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Yenson Jul 2018
Yes, its the year twenty eighteen and not Nineteen forty-four

but comrades and friends, hear me out for I know not what to do

Do be kind and laugh you not, or raise your eyes or snigger like fools

the problem is, like Duke Philip, Mark Philips, Snowdon and Mike Tindall

I have known a Royal Princess for years and really like her very much



She is so sweet and nice, ever gentle, warm, kind and thoughtful

smart and clever, fun and playful yet regal and charismatic

and it is said, pardon moi, she has the sweetest honey ***, to boot

I know she fancies me too, for her intense eyes and actions tells me so

we talked, we joked, drink and laugh and share little tender touches



She lives in a grand little apartment and drive a lovely old car

well read, witty and engaging, she's fun and very good company

She,s impressively intelligent with a wide grasp of social issues and life

very versatile, she can turn her hand to anything and does things well

above all, she's a people's person, always sensitive to the needs of others



Alas, that was then, for now in months, we no longer see or speak

for I am a coward, right through and thorough and not very bright

You see I am, though no longer said, a commoner born and bred

and to me and my kith and kin, its always has been 'us and them'

And from birth, our tradition states, never the twain shall meet, so there!



For if I show my real feelings to my Princess and be real, nice and warm

I shall, by my lot be accused of being impressed by 'them snotty lot'

If I show I really care and want to be close and spend time with her

my lot will mock me to high heavens and call me a toady brown-noser

They will scream, crawler, fawner, he's just a flunkey and a groveller



Again, if with her I am real and natural as with all I know in my circle

they will say I am an arduous social-climber, being what he's not

And to boot, were I to be true to myself and have who I really want

I will be ******, shunned and labelled, a big 'Gold-digger,' true

Look at him, betraying his roots and all for shinning lucre from them



So being the coward, under-confident, paranoid, insipid under-achiever

traits, you all know and have, inherited from birth along with you all from our class

So what else to do, but drive my kind, real and genuine Princess away from me

I had to behave rude and shabbily to show I had no regard for 'them Royals' ones

I shouted and scorned to indicate I have no respect for any 'regal' whatever



Its all show with us, so I put on a good show and reported back to my lot

oh, I farted in the Princess' face and took the **** as we spoke, hahaha

Oh, I stood over the Princess and shouted and raved in public, hahaha

oh, I ignored her calls and never text or call her back, hahaha hahahaha

Oh, do you know, I shouted and slammed the phone down on her, twice, haha...haha



Wow, did I win bragging rights or what, I did not betray my roots, I tell you

I walk amongst my lot now with pride, and I can see they are all impressed

Some idiot said, hey! isn't the Princess just another human like you

did she treat you like that, are you not intelligent enough to see past labels

Have you ever heard, 'Do unto others as you want them do unto you'



Alone by myself, I feel ashamed, I think about her and wished I'd behaved differently

but what could I do, what's the right and correct thing to do in this situation

I am weak, I always need others, not confident enough to stand up for myself

Though educated, I am not intelligent enough to be self-assured, fair and measured

And all my insecurities means I need others attention, kinship and approvals



I love 'showing off', I think most of us do it to make up for our inferiority complexes

Nothing beats being able to say, I disrespected those toffee-nosed ones

Though my Princess was very down to earth and never haughty, she is still one of them

But I have to be a working class hero or be shunned and given grief by my lot

After all, I am not Royal and made of sterner stuff. we are not born and bred that way

Hahaha.....hahaha....hahaha........yeah, I'm the man! Who's your daddy, people?



Copyright LaurenceA. 14th June, All rights reserved.
Dorothy A Jan 2015
Shane Page made a quick call to his daughter, LeAnn, as he waited in the hospital lounge. “Hey, Dad, what’s up? You sound kind of upset.”

“LeAnn, Grandpa had a heart attack…”

LeAnn’s dark brown eyes grew large. “Is Grandpa dead?”, she asked. She was fourteen years old, and a wise, sensitive girl who cared a lot about her grandpa.

“No, not that, hon. The doctor says he will recover, but he had some blockages and he needs some fixing up.  He’s resting right now, pretty comfortably. I just wanted you to know where I was and that I’m okay—so don’t you worry. Look out after your brother…” He sighed in exhaustion and ran his fingers through the top of his dark hair. “It’s going to be a while before I’m home.”

“Well, wait a minute!” she protested.  “Why can’t Trevor and I go with you? Maybe Mom can drive us up there.”

Shane started to raise his voice, “Leave your mom out of this!” Then he realized his tone was a bit harsh and said more calmly, “You two got school tomorrow and there’s no need for you to be here now. Anyway, I don’t want to involve Mom.”

Shane and his wife, Megan, have been separated for four months now. It would be more than likely that they would be getting divorced. LeAnn, and her brother, Trevor—who was eleven-years-old—were staying with their father. It worked out that they remain in their home.  

“Dad”, LeAnn insisted. “She’s still our mom…”

“Just look out for Trevor. Ok?”

Shane got off the phone, and just sat there staring at the television but having no real desire to even pay any attention. That was the farthest thing from his mind. Around him were a few other tired people, looking about as frustrated, tired or worried as he was.

It has been a trying year for him. Still struggling with his marriage issues and now he was dealing with his father’s health problems. At age thirty-six, Shane was a young father when he married Megan. He felt it was the right thing to do considering she was pregnant at the time. The odds were against them remaining married, but they made if farther than anyone would have expected.  He certainly remained married longer than his parents—who were married for seven years—but he blamed his parent’s divorce on his womanizing, cheating father, a man he did not want to follow in his footsteps.

Dr. Bakkal had spoken to Shane, earlier. “Your father’s fortunate he made it in when he did. He was in requirement of two stents, and he was resistant to having them put in. I told him if he wants to continue to live, he’d be wise to get them. Otherwise, he’ll be in the same boat, but now we can prolong his life.”

“So he’s refusing?” Shane asked. That was his father, alright, stubbornly pigheaded to the bitter end.

“Thankfully, he signed for consent and he’s allowing you to be included in conversation over his medical issues. But really it is a good idea for him to have a power of attorney. You are his only son? ”

“Right.—I’m it”, Shane responded. “Well, that’s my dad for you. He thinks he’s got it all under control. Anyway, I’d be okay with being power of attorney, but who knows if he’d even have me. I don’t need to tell you he’s a stubborn man. He’s a proud man—too proud.”

“That he is”, Dr Bakkal agreed. “He doesn’t have a wife who can step up to the plate?”

Shane laughed a little. “He’s had four wives. My mom was the first. The lady he has been seeing now I’m sure saved his life. She was the one who demanded he go to the hospital and she drove him here. But she called me up and says she’s done with him.” The strain was obvious, as it was written all over Shane’s face. “He’s a headache, Doctor. He drinks too much. He smokes. He has yet to meet a vegetable…”

The doctor stated, “But things don’t sink in until we are forced to face them, sometimes. And he thinks because he looks alright on the outside, he’s okay on the inside—a fairly handsome man—a ladies man—who is, one used to being his own boss.”  

Shane agreed, but his face was grimaced. “That he is, Doctor. That he is. Yeah, but when the ladies get wind that he ends up treating them pretty shabbily—well, I’m not going to fill in the details. Four wives should tell you the answer.”

Dr. Bakkal put his hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Ah, but you seem to have a good head on your shoulders. I’ve no doubt you have some sense.”

Shane nodded.

Nodding his head—drifting in and out of sleep—Shane continued to wait in the lounge. Soon, Shane’s dad, Carl, had been able to get into his own room. Shane was able to go in and see him. Like Carl had told one of the nurses, he was “all wires, tubes and coils” and he had “enough numbers lighting up on fancy gadgets to keep the place busy” as his vitals were constantly monitored. Soundly sleeping, he seemed much smaller in his hospital bed with his face half shielded by an oxygen mask. What a strange sight it was. He hadn’t seen his dad in the hospital since his gall bladder surgery several years ago.  It was a bit unsettling for Shane to see him this way.

He didn’t want to wake his dad, so Shane just grabbed up a chair and sat by the foot of the bed. Before long, he had fallen asleep, too. When his phone range, he was entirely confused as to the time, even to what day it was.

“Hey, Dad, how’s grandpa doing?”

Looking at his watch and then peering out into the darkness out the window, he answered, “What’s that I hear…in the background? LeAnn, is that your mother there?”

“Yeah, Dad, I told her. She felt like we needed her and she’s making dinner for us.” Megan could be heard in the background talking with Trevor.

Shane frowned. “Oh, great! Didn’t I tell you not to involve Mom? You are perfectly capable of cooking, LeAnn. You do a good job, and—“

LeAnn abruptly handed her mother the phone. “Shane”, Megan said. “You can shut me out from helping you, but you can’t shut me out from helping my kids. Don’t act like you couldn’t use a hand.”

“I’ll be home soon”, he insisted. “It’s really not necessary. I’m not trying to be a **** about it…”

“You stay there as long as you need to. I can call Uncle Sal and tell him you might not be into work tomorrow.”

Shane worked as a manager and mechanic in his maternal uncle’s car repair shop. “Megan, I am quite capable of doing this kind of stuff, you know!” He hesitated and gave in to what he saw as interference.  Perhaps, guilt compelled her to come over. After all, she was the one who walked away. She was the one who was unfaithful, the one who strayed.  He added, “You want to look after the kids—then fine. I’ll worry about me”.  

“Well, you got it! I won’t interfere too much in your life, Shane. You’re just a chip off the old block,” she remarked, referring to his stubborn father. “The kids and I are doing just fine. I got it covered! Okay?”

“Hi, Dad! Love you!” Trevor boomed out from the background.

Megan laughed. “You caught that, didn’t you? I think the whole neighborhood did”.

There was no use trying to resist Megan’s help. “Tell the kids that their grandpa is comfortable, sleeping like a log. They can see him soon enough.” He stopped as a nurse came into the room to check in on his father. They briefly smiled at each other.

“Give them each a kiss and a hug for me”, he said, lastly, almost choking up. He wished it was like it was before—the four of them under one roof. But that was not going to happen.    

Shane met Megan at a party. She was a college student learning to be a teacher. He was working for his uncle in his auto repair shop. The plans were set for Shane to take over that shop one day. Uncle Sal had three daughters, none of them the least bit interested in taking over the business. When he met Megan, he was doing well for himself.

It was love at first sight for him. He was attracted to her fun loving personality, as well as her beauty. Her blue-green eyes would light up the room. At first, Megan wasn’t feeling the same way. Shane did slowly grow on her, this “grease monkey” with his serious nature and beyond his years. They would talk about their future together, for they really did enjoy each other’s company. But then reality hit them in the face when Megan became pregnant with LeAnn, and they married very soon. He wanted to marry her anyway, but now it was a matter of integrity. Shane wanted his child to have parents who were married and for his kid to know him better than he knew his dad.  

Megan gave up on her schooling, not becoming the teacher that she dreamed of. Shane often wondered if she resented him for this—like it was entirely his fault—though Megan never expressed that to him. A few years later and Trevor came. Plans to go back to school were put on hold. That light in those eyes seemed to grow dim, but he didn’t really notice that she was unhappy. He seemed to lose focus.

Such thoughts were punishing at this time, and he tried to bury them deep down. It was amazing that he was able to have a sound sleep in the hospital, resting in the chair in his father’s room. Next time he opened his eyes, the sun was shining. He looked up, disoriented a bit, as he noticed his dad looking at him, a small smile on his face and no more oxygen masks.

“Hell, Son”, Carl said in a gruff voice.. “You look worse than I do”. Carl’s thick head of grey hair was disheveled, and his usually, neatly trimmed mustache was invaded by surrounding ****** stubble.  

Shane got up and stretched and said back, “Thanks, Dad. Good morning to you, too.”   He looked at his watch and added, “Glad you’re alive. You scared the hell out me. You got your grandkids worried.”

“Well…get me out of this ****** hospital and I’ll show you I can get around just fine”.

“Whoa! Whoa! Superman—you are not! Just lay back, relax a while, and do what the doctors tell you.”

“Like what?” Carl asked with a furrowed brow.

Shane was careful not to lose his temper. “Well, for one, you can quit smoking. Two, you can give up the *****. Three—take your cholesterol medicine…”

“Ok….ok….you sound like your mother now”.

Shane knew it would go in one ear and out the other. He stood by the window looking down in the parking lot. “Yeah, Dad, Maybe I do sound like Mom, but someone’s got to tell it to you straight. Put some sense into you. Stop just for once and think of someone else besides you. If no one else, think of LeAnn and Trevor.” He paused and added, “Think about me for once.”

Carl laughed and mocked him, “Poor, little Shane’s got it so bad. I’m not against you, Son, okay? You’re a big boy, so man up! I’m sixty-nine years old! My old man was gone by fifty.” He started having one of his coughing spells, his cough like an old smoker’s cough.

Shane shot him a sharp look. “I guess I’m a fool to expect any better. Can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear—as mom always says. Obviously, just wasting my time here!” He went to grab his jacket to leave.

Carl boomed, cheerfully, “Well speak of the devil!”

“What?” Shane asked, unaware of what was going on. He turned around and there was his mother standing in the doorway. He smirked and said, “Mom, I’m surprised to see you! LeAnn, right? ”

Rosina smiled and nodded as she entered the room. With salt and pepper hair, and an olive complexion, she commanded the room with her presence. Carl always referred to her as “Queen Bee”, for she had that quality—regal like a Roman statue when he first laid eyes on her—though she was down-to-earth in reality.

Carl groaned at the thought of her coming. “Is it safe for a person to be in here?” she asked, in her grand entrance.   She whipped Carl a stern glance. I’m not here for you!” Then she gave a look of concern her son, and told him, “I’m here because I’m supporting you, my dear. And yes, LeAnn called me.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and a quick hug, and he returned the loving gesture.


“Mom, you didn’t need to drive over an hour to come up here. But since you are—have a seat.”

“You sure as hell didn’t, Rosie”, Carl echoed.

“Oh be quiet!” she ordered Carl, putting him in his place. She dismissed the offer of the seat, and told her ex- husband. “I’m worried about my only son, but I also am interested in how you’re doing…if my grandchildren will still have a grandfather. Take better care of yourself and maybe they will.”

Shane comments were sardonic. “Maybe miracles still happen…like quitting smoking, boozing, and maybe doing some walking and healthier eating…but since when has Dad ever listened to you or me?”

Carl attempted to sit up and get out of bed, but the effort was ridiculous. He groaned in pain. “Give a poor guy some rest, already! You two are just a couple of nags!”

Rosina sneered. “Old nag—old hag—*******—say what you want about me, but you know I’m right! Anyway, you are outnumbered. Or am I, Shane, and the nurses and doctors all talking out their rear ends?”

Carl made a face. If only he could just get out of here.

“Honey”, she said to Shane. I’ll be downstairs in the cafeteria. I’d like some coffee. You can join me down there if you’d like and we can talk.”

“In a little while, Mom, thanks”, he replied.

Rosina walked up closer to Carl and put her hand lovingly upon his chest. “I really do want you to get well, old man. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.”

“I know you do”, Carl admitted. “That is one of your faults. You don’t stay ****** forever.”

Carl was more scared than he would let on. He hated hospitals. He would do anything to just be back home in his recliner, watching a football game and having a few beers. What he wouldn’t do for just one puff on a smoke, too. Anxious, he tried to hide his fear, but it was just a smoke screen. He didn’t want anyone to know how he truly felt, nor did he want anyone to feel sorry for him.

There was silence for several minutes. Shane had said all that he should say. After all, he knew his dad probably wouldn’t listen. “Hey, Dad”, he finally said. “LeAnn’s going to her school dance. There’s a boy that likes her, but I’m really not ready for that.”

Carl grinned. “She’s a pretty girl, alright. Takes after her grandma when she was something else—way back, you know. The girl looks more like your ma than you do, though always felt you took after her look instead of me”. Carl’s background was English, Scottish and Welsh, and Rosina was full Italian. To Carl’s side of the family, he looked like his dad. To his mother’s side, he resembled her. Trevor took very much after Megan, with light brown hair and those blue-green eyes.

“Yeah, she is growing into quite a beautiful young lady”, Shane agreed “I got to still go dress shopping with her…and, oh, let the fun begin!  Can’t think of anything more enjoyable than a day of running her all around the malls.”

“Well, let Megan take her, for God’s sake! Or let your mother do it.”

“Dad”, “It’s fine. It may not be my thing, but all the stuff I do with Trevor—going to his baseball games, soccer, to karate. Well LeAnn was more into that stuff but she’s getting more into girly things.”

Soon, a young woman came in with Carl’s lunch, and placed the tray in front of him on his table. “Cute, huh?” Carl remarked about her after she left. Shane did not say a word.

“You need to get back out there. Get out and meet a nice girl”, Carl said, picking over his food. Jell-O, apple sauce, broth, a roll and juice—he wanted a hamburger. But how could he get a good one here? There were too many “spies” as he called them watching over him.

At the moment, Shane seemed miles away from his dad. Whatever he was saying made no impact. He made it a point not to speak of his problems with Megan to his father, and he liked it that way.  By Shane’s expression, he felt his son was holding back on something. But the truth was, so was he hiding something.

“I got myself into this mess, I know”, Carl declared about his heart attack. “I came close to saying, ‘Sayonara—that’s all, folks!’” His remarks were typical—just blow everything off. He joked as if he wasn’t fazed by it all.

Shane had now closed his eyes, and kicked back a little, “Uh huh”, he agreed, though he was simply responding without thinking about what Carl really said.

Carl didn’t want to be tuned out. He had something to get off his chest. He said, “ Well, all that’s done and said, maybe this is the right time to tell you. Got plenty of time here with my own thoughts.” He hesitated, for it wasn’t easy for him to say it. “ It’s bout time you know”, he said. “I think with me almost bitin
But oh, I suppose she was ugly; she wasn't elegant;
I hadn't yearned for her often in my prayers.
Yet holding her I was limp, and nothing happened at all:
I just lay there, a disgraceful load for her bed.
I wanted it, she did too; and yet no pleasure came
from the part of my sluggish ***** that should bring joy.
The girl entwined her ivory arms around my neck
(her arms were whiter than the Sithonian snows) ,
and gave me greedy kisses, thrusting her fluttering tongue,
and laid her eager thigh against my thigh,
and whispering fond words, called me the lord of her heart
and everything else that lovers murmur in joy.
And yet, as if chill hemlock were smeared upon my body,
my numb limbs would not act out my desire.
I lay there like a log, a fraud, a worthless weight;
my body might as well have been a shadow.
What will my age be like, if old age ever comes,
when even my youth cannot fulfill its role?
Ah, I'm ashamed of my years. I'm young and a man: so what?
I was neither young nor a man in my girlfriend's eyes.
She rose like the sacred priestess who tends the undying flame,
or a sister who's chastely lain at a dear brother's side.
But not long ago blonde Chlide twice, fair Pitho three times,
and Libas three times I enjoyed without a pause.
Corinna, as I recall, required my services
nine times in one short night - and I obliged!
Has some Thessalian potion made my body limp,
injuring me with noxious spells and herbs?
Did some witch hex my name scratched on crimson wax
and stab right through the liver with slender pins?
By spells the grain is blighted and withers to worthless weeds;
by blighting spells the founts run out of water.
Enchantment strips the oaks of acorns, vines of grapes,
and makes fruit fall to earth from unstirred boughs.
Such magic arts could also sap my virile powers.
Perhaps they brought this weakness on my thighs,
and shame at what happened, too; shame made it all the worse:
that was the second reason for my collapse.
Yet what a girl I looked at and touched - but nothing more!
I clung to her as closely as her gown.
Her touch could make the Pylian sage feel young again,
and make Tithonus friskier than his years.
This girl fell to my lot, but no man fell to hers.
What will I ask for now in future prayers?
I believe the mighty gods must rue the gift they gave,
since I have treated it so shabbily.
Surely, I wanted entry: well, she let me in.
Kisses: I got them. To lie at her side: There I was.
What good was such great luck - to gain a powerless throne?
What did I have, except a miser's gold?
I was like the teller of secrets, thirsty at the stream,
looking at fruits forever beyond his grasp.
Whoever rose at dawn from the bed of a tender girl
in a state fit to approach the sacred gods?
I suppose she wasn't willing, she didn't waste her best
caresses on me, try everything to excite me!
That girl could have aroused tough oak and hardest steel
and lifeless boulders with her blandishments.
She surely was a girl to rouse all living men,
but then I was not alive, no longer a man.
What pleasure could a deaf man take in Phemius' song
or painted pictures bring poor Thamyras?
But what joys I envisioned in my private mind,
what ways did I position and portray!
And yet my body lay as if untimely dead,
a shameful sight, limper than yesterday's rose.
Now, look! When it's not needed, it's vigorous and strong;
now it asks for action and for battle.
Lie down, there - shame on you! - most wretched part of me.
These promises of yours took me before.
You trick your master, you made me be caught unarmed,
so that I suffered a great and sorry loss.
Yet this same part my girl did not disdain to take
in hand, fondling it with a gentle motion.
But when she saw no skill she had could make it rise
and that it lay without a sign of life,
'You're mocking me, ' she said. 'You're crazy! Who asked you
to lie down in my bed if you don't want to?
You've come here cursed with woolen threads by some Aeaean
witch, or worn out by some other love.'
And straightway she jumped up, clad in a flowing gown
(beautiful, as she rushed barefoot off) ,
and, lest her maids should know that she had not been touched,
began to wash, concealing the disgrace.
Salmabanu Hatim Nov 2017
I was drunk,
Lying on the Delhi Street,conked,
I was thrown out of a bar nearby,
I can't remember why?
I woke with a start,
I found myself in a cart,
Pulled by a shabbily dressed man
With a tattered turban,
And a ragged **** cloth round his waist.
Was he here to collect waste?
Not to ask I thought best.
I threatened him to stop,
Or I would call the cop.
Immediately he put the cart down,
He thought I was gone!
We had a long talk,
His sorry tale made me baulk,
Made me sober.
He was a corpse collector,
With a six year old daughter.
For a few miserly rupees,
He collected corpses,
From the alleys and streets,
And performed their last rites.
The corpses were mostly of those who died of cold,
Their stories untold.
The man had no home,
Come rain,cold or storm,
They lived under an old building's  dome.
The little girl with him tagged along,
Looked at life as a song,
Never a complaint,
The little grubby saint.
On cold frosty days,
To stay warm,the only way,
The corpses became the child's blanket,
She cuddled amongst them as if in a basket.
Tears welled up in my eyes,
This was reality, not lies,
The strings of my heart broke,
From a lifetime of dreams I woke,
I have to turn the hands of the clock,
The Almighty had cleared my vision,
I was sent here for a reason.
I made up my mind,
Gambling and drinking I left behind.
I adopted the pair,
On the same street,I opened a Shelter,
For the needy and underprevileged,
And a Home for the aged.
In life I found my mettle
With wife and children I am settled.
I also work with other NGO's
For the betterment of people's lives.
When we lead a cosy luxurious life we are unaware about the tragedies that befall others until we come across a situation.
mvvenkataraman Jul 2014
Never decide all of a sudden
Take time and act shrewdly
In case you take a rash step
The repercussion will be bad

Consult many in the trade
Talk to those whom you trust
Very carefully analyze points
Finally a solution will emerge

Acting based on just instinct
Will take in the wrong direction
It may spoil all your initiative
Animals are only **** rash

Crude decisions end shabbily
Producing lots of confusions
The position may turn terrible
As a result of blind approach

Use brain and also your heart
Here only shrewdness mingles
With your heart's natural mercy
Use this combination to achieve.

mvvenkataraman
Purely I advice my injured soul to bring it under fully control to play a wise role making vigilance do a shrewd patrol.
Nicholas Snell Oct 2013
it’s as if you were in an endless (and beginning-less) traffic jam. The road is cramped and narrow; there are tanker trucks slowly pouring black smoke into your car’s vents, you can’t hear your radio or car stereo because of the low RPM rumbling of cars and trucks and semis all around you; any act of kindness you commit, such as leaving space for some dented, banged-up machinething trying to merge, is immediately ruined by someone else, scampering into the space you had left, foreclosing the chance you had of feeling you were being kind? noble? anyway, no; you are both starving and nauseated at the same time, and your stomach hurts from both; there are no exits where you can get off escape this, even temporarily, even shabbily; there are just jersey barriers and grey vehicles covered with grime, it’s drizzling now, and your windshield wipers don’t really work, they scratch and smear the grime across your windshield with a piercing, repetitive shriek, and when you try to look to your left or your right to see something besides damp, gritty, gray, fumy highway, the most you can see are the oblique outlines of institutions that could be factories covered in graffiti and litter and ragged advertisements for products not even sold any more, but you do realize that the space between you and the car in front of you seems a little greater, now, how? and you look in your rearview mirror and see that the car behind you is no longer looming, but instead is a spacing back, is not filling the view of the mirror, and as you cautiously press down on the accelerator, glancing to the left and right, afraid of what you might see, the cars move faster and are now farther apart; you press the WASH button and you’re going fast enough that the blue fluid sprays delightfully across the windshield, and the wiper blades automatically activate and clear it all, smooth and clean and fast, and is that sun? you now see greater distances, you see before you a world full of light and shadow, the sedan purring smoothly at the right speed. Things flash delightfully by, the car thrums, you can feel, in the center of you, that moving-forward feeling of progress, progress, progress. How could it be that just moments ago you were in a trench of grime and shuffling? Those trucks that were so sinister are now shinybright and obligingly staying to the right, their engines working better too, the sun glinting off their carefully custom-machined grilles; there are some curves and dips in the road that you follow with precision; there are grass and trees and the possibility of exits; even the paint on the road is whiter, and the road itself is blacker, and as you fly along you remember why you took this trip in the first place.

That's what it's like :')
Parnate, an antidepressant, began working after 6 weeks.  I am indebted to the late Jane Kenyon and her series "Having It Out With Melancholy" for many reasons.
When I said “I love you,” I lied
with a drifting and dreamy head
across the velvety sea
I imagined
resting and narrowly defined
in the nakedness
at the edge of your lap.

I have a history
of over-indulging
mixed-up senses.

I tasted the sight
of a gently curved nose.

I caressed the scent
of a lightly perfumed neck.

I’ll speak but not hear again
of the salty, savory, sweetness;
all bitterness has gone.

It’s not that I binged
so much as feasted
after a prolonged period
of self-deprivation.

And now I’m caught
between two urges:
To shave, to shear, to no longer
shabbily make shrift;
Or to revel
in the sloppy temptation
of recalling you.

Powerless I'll watch
the dissembling
tomorrow makes.

Before it comes, whisper-soft,
I repeat my mistake,
and unreliably say,
“I loved you.”
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Plain Jane Glory Jan 2017
You were a poem from the beginning

Something in your boyish features and shining blonde hair, shabbily cut across those blue eyes
You were a marvel to me simply in the way you walked, floating on knobby knees and slouching socks
In your blackline tattoos, the silver hoop in your left ear, your skin Moroccan gold
And you had that one darkened tooth of a crooked smile lover

In the afternoon, I watched the sun cut through the holes in the space above us
In shy glances, I watched whole worlds of your boyish beauty as you slept in the sun
Occassionally waking for sips of warming beer from green glass bottles
Your warm honey belly balancing a clever man's novel

And later, in the dark, empty palace of a room, between those ancient stained glass windows and those eternal flowing fabrics,
The boy I knew as endless whispered so softly,
"I think I must be boring"
But I could swear you are a poem breathing life
You are sweet cadence come alive

I can still taste chocolate and wine on your lips
And I feel the laughs from deep in my belly as you crossed your legs and told me stories
I still feel the softness of your hair, the sweat from the tip of your nose
I still see you smiling at me from the far end of the pool
That one dark tooth of yours the only imperfection in sight
Brother Jimmy May 2016
Propeller hat:

A poem about us-

     Exquisite equation
     So simple and classic
     Calm sea of frustration
     And new life Jurassic

     Shabbily dressed to the nines
     Your metal-band flute
     My tangles of straight lines
     The angles acute

     Never cross (without reason)
     My low-born sublime
     Through good and bad seasons
     Sans passage of time


Love,
Your jello-y rock
The Roamer roams on,
without thought or mind,
he is free and on his own,
but at what cost?

He roams in the day,
walking the streets,
shabbily dressed, and
confused for a vagrant.

He roams in the night
boots trampling the mud,
of a slick rain-struck sidewalk,
with no direction or guide.

He roams from city to city,
staying for just a few weeks,
then he's off again to
roam to another city.

He roams the woods,
when he gets bored
with the cities and lights,
and the noise and people.

He roams the fields,
observing the sights,
utterly alone with
his thoughts as company.

He roams the world,
roaming far and wide,
searching for something,
he just can't find.

He roams endlessly,
evermore for something
more, yet will he lose
himself in the process?

The Roamer is a nomad,
searching for a place,
for a people who he
can call his home.
Peter Roads Mar 2016
I see your star
you left it
burning for me
so that the dark end
of the street glows
like a broken candle
in the window
there is
no paper lantern lighthouse
above these grease proof paper rocks
so we watch
as shabbily folded galaxies burn
echoing the path of virtual pencil tips
tracing the factory cumulus
corroding our senses
a production line of carbon
across no man's sky
no woman's neither
for we do not own
the open wound of a petroleum aurora
drawn across this
life
canvas
candle wax
atmospheric balance
sevety eight nitrogen
nineteen oxygen
nought point nine argon
tracing nought point one
dripping
neglect
It is a gross domestic heartbeat
pulsing
a rain of elementary particles
pouring
into the veins
of an unnatural landscape

What reply can these resources make?
The dead metal
veins through stone
crack like bones
under drill bits
stolen
from the groaning ground
subsumed by grinding derricks
the sounds
******
black-gold-blood
from her veins
the sounds
unchanged
a squinting look
telling stories
but in no language we know
OF COURSE
we do not recognise
the wail of an angry child
in tantrum tornados
a crying coriolis deflecting
intention
from the eye
watching calmly
as those concrete scabs
deny air to our lungs
uprooted
ecosystems make room
not for trees
for high rise imprisonment
sea levels rising
they come
to wash mother clean
and where are we?
All we ever might have been
a blackhole
sunhalo
cigaretteburnt
on a broken candle windowsill
empty
where no one waits
For this distant beacon
has turned its face
from us
towards a lonely moon
now red with shame
we are welcome home
we are
I know
for here on this empty sill
a fragment of your still
glowing embers
lies
in the ashtray I stole
from the pub
the night we met
such tangible self interest
makes meaningful
what I say
what I do
though I cannot stop
the angry wail
of a child born
in this anthropocentric chaos
of well seeming form
can I simplify the message more?

We are not special

we owe the earth
our vigilance
not our scorn

If not us then who
will take personal responsibility
for soothing
our mother

before
the sun turns
to blackness
before
we are consumed
in our own hunger
doomed
to the decline we choose
which will it be
the decline of life
OR
the decline of energy use

our species can end
or it can soar

Choose wisely

Choose now

Or

choose nothing
evermore
Cheryl Mukherji Oct 2014
I spent five hours thinking about you, that day,
flipping through your pictures,
smiling at the letters
you never wrote for me but hoping that one day,
you might just draw the first alphabet of my name in a different style,
trying to figure out if my name rhymes with yours.

I smelled through the pages of the book
that has hidden notes about your eyes
and your smile in spaces between the lines
and shabbily scribbled dates
under the dog ears of the turn down page
that reminds me of the day
when you looked into my eyes for a second;
when your hands brushed against mine
and you didn't apologise for it
like you mostly did and,
when you told me that the closest
you had ever gone to someone
was by harming yourself.

And then,
there were moments
even after those hours when
I sneaked extra memories of you
from my subconscious and
laid it under the table lamp
like we did- under the blanket of the night sky,
squinting our eyes to search for the stars
amidst the silhouetted leaves.

I wrote letters to you,
I couldn't ever find an address to deliver it to
because until the last time I met you,
I never realised I could be homesick for people too.


Some nights,
I call you to ask you if you have ever loved someone,
if you have laughed just enough,
how deep have you been hurt,
how long will you wait till you belong to someone
and then, I just hang up before the dial tone goes off
because I am afraid you won't ask me the same
and even if you do,
I will end up liking you enough
to not let you go.
I know you won't say word after that
so, we will just sit there,
listening to each other's whiskey stenching breaths
over the telephone.
jeffrey robin Jul 2010
here.....so lively!
we begin anew!

as the old times vanish!
as the NEW DAY  rages!

as all SIMPLE STORIES END
as DEATH

show a face SO UGLY

A CHILD......UNGAINLY

walks his solemn valley
none dare see

we only know
"our portfolio"

DEAR GOD
I AM SORRY
SO SHABBILY
WE
TREATED
WHAT WE KNEW TOO WELL
WAS YOURS
Sam Temple Jun 2015
matted hair on tobacco stained fingers
reaches through the six inches
of unrolled window
crumpling the ten dollar bill
I have extended
to somebodies family –
Driving out of the parking lot
I notice four others
in similar attire
all with shabbily crafted
cardboard signs
expressing “God’s love”
and “please help”
hundreds pass…
do they see? –
forgoing poison fast food,
I circle behind a corporate chain
and fish out of my wallet
a five and two ones
again, I roll my window down
and make eye contact
same ***** hand
same crumpled bills –
Struggling to make sense
of what I am witnessing
I look back at my now empty wallet
and rub a belly, slightly extended
and partially irritated by lack of food
and chuckle….
I really have it so good.
Honeydrops Jun 2015
A piece of art and oral histories
Matched together to create a radiant attire.
A match of skins from animals bones
Made into robes and aprons
To dazzle our uniqueness.
Simplicity is said to be
"The keynote of all true elegance".
Elegance is indeed the word
That describes our fashion.
The beauty of ours cannot be over emphasized
For even with no trace of histories
Our styles describes who we are.
African fashion,
Inspired by "youth"
Not by age
But at heart
For the youthfulness of the heart
Is in no match with the frivolity of mankind.

Let me digress us off a bit
From styles to our world
For afri fashion is not something
That exist in dresses only,
It is in the sky,
It appears In the street,
Africa fashion speaks to us through individuals ideas
The way we live and what is happening..

Africa fashion..
An impeccable,outstanding and flawless art
I call it "art" because it endorse creativity
For an author once said"dress shabbily and the world remember the dress,dress impeccably and the world remembers you".

Africa fashion"our styles,our mood.
Sam Temple Jun 2015
edgy
semi-hostile;
opinionated *******
with mad skillz
and
no remorse –
I use the hate
the anger
find myself
satiated
by social unrest
and cultural rage…
a bully,
on a pulpit –
I have no consideration
for the feelings
of those scorned
skin thickens only after reddening
evolution and growth
rarely come pain free –
So many tears
flow freely down ***** streets
void of children’s laughter,
or simple sounds of midday traffic…
I sit on the corner
enjoying the un-comfortability
of a nation locked
in systematic racial injustice
and unease over whose **** goes were –
My **** roosts in a shabbily build coop
looking over a brood
producing eggs
that I will soon abort
and create a lovely omelet –
littlejoelle Jul 2014
&
we are obsessed with making every moment count and we are hardwired to believe that the best days of our lives – the ones we’ll shabbily reconstruct from memory when we’re old and wrinkly – are the ones we’re living now.
Dr Peter Lim Jan 2018
Tonight
it would be hard
for me to sleep
my duty
I performed
shabbily
I hurt
mindlessly
my promises
I failed to keep--

my excuses
sleep
would not overlook
or forgive
deep
inside
it's as though
some worms
are beginning to creep
gnawing
at my whole being
how could I sleep?

when poisons
seep
into the blood-system
when conscience
bites
at the seam
when
loud internal voices
ring to condemn
where would
I find sweet memories
to keep?

what I sow
I reap

it's well past midnight
but how could I sleep?
Declan Quinn Oct 2016
When you saw me sit with my head in my hands,
When you saw me unshaven and shabbily dressed,
When you saw the smile, that rigid liar's smile,
When you saw me cry, and then laugh on point,
When you saw me suffer in silence,
Did you feel anything? Or see anything at all?
I see it all, feel it all, torture myself with it all.
One kind word or that one question,
Would have changed my life, and maybe would have saved me.
Ask.
Please?
The fighter making passes at the fading sun sees.
how the shadows seek dark places
and
how they run,the combing of the distant dream leans
heavily on shoulders bent,
falls shabbily on rented circumstances,
no second chances here at the milepost of the year
and what a year it's been,
more shadows seen.

Tripping once or twice as he slips into the
promised paradise, that is
no gift to him,
there is no *** of gold just a tin of beer,not cold but
welcoming.
A churning in his guts,a yearning somewhere for something,
a wedding ring that rings no bell,
see how once mighty men have fell,
still fall,
fall still and silent and the will once strong.
long time ago
makes eyes at suns.
It comes to some when the fighting's done
and the gloves are put away,I
expect
It'll come to me one day.
Sehar Bajwa Jan 2019
The chapters you live in are pages I visit often
The novel of my life is indexed by your name.
Dog eared, bookmarked, frayed at the edges
Memories I keep (re)turning to
Some shabbily hastily taped back
Ripped out in fury, the need to forget
All consuming
And yet
I put them back
Slowly
Deliberately
Smoothing out the wrinkles
Relishing the agony to remember
To cherish the love not too long ago
The roses you gave me
Pressed against these pages
sweetness wafting
pervading my senses
mingling with a whiff of your salty aftertaste
******* the pages like they conceal
fragments of you within their folds
forever on my bedside table and in my dreams
you reappear,
the protagonist of a story that never belonged to you.
On the last train but one
which leaves me the
limited option to move on,

I am trying to decide
as to should I
take the next ride
and
considering it carefully
is like treading quite
warily
when you know the water
will not hold your weight.

The past has no future and the future is too far away from today!

limited options
limited thinking
I'm letting those thoughts sink in.


Events and horizons
shot up as poisons,

I dress shabbily because
life is killing me,
why wear out nice clothes
as well?

Limbo,
the show off can dance it
the weary tire of it
I
sit and wait at the station.
HAPPY REPUBLIC DAY

India, Her Independence n Republic status achieved, after years of slavery

Even today, our Armed forces protect our borders courageously n bravely

But sadly we citizens treat them shabbily, not taking their sacrifices n dedication gravely

God, awaken our sleepy souls soon; so that we appreciate the great work of our Armed forces

Mandatory should be a training in the army; ministers n beurocrates their children send must for defence academy-courses

Let us look up to them; and respect every soldier, who dedicatedly serves our Nation; his life risking

Salute I, every Jawan, every officer, who this protection unto us gives, his family's happiness risking.

JAI HIND, JAI HIND KI SENA

Armin Dutia Motashaw
Dr Peter Lim Jul 2018
Kids--they are too young to know the reality
Santa Claus has a nasty temper and is of dubious character
he's also grumpy, stingy, unfriendly, unseemly, dressed shabbily
he would complain about anything--even the weather.
A PARSI'S VOICE.

SO SAY WOULD, OUR ANCESTORS.
"Far, very far away from my Motherland I am;
Where lived Sohrab, Rustom, Jal and Sam.
Adopted India, after many adjustments I did, as my very own.
Here, by me, seeds of development were sown".

Toiled, sweated n happily gave to our Country, my all.
With my hard work n honesty, I then stood tall.
Of life, I eventually did pass, the difficult test.
Then shared my wealth willingly, I did, with the rest."

In unison, feeling very much at home, here I stay.
All the duties of a good citizen perform I; day to day.
Ask I don't for favours; I, with my arms open, just give.
Shabbily treat me do not; to me, my due respect give.

I ask for nothing more than the protection of my religion.
Request you I, to change your concept n vision.

Armin Dutia Motashaw
VERBAL DIARRHOEA

Oh the poor soul, he always tried, to her hurt ;

With his verbal diarrhoea, as he often did blurt !

Honestly I wonder, how can one be so rude n  curt !

How can someone treat another so shabbily, like dirt !

Seems he had a collection huge under his girth;

Or off his pocket pulled out words rude, from his shirt.

A maiden sweet she was, kind, loving n affectionate.

Friendly and cute, the one anyone would love to date.

But today, see her if you do, she is in a pathetic state.

Happiness one cannot anymore see on her face, albeit !

Rude people crush can, a tender loving person's heart n fate.

Please help her to bring back her happiness n change her fate.

Armin Dutia Motashaw
ONLY IF I

Only if I, a huge estate did own, many a varied seed I would have most definitely sown.

Veggies many, n fruits like mangoes, chickoos, gauvas, cherries luscious, I would definitely have grown

Drum sticks, lemon trees, aavla trees too; n flowers many, my  garden plants would surely adorn

Know l, a gardener's expense, very easily with these farm produce, could have been borne;

Without fail, grow I would peppermint, spearmint, lemon grass n of course lots of crunchy lettuce

I would, a cent percent, every inch of Mother Earth that belong would to me, put fully to  use.  

It is sad, very sad that millions of people, this beautiful Earth, so grossly, shabbily, ruthlessly abuse.

Just in case limited was the space, grow I would a garden vertical. Try, you guys too should; all together, please let us.

Armin Dutia Motashaw
IF
IF PEOPLE TREAT YOU SHABBILY

Easy it is not, but upset please do not be .

Perhaps, your image wrongly they conceive or see.

Karma leaves no one, it charges its own penalty or fee

So  bother do  not about this  behaviour; just live in glee.

Armin Dutia Motashaw
FORGE AHEAD

People often do treat others shabbily  n misbehave

Experienced this sometime or the  other, we all have

But because they are close to your heart,  for them we crave ;

It's they who have hurt you; n bleeding wounds gave

Yet your heart for them often does crave.

Learn we must to overcome these n not cave(in)

Forgetting these wounds, for ourselves, a new path pave.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

— The End —