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Nathan Wells Jul 2015
You would have turned 40 a couple weeks back
the hoodie you bought me is collecting dust
"if you don't like it, donate it to oxfam, or cancer research in my case"
i've not thrown it away yet but if i do
i know where i'll donate it
and I desperately hope I'm wrong in my views
about the afterlife because I'd love to know you're
somewhere laughing about the joke finally getting it's punchline

Death is a strange subject for me,
all I know is I'd like a few people back
x
Carter Ginter Jun 2018
White steam from green tea
Old school rap echoing across the walls
I ordered my own food and drink
What I wanted instead of a rushed decision
I feel free
Starting conversations with strangers
Holding good ones with my partner's partner
Raising my hand in class and
Actually sharing my opinion
Without the fear of judgement
Holding me back at all
Adilson Smith Oct 2017
Why do so many people seek
The quiet cliques
Of strangers
Found in quiet coffee shops
And undercrowded bars?

It smacks of truer times
I suppose,
Of clans and tribes;
Elemental membership
Granted without trial.
Any advice on the first verse? It's kind of clunky, and four cups of coffee can do nothing about it :)
people there are
who manage to be
elephants in china shops
even visiting good old England
Dennis Willis Sep 13
I slave over these verses
{no he don't}
I flop my fish of a soul out
for amusement
{oh yeah he do}
Do you know where
the way is
{si}
Zorro is a tree trimmer
{this is evidence}
Can you
{what is the ask}
abandon
{what is the ask}
Can you
{this is perdition}
scrunch your feelings
{rubbing my beard}
into these ****** things
{draining a glass}
a moment drives by laughing
{was that supposed to be here}
press the up switch
{too random get back ***** cat}
inner i wish
{squirrel}
tasty squirrel
{i write for you}
pointlessly
{she doesn't read}
she shops
{thank you universe}
you are laughing out loud
welcome
Every word has an expression
Therefore needs an expression to say with a throw
Pitch matters; expression matters, sharpness matters
How lightly song shall come in; it shall determine effort  

Criminals first destroyed plants
They then interfered with closing the door
Open the good door
Melody will be in

War, riots, fights, jealousy
Are these shops close?
I showed you
Let good hands be in

Self-distance formula does not apply to criminals
They loot and close the door.  

Dr Baljit Singh
Sunday, 21st April 2019
Helen watched Mrs Knight
go down the stairs
of the flats;
one of her cats
followed her down
a few steps behind.

Helen walked down slowly
as the stairs were steep;
she held on to the bannister
with one hand,
holding the shopping bag
and money in the other.

Mrs Knight stopped
until her cat
caught up to her
and she picked it up
and began stroking it
and talking to it.

Helen held back a bit;
she didn’t want
to catch any cat fleas;
her mother said
not to pick up the cats.

Mrs Knight
moved on down,
holding the cat,
which purred.

Once she had gone
out of the building
with her cat,
Helen followed.

It looked wet;
the sky was dull grey.

She stepped off
the last step
and went outside
on to the street.

Mrs Knight had gone,
but on the corner
of the street,
the man in the trilby hat
and black overcoat,
stood looking up
the street
and down again.

Mother said:
Don’t speak to men
you don’t know;
she doesn’t know the man,
and as she passed him,
he stared at her
with his dark eyes,
from beneath the brim
of his hat.

Father said the man
was a ******’s runner;
but he wasn’t running,
just standing
staring at her,
then looked away
looking back up
Rockingham Street.

She walked past,
clutching her bag and money,
looking away from him,
trying to remember
the shopping
her mother wanted,
going over and over it
in her head again,
sensing the start of rain.
A little girl going shopping in London in 1956
Chris Neilson Aug 2018
Along the bus filled corridor
from the south of the city
through the Victorian architecture
of Withington and Fallowfield
to the world food of Rusholme
with its plethora of barber shops
shoe shops, shisha bars, cafes
Philips Park and the eye hospital
then the university quarter
students like woolly hatted ants
a human tide of books and backpacks
our future professional generation
of doctors, scientists and philosophers
part time poets and musicians

Into the city centre bustle 
of hipsters and hustlers
high flyers and homeless
rough sleepers and penthouses
side by side in a sea of incongruity
The roman settlement of Castlefield
now sky scraping soulless concrete
in this original city of industry
where workers downed tools 
in cotton mills for anti-slavery 
American Civil War brethren
built on old world immigration
integrated into a working class
of blue collars, graft and toil
bones of its makers in its soil

Images of the lost industries
now decorate ornate beautiful bees
scattered in and around the urban sprawl
timely reminders of our heritage
of Northern grit in all its colours
of invention, science, sport, music and art
of protest, achievement and inspiration
a city that's historical
a city for the here and now
a city for future nascent talent
a city that's changed the world
Manchester, a city for all ages
I wrote most of this after returning from a hospital appointment earlier this year but have now added to it to bring it up to date
Drew Vincent Jul 2018
I imagine myself with you, M.
I can see myself,  happy with you.

I can picture us on our first date,
laughing so hard we hold onto each other for support.
I can picture us walking together,
admiring all the local shops and galleries our town has to offer.
I can picture us holding hands,
and you holding me as we gaze out at sea.
I can picture us snorkeling together,
and how you'll laugh when I inevitably breathe in the ocean.
I can picture us kissing for the first time,
how our eyes will meet,
and how our hearts will explode with excitement.
I can picture us kissing,
and how our bodies will melt into one.
I can picture myself falling asleep next to you,
and how peaceful I will feel when I wake up beside you.

Most importantly,

I can picture myself falling in love with you.
How wonderful life will be with you to share it with.
I will chase these butterflies forever if it brings me closer to you.
PC classic Oct 2016
someone told me about a girl who goes to coffee shops alone and sips her coffee and then comes back home
and writes about how the sugar always disappears perfectly
and all the human noises she didn't hear but she remembers the song that played and how the sad words broke the trance beats
and when she looks at the stars it fills up her heart
to see how close they shine
even though they are light years apart

accepting this makes it easier to face the next day

our alienation forever peeps through
the spaces and edges of
a cracked culture
Francie Lynch Nov 2018
Have you met the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man?
He scammed fig leafs in the garden,
And **** cloth in Ottoman.

     outside-in, inside-out; upside-down, right-side up

The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can cuss.
He offers snake oil, spins a tale,
So you feel smart, healthy and hale.

     from top to bottom, bottom to top

The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can't stop.
He swrawls with a Sharpie pen.

     right is left, left is wrong

That's the Who-Gee Boo-Gee song.

Consultation for now is free,
No hidden added extra fees:
You buy two, you get three.

     north to south, east to west

The Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man won't rest.

I've heard his feet are cloven;
The eyes are yellow, lips look swollen;
He has *******, wears silk- woven.
He sweats like water to the lowest level;
He's quicker than the slyest devil,
Selling hell, but we hear heaven;
Doing so twenty-four seven.

He photo-shops secret desires,
Twists truth-tellers into liars;
Artful, wily, scheming, subtle,
The Who-Gee Boo-Gee's a hungry jackal.

     today is the day, yesterday's late,
     tomorrow's a place that just won't wait


I met up with the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man,
Peddling apples from my jardain.
Kristaps Nov 2018
Palaces of ****** souls
have green neon text frames
standing sideways like arches;

divine arrows, they guide
the paternal flunks, the tar-soaked offspring,
the lonely and the business bunch.

Here in these palaces, all sin is a freeze, all
lust is a spin.
Fairy lights are often flagged in a net,

to catch mischievous mares flinging
themselves against the glass displays
of overpriced clothing shops.

One finds when wondering the perpetual
lines of restaurants and cafes, the vastness of them
having a motherly touch, for

these palaces, they stretch like the sky and
they spread like the shepherded
fire ants of Gaia herself



And when ones welcome is overbid
they need only to follow  the
evenly laid out,  sorrow yellow street lamps

and bite their cheeks and bare the frost
for soon the polluted lux will lead them to
an overnight joint, a limbo of sorts,

where they can breathe anew.
On those red leather sofas- fast food
or the district kind- when the night seems

to crawl on its final limbs,
they'll lay and slip into sleep.
Some say they never do wake, that they

wither with the moon and then
haunt the attics of the dance halls
where they swirled and laughed and lived

in a previous life.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
A perfect day (in the city)

First off, it is Saturday morning!
I wake up too early,
Slip into a heated reverie,
five poems to achieve,
along with five healthy sneezes,
expelling the week's dusty remains.

She checks in on me,
to see if I am adequately watered
in my poetry riding place,
in truth, to see if I am overcooked,
still alive, still in my creative place.

A real frittata from her new frittata pan,
is the breakfast plan,
that pan,
gives her so much pleasure(?),
I will be eating them
for the rest of my weekend
life.

Tho confess I must,
The sun-dried tomatoes and
smokey mozzarella, my fav,
were pretty tasty,
maybe I am being too hasty?

She to Dracula dvr'd,
me to nap sweet,
a rest to finally complete,
for once.

we meet up again around noon,
preparatory work, i.e., getting dressed,
off to see Little Miss Sunshine,
now Off-Broadway, at
Eighth and Forty Third.

Yes it was charming and delightful,
dear Wallace Shawn,^
and there were no ****** histrionic
rutting cats in it,
not one at all.
(I know, I know,
I am embarrassingly, lowbrow)


Walked home,
so she could exercise her pet
man.
On the way,
bought us new earphones,
cause I go through a pair a day,
given that I write poetry
in a someday,
watery grave.

Up Eighth Avenue,
at my request,
a reality show,
the meandering tourists
and the grunge to
circumnavigate,

Across 57th Street,
west to east,
surrounded by the city's teemings,
people flash mobbing,
giving NYC,
its special heartbeat.

Up Madison to window shop,
it seems in this part of town
of fancy shops,
I am to France and Italy teleported,
they don't speak
no English anymore,
though told, they still accept
American
Express
and US dollars

Home by late afternoon,
she, a promise to keep,
lamb chops,
honeyed Brussels sprouts,
a sweet potato
and a very very good Pinot Noir
purchased when,
I was very very goodly broke,
and contrapuntal insanity was a
partial cure.

Romantic lighting, yeah yeah,
a date-dinner, she gets,
in return, I ecstasize semi-silently
(actually quite loudly, with every bite)
in a carnivorous man-haze.

A grand bargain.

In bed early,
a Hercule Poirot to drink on tv.
I see fifteen minutes,
so I can wake up
to record
in the dead of night,
in plain, yet
triumphant poetry,
her final words.

“A perfect day”
^ see the poem Wallace Shawn

Ironically, written on the day Lou Reed passed way, who sang one of her fav songs,
Perfect Day
Fulfilling the word of the Law and the Prophets:
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
Darth Vader is really Peter Parker's mother.
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
Tories are cancer, Labour paedophilia.
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
Very cheap, very good one pound fish!
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
Over the cliff, Kubrick's monolith.
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
In the gurdwara Sikhs limbodance under
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
All the cops in the doughnut shops go
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
Viva Chimerica, Neo-Ozymandias!
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!

Is that the Spear of Destiny or you just pleased to see me?
Is that the Spear of Destiny or you just pleased to see me?
Is that the Spear of Destiny or you just pleased to see me?
Minions Mankini heretics burn at the stake...
sharpcastuser Feb 2011
Another day breaks
As the rising amber sun
Like a tireless watcher
Casts its rays down
The narrow slits of the thatched
Roofs of the village huts.
In the streets, playing
Hide and seek, small kids
Disappear into winding alleys.
Weaving hearts, young girls
In flower shops adorn
The soft petals of the Jasmine
Picked from the nearby fields,
While young boys arrange the
Ripe, freshly picked coconuts on
The fruit vendors’ mats, as
The shop doors open to the
Din of the morning rush hour,
Above their heads, the freshly washed,
Laundry is hung out to dry
On the balconies overlooking
The curving dirt road where
A bullock cart slowly crosses
The wet rice plantations
To the other side as
A distant factory alarms
The start of the new day
In the villages of Lampang

© 2004 - Pres  Hello-Poetry.com - All Rights Reserved
© 2011 - All Rights Reserved - sharpcastuser
gracie May 2018
it smells like you

You

like coffee shops and
late night talks and
grinning like a fool

but I'd rather sit and
shiver than be warm
in your ******* sweater.
Ben Jones Apr 2013
Jesus was looking impatient
It was already quarter past nine
He was sure he'd sent out invitations
And he'd turned all the water to wine

He'd promised a memorable banquet
As tomorrow he'd surely be dead
But the shops had been short of a few things
So he'd just had to settle for bread

When a knock at the door made him flutter
He adjusted his dress and his hair
He opened and bid all assembled
"Wipe your feet and then sit over there"

They shuffled and took to their places
But they looked slightly I'll at their ease
They could see all the wine and the bread rolls
But what of the ham and the cheese?

Jesus said grace in his fashion
"Cheers Dad" with his thumb held up high
"But be careful, this bread is my body"
"Now who wants a nice bit of thigh?"

They tucked in with nervous expressions
He'd been guzzling since they had arrived
He explained "It's my blood in these bottles"
"And without it I'd not have survived"

The apostles were forming conclusions
Their boss had been ****** all these years
But the wine washed away their objections
And the music drowned out all their fears

So they partied and danced on the table
They played twister and tidily-winks
Then stumbled off out to a nightclub
Because Judas was buying the drinks

The caroused and they conga'd till morning
Till their stomachs and bladders had failed
And that's how young Jesus got hammered
And the very next day he got nailed
matt d mattson Aug 2014
There is a silence in the house
An empty voice
There is a lack of something
And I cannot find it
I wake up early
And get out of bed late.
I do little chores but
I never get anything done
I drive to coffee shops
And cafes
I search for places that have people
But still I am alone
And so I come home
There is a vacancy here
That I cannot explain
There is a void that grows
And every day it feels larger
And the silence gets louder
As if the space in which there is no one
Gets bigger day by day
The echo of it lengthens
And the sound of footfalls
And the creak of old wood stretches outwards
And at the end of it all
It feels like a stadium filled with no one
An arena of empty chairs
And all the howling, cheering life
That isn't there
Cece Sep 2018
nothing like going back
to the golden days
when getting up 20 minutes earlier
was a fun thing
to put on a bit of mascara
and lipgloss;
the blush was natural.
now 20 minutes of sleep
seems like a treasure,
worth everything
and never to be given up.
back when laughter was sunflower yellow,
music was neon blue,
and friends were a sweet purple,
their smiles like lavender
addicting and easy to find.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
when choosing the font for a paper
was an hour long experience;
the funnest part of writing anything.
now no writing matters
to anyone
unless it's 12pt font,
Times New Roman,
double spaced,
and with a heading in the top left corner.
back when school was light,
homework was a breeze,
and the only thunderstorms
were those that involved
coffee shops, window seats,
and copious amounts of hot chocolate.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
filled with warmth
and honey
and a whole lot of butterflies.
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
My sister was born here
yet I know she does not recall the:
streets and sidewalks.
vagrants and beggars
full of history
full of bohemian young people
looking  for stylish bars.
Plenty of music
  and art galleries.
African music and South American shops.
expensive boutiques with impossible prices
Alternatively, you can take the pink,
Tropical garden with a pond full of small turtles
A memorial to the victims  
The roads within are difficult to navigate
junctions underground provide relief from the sun on hot days.
night owls cover the city
a green libre sign in the windshield
far too many cars and not enough space
narrow streets in the old town,
  is the heart of the city
The clock tower marks the Twelve Grapes  
a bear climbing a tree,
ornate iron posts.
the vacant Palace
lavishly decorated
Baroque-style gardens surround a large monument
Dozens of statues
a sculpture of Don Quixote
A massive roundabout
a chariot pulled by two lions.
A tall obelisk sits in the center
a pedestrian walkway full of fountains and trees
The vertical garden can be seen from the street outside,
features fine furniture and porcelain
impressive art collections with paintings, sculptures, and prints.
young hippies play bongos and dance.  
And I have never been there
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. - source https://wikitravel.org/en/Madrid
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