"shelly" poems
I watch the prom Dance,
In an awkward stance,
my friends walk in with dates,
and the excitement Abates.
Alone in a corner,
I mope like a mourner,
With no partner to dance with,
No gentleman to prance with.
Amidst the mirth and cheers,
My eyes fill up with tears.
I rush out into the open air,
And by Jove! I see Voltaire!
With his satirical charms,
He draws me in his arms.
As I sway to the beats,
I'm waltzing with Keats.
Causing my funny bone to arouse,
Enters P.G. Wodehouse!
Using nonchalant wittiness,
He acknowledges my prettiness.
And then walks in Shakespeare,
Who wipes away my tear,
And my senses curdle like curds,
As he showers me with words.
While I repress the excited child,
I'm swaying with Oscar Wilde.
I'm rendered helplessly mute,
With his phrases so astute.
With a proposal so verse-y,
I'm serenaded by Shelly B. Percy.
And before this fantasy can spoil,
I fox trot with Conan Doyle.
And thus literally seduced,
into putty I'm reduced.
I am platonic-ally smitten,
By the genius of what they've written.
The dating circus can’t make me cry,
because a host of paramours have I.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
Shelly says nothing
ever really turns out
just the way we expect.
She's right. Nothing
turns out just
the way we expect
like secret hand-holding
in backyard trees.
Or the way maps
become our enemy.
That impossible geography
that separates two halves
like the years lost in
a flurry of blows
and caresses.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC
Aw, who knows?
who cares?
It's easy to leave.
Shelly is in too deep.
Shelly grabs her
pair of
polarized
and she puts 'em on.
'Cause Shelly can see
what I really
think of me.
Shelly's hair blows
in the breeze
and,
and,
and
Strawberries!
Shellys' Summer's little girl.
Spoiled
by the sun.
Shellys' Sunday's spare,
she got used
by someone.
She tunes her guitar
to English,
Shelly sings to me.
My Sweet little bird, Shelly.
Don't fly away.
Don't fly away,
Shelly,
Don't fly away.
Aw, who knows
who cares?
It's easy to see.
Shelly is in deep
for me.
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 1:15 AM UTC
a sky of caring
a rabbit foot on a chain
two 6 packs
3 friends
take me back to the river
by the railroad tracks
and shelly
and keats
and junior kimbrough
take me back
to the river by the railroad tracks
and the flat pennies we held
in the palms of our hearts
fall
is a forgiving season
so take me back to the river by the tracks
where the river runs
deep
and wide
and the memories have souls
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 2:06 PM UTC
Trying to figure out why a ***** tried to stunt on me.
While my homie fronts on me.
Triggered lie’s blasting out like bullets into your chest, golly!
Vigor dying whilst family crying that left me locked up now in a little celly.
Why did I pour out my heart to that ***** named shelly?
**** got me melancholy, casting out poxy curses.
My proxy is dropping down which got me feeling worthless.
Growing up in projects where one survives by snatching purses and killing snitches.
While society bides their time by tying nooses.
Rigged games yet we are told to give no excuses.
So, a minority got no choice but to role with the punches.
But with darker skin colour most don’t or won’t notice the bruises.
Vile nobility just loves hunting gooses.
Stark contrast idly confides and resides Inside institutionalized nuances.
Some people can be such nuisances.
Got me feeling like tony roaming through the different cosmoses.
Lonely sinking feeling, with my hope which was once flickering but is now slowly fleeting.
Reciprocal tensions pokes through my barriers like an unwelcomed greeting.
Typical tropes of under-achieving maybe it’s time I let God start intervening?
However, I’m doubtful on whether spirituality is real or nothing more than Kris Kringle.
Jingling jester choirs who always be harping on my people.
Which makes me ponder whether or not God’s supposed love is fickle.
Or if supposed believer’s have actually ever read the bible?
Religious pharisee’s not seeing the irony of praying to their falsified idols.
With their heads so far up their own *** That they don’t even realize that they’ve actually been worshipping the devil.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
I remember that summer of 2012 we came down south. you were just as sweet as can be and so happy to see us. after two weeks of fun we had to leave. I can remember the exact words you said before we left."I sholl wish yall could stay longer.I'm really gon miss y'all..love you". I will never forget those words. like I will never forget the horrid shriek that interrupted my sleep at 10pm November 11th. it came from my mothers room. "she gone.I don't have a mother or a father.she gone" replayed over and over and over again. tears started to pour from my eyes and unto my pillow as I heard the pain guilt and hurt that filled my mothers voice. though we weren't close, I felt like we were that summer ,welcomed and loved by all the southern hospitality. even though we weren't as close, it hurts to have someone you love pass away. so Booker girls and boys it'll be alright, dry your sullen eyes for your mother and father will now be together again and can rest peacefully in paradise. remember to stay strong and to keep the family together. no fussing, no fighting just peace love and happiness. stay lifted in prayer and know that god is here to help you through this hard time.
Rest in PEACE Shelly Jean Booker
you ARE missed.
O.Rob.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC
i am slipshod Monty
wonking the gossamer lust of ill fortunes
strewn to all winds
a lisp of beacon
churning in the midriff of your titan virus
crumbs of ore
bejewel the wet femur
of our last corpse.
your merry Shelly
is morose
than less
god.
bending runes; you nip tink and **** from odd drums
summoning the haven of your wrong
repenting in the
pent up
down.
just 'cause.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
Look closely at your dots and periods.
You'll see this...
. Bob Dylan .
. William Shakespeare .
. Maya Angelou . Emily Dickinson .
. Ralph Waldo Emerson . Robert Frost . Ai .
. Max Eastman . Thomas Hardy . William Blake .
. Edgar Allan Poe . Pablo Neruda . James Joyce . Ovid .
. Carl Sandberg . Anne Sexton . Taigu Ryokan . Sappho .
. Ogden Nash . Dorothy Parker . JD Salinger . Rumi .
. Dame Edith Sitwell . Mary Wollstonecraft Shelly .
. Anna Swir . Sara Teasdale . JRR Tolkien .
. Alfred Lord Tennyson . John Skelton .
. Dante Gabriel Rossetti .
. Dylan Thomas .
Soul Survivor
2014
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
Today I live in a life that does fight,
in love, and hate, for a resolution;
what is humanity? Revolution
tinkers a vestige. “There people, the light!”
With a glance we seem glorious. The night
reveals a different image; the Sun
of Plato does set. Man’s transformation
has not yet stopped, despite all our massed might.
Like that Creature Shelly’s fear concocted
we, being not human, grapple today
with all our parts. Mankind is an ideal
that Creatures need. I, exonerated,
am not a human yet, and oh! do pray
the Creature that is me unlocks soul’s seal.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
Wrapped in steel
Perfect posture
All pushed up
Beautiful to see
Lucky tow truck man
But far more lovely
Free.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
Your reader quakes like a ready reactor
Steady burn an incalculable factor
On your mark, we approach the next chapter
A quiet pen, without ambition
Keeps each plan from happy fruition
And pressure mounts, some new type of fission
Carve yourself out a space in time
Mark it well so it’s easy to find
History don’t repeat, but rhymes:
Solicitudes concede to style
Somebody just filed suit for libel
One more murmur to add to the pile
To be a made man is to be man-made
And so you dull your colors down a shade
The arsonists took over the fire brigade
Step outside of your burning home
Pavement stand, dial your phone
Ask whomever if We are Rome
The receiver will no doubt laugh a little
That is, if she caught the preceding riddle
Somewhere Nero bows the fiddle
Tell me something, if you please
About the world pregnant virgins see
Oblivious to a state emergency
A noble fourth, our D’Artangan
Has the sharpened instinct of a jealous man
Oh, you know him? And you’re a fan?
He’s wants a girl who drinks whisky and gin
Musket holstered, what a sin
Somebody asks, “What shape’s he in?”
One assumes he’s kind of tame
A lion, yes, but with a shampooed mane
He don’t play ***** but he plays the game
Shoes on, button up, wipe your glasses
Time to shake up contented masses
Donde hay educación, no hay distinción de clases
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
I've had enough
of the words of rhyme
Locked away behind
the bars of stanzas
doing time
All the hopes
and wanna be dreams . . .
Just more nightmares
with chilling screams
No I had it !
and I don't want anymore
I don't want someone knocking with words to implore
Go take your metre ,
Yellow pencils number four
I don't want to hear you
knocking on my door
You can go post
and share with the world
Shelly , Keats , Byron . . .
They all make me feel sterile
A sonnet for your bonnet
Haiku for beret
You can put a quill to it
Go have your good Shakespearean
day
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 8:31 AM UTC
Howling Gale of Winter moment
Blossom pink from cherry tree,
Driving snow which blankets all
Hot Summer sunset glows for me.
Parched and hassled hens in shadow
Scratch the sand to find the cool,
Starkly solid ice in blueness
White and freezing skating pool.
Green and turquoise in the sunlight
Brilliant hills of verdant shawl,
Autumn tones cascade in colour
Silently the dry leaves fall.
Surging surf parades the beaches
Roiling up the shelly sands,
Lightning strike on green pine reaches
Baking sunshine warms and tans.
Windswept on the dry Sahara
Silently the tree ferns drip,
Alpine streamlets splash in torrent
Hot and parched dry grasses flick.
Honeyed scent in orange blossom
Fills the morning air with bees,
Pollen on the air carousing
Noses twitch and often sneeze.
Globally the seasons vary
Hemispheres of colour thrown,
Glorious in shade and texture
Flavoured by aroma’s own.
All enticing motes of pleasure
Each engaging jolts of joy,
Layerings of seasonal treasure
Mother earth’s artistic ploy.
Marshalg
@theCoalface
Victoria Park Tunnel
13 April 2010
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 10:58 AM UTC
I don't fit in
This world
Everywhere i turn
It rejects me
My father, though
I know he means well
Puts her kids first
He neglects me
Taking them out to the movies
While I'm at home
Starving
Digging through
the pantry
And go to bed feeling empty
And my brother, well,
He has Chelsea
And he never plays
Games with me
Like he used to
Because he is too busy
Playing with her
And I go to bed
Feeling empty
While dad and
Shelly
Get friendly
I fall asleep
To their sounds
I Fall asleep
And never make a sound
Because when I sleep
I hope that
If I don't die
At least I'll dream
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC
Her mind
was a Möbius strip
which every now & then
she offered a sip
like a too rich wine
which offended the palette.
She acted like a
fictional character
in an outrageous
historical novel
her bosoms
almost hypnotising one
into ripping her bodice.
She acted out
her life
as if she was a Colossus
like an Ozymandias
before it all went wrong
& some guy called Shelly
happened to come along.
She was an aria
in the opera of her life
but right now
she was just sipping from the daintiest of cups
& laughing hysterically at something I said
(which I hadn’t considered funny)
spraying in my astonished face
a soft mist of hot
Earl Grey tea.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 3:16 AM UTC
After the funeral, I was sent to heaven.
St. Peter stood at the gates.
“Welcome”, he said, “your sins are forgiven”,
“Go to the Chamber; Jesus waits”.
Jesus summoned me with boisterous mirth,
“How was your short time on Earth?”
“Fairly decent”, said I with a smile,
“Every moment was worthwhile.”
“Starting from the time of my birth,
I did plenty of things on Earth,
I studied hard, acquired a degree,
Got a job and made pots of money.”
Jesus shot me an unhappy stare,
And ordered me to take a chair,
Carefully he opened a slim file,
and scrutinized it for a while.
"You were given the ability to write,
To rhyme, to compose and recite,
You could have been a famous bard,
Like Shelly, Milton & Arthur Ward.
In the quest to earn bread & butter,
You poured your talent down the gutter.
A talented, young Indian Author,
preferred to undergo corporate slaughter.
Should I have written it on stone?
Man doesn't survive on bread alone?
Gifted with wit, spirit and foresight,
You were sent on Earth to write"
Shocked & aghast, I fell to my knees,
"Give me a chance, I beg you please"
"No", he said and refused to relent,
"You have an eternity to regret & repent".
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
~~~~~
"Sorry seems to be the hardest word."
I feel your wonderful eyes.
He was a greating glider
Knowledgeable, nice and
Sweet. Had a nasty divorce
Flooded with ***** accusations
Nailed and tortured by himself
For the things he wouldnt do..
He was clean.
~~~~~
Tears within us turn to ice. And they should burst.
***I've never cried over you.
I don't know you.***
Perhaps. I did.
Once upon a time.
For real.
He is a quick thinker
A worrior with an ancient
Soul and a progressive
Hardness.
A Black pearl.
Shelly aboard
in disguise.
Soft as a kitten
is his heart.
I love him.
~~~~
"Let love rule"
***Rise and shine.
A perpetual creation.***
Monsoons and many moons
Have passed like a metaphor
Core. A divine traveler.
A colourful world
It is.
He reads thankfully
Astonished.
And humms songs
Of devotion. And he
Writes perfectly.
~~~~~
Harvest moon
***He loves modern music and dancing.
He writes.***
He dreams about another tattoo
across his heart. We share air.
She was touched
Today. And there
Were sparks sizzling
through.
One long frozen
Moment. Reaching
The most intimate
Awareness.
Not uncharging the potential.
There was a simple question:
"How did you spend the day?"
"With the beautiful artist
In bloom. Drawing."
Shyness. And the
Realization.
He glows.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
Stories about people aren’t really about people
this tale is a separate reality
full of opinions and perception based senses
I saw Michele’s addiction as a sketchy weather forecast
the most famous weathermen lie the most, ya know
She watched the sobriety of her life zoom by a whirlpool of backstreets
flew by them in Chance’s silver Chevy malibu going 80 mph
through our quiet suburban town
she waved at every lightning strike the moment before electrocution
you see, she was in love with blinding pain
out of control burning rubber scented pain
and I, tried so hard to be her fire extinguisher, her seatbelt
I wanted her smile to radiate every karat lodged in her throat
because her words are precious diamonds
Her mind is a museum built upon three floors
the first floor is tragedy
concrete blankets and concrete misconceptions
of what feeling safe is like
shadows with shark like teeth
she can never escape their threat of gnawing
it even reaches her on the roof
the second floor is forest green
in-between escape and peaceful freedom
she was born an observer, a lover of hidden oddities
an explorer of broken wide eyed hope
she could smile at a mosquito and every spider
would willingly starve to death
the third flow is a fireplace in the middle of a bonfire
a wishing well anchored in the atlantic ocean
everything she deserves, harmonious orchestras
of sobriety salvation are stationed in a country
dependent on chemicals
she will never get the shooting star she deserves
because she’s been soaring through our galaxy for lightyears
a blazing comet amongst dull asteroids
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
The day my baby sister came
They all forgot 'bout me!
Her tiny little hands and feet
Were all that she could see
She only had to burp or yawn
To hear them Ahhhhhh and Oooooh
I might as well have packed my bags
And moved to Timbuktu
I'm only five years old you see
But Shelly's just five days
She has this face that's oh so sweet
She's sneaky in her ways
And so I sneak to take revenge
She'll simply have to go
I look and see enormous eyes
It hits me and I know
This girl's my baby sister
I'll forgive her all her noise!
I guess that once she's old enough
We'll even share my toys
There's just one thing I just won't do
I'll never change her diaper!
The things I've seen and smelled down there ...
I'd rather change a viper!
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 5:29 PM UTC
I never trusted that warmth in your tank.
I've always smelled something fishy
About the hot moisture on the glass
And how the water is close to boiling,
Since it's coming from this hell
Where monsters share the night
And leave you waiting til the sun
Rises to scare them to their hideouts.
And I almost caught it red-handed,
'Cause now that warmth is gone
And suddenly you're so cold,
Not the kind of cold
That drips on my palms
When I take you right from the water
To let you play in my hands
And you would find a hole to creep out of
And try to fly
As if this whole world
Is your own ocean.
Now it's the kind of cold
That no longer crawls and squirms
To escape from me,
'Cause you've already found the way out.
And you even left the doors open
As your empty eyes stare at me.
You won't look around now,
Just when you've decided to open your eyes more.
I can no longer see you,
Just when you've decided not to hide in your shell anymore.
But it wasn't that warmth after all.
It was the warmth that wasn't there
When you needed it the most.
And it's such a shame the turtle sticks came too late
And they were no longer enough
To keep you wanting to be home with me.
But they still were no later than my sorry
And bathroom-borne sobs
Which you won't be able to hear anymore,
Or even understand.
And the green in the portrait I made of you,
The pixels of your images,
And your shy face on my desktop,
Can never be as alive as you once were.
But you just can't
Let me place you in this jar
I labeled 'good days,'
Pour over some sand,
And keep you there and wait
Until there finally is a place that we can call ours,
Where our remains won't be called tenants.
Darling, why now?
You will still need a bigger tank,
You will still grow up with me,
You will still marry Shelly,
If ever she makes it.
God, let her make it.
You can't be gone now,
You just can't.
I haven't even finished our song yet.
Will you really leave me here,
Writing songs about valuables I lost,
People I sent away,
And every living that died at my feet?
I guess you will
But I just can't get used to it,
Nor do I want to get used to this;
To have to get up
But not want to wake up
And attend every tragedy
As if I were death's representative.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 4:08 AM UTC
I cant wait to fall asleep to join the world of dreams
I get to join the fairies as they dance in the meadows of the forever blooming flowers
I get to run with the wolves through the forest and never ending unbound lands
I get to jump up the mountains with the mountain sheep to admire the radiant full moon
I get to fly high with the eagles to indulge soaking up the warmth of the sun
I get to swim with sea turtles in the vast ocean waters looking for treasures once lost
Oh how I can't wait to fall asleep to join the world of my dreams
-Shelly Ramos
Mar 24, 2025
Mar 24, 2025 at 11:24 AM UTC
Sleep well, my darling.
Everything is all better now.
Good as new.
Good as before;
Before I came along
And took you with me
To this hard life
I thought we can get through.
But never mind that now,
I can manage from here.
After all, this is my mess.
I can clean it up
As spick-and-span
as I do your aquarium.
Come along now,
It's time to go inside
Your final jar-home
Where your groom-to-be awaits
To spend with you an everlasting paradise,
Apart from the tragedy in that tank.
Tell Turty I said hi, okay?
For the meantime,
I will keep this reality
With me
Where it can no longer
Let something die
Over and over again.
Goodbye,
Your real owner awaits you.
But please don't forget to
Visit your mother in her dreams
Sometime.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
You are my safe place
The shadows that hunt me
You are my safe place
The screams from pain
You are my safe place
The terrors in my sleep
You are my safe place
The voices that doubt me
You are my safe place
The blood from the past
You are my safe place
The forbidden hands on my skin
You are my safe place
The wicked tougues slander my name
You are my safe place
The victim from abuse
You are my safe place
The darkness that draws me in
You are my safe place
- Shelly Ramos
Mar 14, 2025
Mar 14, 2025 at 12:57 PM UTC
Let me tell you something
That little varmint was afraid of your names
Too much power you had
To show him he he was nothing special
Another poet, what else ya gonne say? A place for him to stay if he could stay in his place
But he' already decided he's a heavy handful of poems wrapped up in his palm
He's not bad. But he ain't Shelly
Lord Byron he is not
So it's no surprise he comes here
With his terra incognito poetry
Starts the alienation process until five days later
They poked fun at my rhyme
The one I wrote about sweet momma? They laughed it to scorn, called it too sentimental
Each in turn found new ways to burn me
Until eventually
They all became voices in my head
And each voice recited one of my wretched poems and I could see I was only fooling myself
Group sessions didn't go so well
I read their poems, superior to mine in every way
I let thier voices tell me what they meant
And it wa comforting until I realized they were all about me and a vast conspiracy to drive me away
Normally I'd figure this out
But the voice began to be belligerent.
"Get out of here hack" , chanted with the insistant persistence of one who wasn't going anywhere until her will had been done.
I had no choice
They had taken up residence in my mind
Now I had to find a way to rid myself of them
CONTNUED NEXT CHAPTER in which somebody gets their way. Who? What? We'll have to wait to find out.
It
ain't
gonna
be
pretty!
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC