0
Jul 25, 2022
Jul 25, 2022 at 6:13 AM UTC
david-r
Adverts & PR
slowly, darkly, creeps the creeper upward, gently, softly, seeking subject subvert, squeezing, choking, round and round it winds so, clutching, grasping, as in Hitchcock slide-show, chloroplast it seeks, in the silence it you speaks, in dreaded game o' hide-and-seek, deadly snare that slides and sneaks binds together wild and weak tames them unto mild and meek deftly, smoothly, pulls you up on seaboard, unawares he smiles at you, plants his tentacle deep in you, plays on you as keyboard, poisons inner mind-ward, extradites your innocence, chaste and untouched inner sense, skillfully and neatly you are his.
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23
darling mellow sunshine, paint your words upon my tongue so you do not have to move your lips— i will do the task for you. darling hilltop basking bluejay, dance in defiance in the long grass— you never have to impress anyone, but your creator. darling dazzling firefly, shining in the backyard, sit with me on the porch swing until the afternoon strikes us groggy and we will sleep within the overgrown weeds. darling seaboard sandpiper, splashing lukewarm waves upon the body you call yours dream until your dreams become fulfilled. darling intimate flower field, the cumulus clouds above draw shade upon our upside-down faces be free and become one with me a cautious lover, a dandelion spread by the wind. adorably flimsy darling, i love you.
0
Aug 1, 2023
Aug 1, 2023 at 1:57 PM UTC
LVjKnKS1608
darling,
darling mellow sunshine, paint your words upon my tongue so you do not have to move your lips— i will do the task for you. darling hilltop basking bluejay, dance in defiance in the long grass— you never have to impress anyone, but your creator. darling dazzling firefly, shining in the backyard, sit with me on the porch swing until the afternoon strikes us groggy and we will sleep within the overgrown weeds. darling seaboard sandpiper, splashing lukewarm waves upon the body you call yours dream until your dreams become fulfilled. darling intimate flower field, the cumulus clouds above draw shade upon our upside-down faces be free and become one with me a cautious lover, a dandelion spread by the wind. adorably flimsy darling, i love you.
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26