"sidney" poems
Hockey is fun to watch
Hockey is fun to play
Shoot the puck in the clutch
Bat the cold pucks away
Skate down the smooth white ice
Pass to a free teammate
Time together is nice
Don't shoot the puck too late
Fans like to view hockey
Who is the best player?
Kids like Sidney Crosby
He's a goalie slayer
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
En l’an trentiesme do mon aage
Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues…
Pipit sate upright in her chair
Some distance from where I was sitting;
Views of the Oxford Colleges
Lay on the table, with the knitting.
Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
Her grandfather and great great aunts,
Supported on the mantelpiece
An Invitation to the Dance.
. . . . .
I shall not want Honour in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
And have talk with Coriolanus
And other heroes of that kidney.
I shall not want Capital in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.
We two shall lie together, lapt
In a five per cent. Exchequer Bond.
I shall not want Society in Heaven,
Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
Her anecdotes will be more amusing
Than Pipit’s experience could provide.
I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
In the Seven Sacred Trances;
Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.
. . . . .
But where is the penny world I bought
To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;
Where are the eagles and the trumpets?
Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
Over buttered scones and crumpets
Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.B.C.’s
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I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing
It must have the same effects as walking on the moon
It must trend faster than a meteor as it hurdles through cyber space
I refused to love any man, who dislikes my poetry,
My man must support my passion ..
not only the warmth of my body
but the passion within this poetess, my secretive mind he must be able to balance:
Without wondering why a woman like me is so naturally secretive
I am always embracing the dark side of my creativity
Dropping little hints here and there throughout the years,
Sidney J. Harris once said something that left pondering thoughts
He said “When he hears somebody sighs,
'Life is hard,' he’s always tempted to ask them, 'Compared to what?'
I would simply say dog-gone it: Compared to struggling poets whose tries to make a living as a writer
While an upcoming rapper like Chief Keef
signed a several-million dollar deal
with offending lyrics in today music industries:
I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing,
With lots of intense emotion bursting through each line:
Because a poem can’t exist without a poet's multiple voices
and most of all his divine missions
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
Myself caught in the heatwave sunlight, brown eyes
furrowed in the sun, scarf loose on my neck/
the transcendental Denpasar morning-birds
are playing their melodies in my head still,
three years post-Indonesia.
All of my soul to India now,
sky the pink of painted elephants
on Jaipur dawning,
my afterlife was somewhere here
perhaps two generations ago, chances are.
Vijay Raghav Rao and Alla Rakha
playing the Tabla/via earphones/treading the
Funary Box City (Kashi) future Spring
hands held together keeping calm pace.
Looking about, my twenty-two year old face
catches humid wind
S
I
L
V
E
R
S
H
O
P
tattered bike leaning on the gated guest house entrance
PERENNIAL AZURE SHIVA SITS CROSS LEGGED/
COBRA NECKLACE IMITIATONS ON THE GODDESS THROAT/
MEDITATING SHIVA/
dulled from years and corrosion.
Brahmin center of the market street
flapping it's tail,
sweat beads from my forehead bleeding
to oily pavement.
At last the months have come for the river Ganges,
April penumbra/savage thunderclap
while school children uplifting the heart
AND MIND
are ROARING in their laughter
the CONTINENTAL DISCORD OF JOY
sleeping with their eyes open
while others are too tired for the Earth.
Sidney Bechet floating swan songs during
the black hour cremations/
“Bechet Creole Blues”
CATERWAUL IN THAT VOID
THE METAMORPHOSIS OF DEATH/
LUNACY OF LIFE
(I've arrived at the simultaneous crossroads
of both)
searing flesh in open air pyramids/
Manikarnika Ghat,
Asia F
L
O
W
S
through dreams
like inevitable prophecy
and as ash blends with stars
the CITY seems fulfilled
and mystifying
in it's
(((((RESPLENDENCE)))))
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
Security guard sitting alone
bank holiday, the nights soon gone,
he sits & waits to hear the phone
but nobody, thinks, he's on his own
Son & daughter far away
growing up, while he's growing grey,
soon to decide which way to go
their love hidden, unable to show
The last few years haven't been sweet,
Raynham, Vancouver, Sidney St,
roots torn up, hearts torn out
no wonder the only answer
is a shout
One day soon, my little Rose may forgive,
and let her loved ones begin to live,
instead of living the American Dream
as the second Miss Watts,
she'll gleam or scream
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
I
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?
No more the shepherd lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,
And what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?
II
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyrs and their wanton play,
This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph or Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,
This modern world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modern world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!
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____THEY___would EACH day take the ROLL CALL ! !...iT WENT LIKE THIS= *GERRY GIRAFFE="here sir", *SHARON SNAIL= "here sir", *SIDNEY SNAKE= "here sir", *DIANNE DEER= "here sir", *HERMAN HIPPO= "here sir", *FRANCES FOX= "here sir", ....AND it seemed like the list went on "FOREVER"! ! There were not Hundreds,, thousands or Millions ,,, BUT *HUNDREDS of Millions who were on the ROLL CALL List ! Many often Wondered , How Long would it take to complete the *ROLL ?? Many often Wondered ,, Would They be on the List ?? EACH=TIME a ROLLCALL* was answered ,, Another would wait in Heated Anticipation ! ! NO ONE HERE,,,Knows for sure, When the Exact Moment of the * ROLL CALL* Started,, but= it is SURELY known for fact,, EVERYONE WANTS TO BE ON "THE" LIST ! ! Some may deny the need for the List, Some May doubt the Existence of the LIST, Some may say "WHY EVEN HAVE alist ?" Some say "EVOLUTION" has brought us here ! ! Some not Understanding ,have SHED MANY A TEAR>> *LEONARD LION="here sir", *ADRIAN ANTELOPE= "here sir", *RONALD ROACH= "here sir", *MAUDE MOOSE= "here sir", ... THEY STAND IN AMAZEMENT as they see what looks like Surrender,, Have Feared for their VERY EXISTENCE,,, Looking around in AWE,, EACH SIGHING for the Sorrow in Others Hearts , ....BUT STILL THEY ASK ?? 'W H Y THE ROLL=CALL? > *BERRY BEETLE="here sir", *CAROL CROAKER = "here sir", >> THE ROLL CALL does continue this very moment! ! AND......is promised "TO GO ON" til the " GREAT-GATHERING"...>*FLOYD FLOUNDER= "here sir", ZELDA ZEBRA="here sir",....... the list IS STILL BEING CALLED AS "W E S P E A K "...simply waiting FOR the Gathering,, AND______the "calling " OF their NAME on the * ROLL-CALL*"
Dec 17, 2010
Dec 17, 2010 at 4:05 AM UTC
When I lie in bed
in that limbo between sleepy and sleeping
I think about throwing open all the windows on a hot summer night
(the kind where you can't breathe for the season's breath beating you senseless)
and dancing in your arms.
We'll both be tired and conservative with our words
but our feet will converse into the night.
I'm thinking Sidney Bechet's "Blue Horizon" should be a good place to start
so you have an idea of where I'm going.
I want the heat to press us together until we melt.
The end of your body will be the beginning of mine
because no one's paying attention to where lines are drawn.
If anyone's going to draw them, it'll be me
sliding the tip of my finger across your chest in time to the record
which is so slow we're almost standing still.
We don't notice though, because the only rhythm we care about is us.
The way I see it,
it's like Tennessee Williams is somewhere up there
hacking away at his typewriter
creating us with each stroke of the key.
His fingers work our literary strings and we sway like marionettes in the hands of our creator.
He places the screen door on the other side of the room
the ***** walls around us
the indifferent lightbulb hanging above our heads,
giving off just enough light so we don't have to squint
but not enough to make the room feel anything less than sensual.
Tennessee draped the sundress over my shoulders
but kindly left my feet bare so I could feel the floor in its imperfect softness.
He put a watch on your wrist
not so you'd keep time
but so you'd remember the person who gave it to you.
There's a hint of a smile stretched across the divan of your lips
though I know Tennessee had not a single thing to do with it.
It was all me.
And just before I fall asleep,
the song finishes
and Tennessee packs up his machine,
leaving us to ourselves for the rest of the dream before a dream.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
When the clouds below turn to into carpet
Up there in the cold morning light,
The VFR pilot jitters and frets:
Time to check fuel, to come up with a plan
To search for a hole in the billow below,
And bring the craft in to land.
So it was when a pilot coming back from a lark,
Flew in a circle somewhere over Williston,
Above clouds turning thicker and dark.
In his office sat Phil, across the state line,
When the radio crackled, pleading a break:
"VFR practice," he thought, "He's probably fine."
Phil headed to lunch, had an errand to do...
Drove downtown for a couple of hours,
Returning somewhere around 2:00.
The radio tone carried tired despair
When Phil walked back in from his break
And heard the pilot, still stuck in the air.
Phil knew that the fuel must be drained
In the old Piper Cub overhead,
So he logged a flight plan and ran for his plane.
He flew to the east and banked to the north,
Rising above the gray carpet below,
And spotted the wanderer holding its course.
Coming in fast, cutting his distance by half,
"Super Cub over Williston, this is Bonanza
On your left. How much fuel do you have?"
"About 30 minutes," came a despondent reply,
Standard answer, but gauging the hours,
Phil calculated the response was a lie.
"I am going to fly by your side.
Follow me and dive when I dive;
Keep contact and enjoy the ride."
The planes in tandem turned around;
Phil flew by IFR to find the runway end,
Backed off the throttle, and led them down.
The tail dragger followed, did not complain,
Dropped into the soup gliding blind
Except for the strobe on the faster plane.
The old Cub flared when Phil said, "Land!"
Settled onto the runway end as the propeller stalled,
And Phil had saved a desperate man.
On the hangar wall now hangs a plaque,
Though Phil himself is gone,
The Governor's gift for bringing a flyer back.
--------------
My brother once watched Phil Petrik of Sidney Aviation fly off the Sidney runway, disappearing into a pea soup fog, carrying our father and mother on an emergency flight to Billings, to save my father's life.
I lay this poetic rose upon Phil's grave as a slim tribute to a man who earned my admiration and life long gratitude. Rest In Peace, Phil Petrik.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
The fog crept in on giant monster claws,
Surely no itty-bitty feline foots, I pray:
“Feets don’t fail me now,”
A line that will live in infamy,
Way back in a vaudeville when,
A minstrel Chitlin Circuit then,
Was an actor known as the
"Laziest man in the world,"
A character designed to stick to a
Collective white consciousness,
Stick like Tar-Baby, that negative
Image of African-American men--
I speak of The Brothers--
Who for over a century, have been
Struggling to live down a pernicious,
Most persistently demeaning,
Hollywood trope.
Tribute is due to the black actor born:
Lincoln Theodore Monroe Andrew Perry.
Oh, Mr. Perry, & yes, you were the
First black actor to receive
Screen credit in a film.
Well, I guess that puts you right up there,
With Jackie Robinson & Sidney Poitier,
Carver or Tubman, or any of those
Countless northern abolitionists--
With no personal stake in slavery,
Or emancipation, but fervent nonetheless--
Color-barrier breakers &
Household saints a-coming &
A-marching in, in that number . . .
You paid a big price, Mr. Perry:
The indignity & débauche,
By abject surrender to the Boss Man,
Tribute, recognition is due for
Feats of humility & self-abasement,
Entailing total superhuman surrender,
Capitulation to the dismal, prevailing
State of American race relations at the time.
Stepin Fetchit: a name & a persona,
Not just painfully racist, but
Downright subversive.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
See that zombie stood over there.
Caked in fresh blood.
It's under his hair.
He found a fella with a hole in his head.
Sad zombie fella.
He found a slice of mouldy old bread.
Uses it as a soldier.
Dipped in his head.
No fun.
A newly made zombie.
He's always hungry,
Now he's dead.
Peeps at Mr Majestical's testicles.
Fancied chewing them.
Loved the juice.
Succulent as strawberries.
Raspberry sauce.
Blood of course.
Derwent fancied a bit of breast.
Loving mother told him breast is always best.
Julie's just a crazy chick.
Fancied a nibble on the dead guy's ****
Yummy,yummy, really sick.
Or should I say she ****** it.
As if it were a straw.
Remembering days of living.
Always was a *****
The kid in the corner is popping out eyes.
Never really worked out why.
Perhaps he was thirsty.
Eleanor.
She fancied a nibble on the bladder and kidney.
Of a once fine chap.
Whose first name was Sidney.
***** tasting of peach lemonade.
Eleanor the dead chick.
Got really drunk.
That Zombie's really ******
Mum's over there.
One of them?
Or still my mum?
You know what?
I really don't care.
For the first time in my life.
I feel really scared.
Hell.
I digress.
They're chasing me now
I'm making a mess.
Run out of puff and all that stuff,
They're trying to eat me.
That's quite enough.
I'm feeling quite numb.
The dead ******** won.
Stripped all the tissue clean off my ***
Chewed though a bit of a nerve.
Partially damaged.
You feeling the image?
Bled me near dry.
He did.
Son of a *****
Made me cry.
For a second or two.
Lucky me.
One ate my eye.
So glad.
I won't see myself die.
With a skeletal hand.
I'm waving goodbye.
(c)Livvi
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 4:34 AM UTC
Great men have been among us; hands that penn’d
And tongues that utter’d wisdom—better none:
The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington,
Young Vane, and others who call’d Milton friend.
These moralists could act and comprehend:
They knew how genuine glory was put on;
Taught us how rightfully a nation shone
In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend
But in magnanimous meekness. France, ’tis strange,
Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.
Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!
No single volume paramount, no code,
No master spirit, no determined road;
But equally a want of books and men!
1.4k
I hope you never leave like the leaves with the winter breeze,
You bring color to my world like autumn leaves,
With your absence you left me colorblind,
Surprised by my silent scream, but my eyes beg for you to stay. Please...
My life has no light without you,
Like the moon to the sun,
I can't shine without you,
Because you are the reflection of my other half,
Until then I guess I'll always be half the man.
So will you drift away like the winds from my fingertips?
A cloud once I hold it tight,
Or my 1st memories in life?
You would hold your breath just so you wouldn't breathe the same air I would breathe,
just to tell your new love that you have no part of me.
You mistake his love like a mirage in the desert,
you gambled with your eyes and see odds without measure,
Just another guy who always lose to guys who's not better.
Yes the type who could be your everything if you let me,
I guess it’s more affordable to waste time than to buy some regrets then sell them.
Or post feelings and mail them,
Misguided by the look in your eyes,
Warm touch but cold hearted inside,
Was I really the man you cherished with pride?
Or just another lie in your diary on page 5?
I can't stress enough how much I need you,
Besides God no one succeeds you,
1 moment you needed me,
2 times you cheated me,
3 times I fought for us and,
4 the last time you defeated me,
Left with a hole in my heart,
No peep show.
I thought I had the answers to this test,
No cheats though.
I repeat myself but you don't hear me.
I appear in all the right places but you don't see me.
Eyes wide shut:
Figure you think I'm being too needy,
Give you my all, it’s not enough,
I feel you're way too greedy
Take my love as a joke,
Because with him you're smiling and laughing.
That's just a sunny day,
I'm the Sun; this is everlasting.
Take a knife for you, write for you, live for you.
Now I'm bleeding for no reason, too stubborn to even see it.
I'm dying for you.
You say hi and then bye.
I die a little inside,
What's it all to you?
Oh, a game?!?
It's a shame, Life's a cliff, and I hope you fall too.
One day you'll realize that these ripples are from the waves of me catching you.
By K.J., Sidney, A.R. & Myself
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
Life or should I say one big experimentation,
Not a day goes by that my mind ponder,
Lying down my thoughts and diagnosis,
With nothing to do but to wonder.
Trembling from my own insecurities and impurities that enslave my conscious.
Do you truly have the faith to give up what you already own to find out?
To risk and pursue the unseen or the unknown for a better outcome.
Waiting on a sign to release the shackles that binds your mind from procrastination.
Are we living to die?
Or
Are we dying to live?
How do you find?
What can't be define?
Should I leap in hopes of flight to my destiny?
Open my mind to unusual subjection and gradually give the world the best of me.
Where do I begin to end?
Or
Where do I end to begin?
Life seems so simple yet not easy at the same time,
All we got to do is live,
But how do we live?
We tend to over-complicate,
Always wanting more,
Never able to accept as things are,
Is the grass truly greener on the other side?
Not always, but it's greener where ever you water it.
By Sidney and Tien
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
In a derby and suit, riding tall in the saddle,
A stranger paraded one day.
He rode through the street of a town in Nebraska,
Astride a magnificent Bay.
Though stately and proud he was oddly attired,
Where cowboys and outlaws abide.
And the gun that he wore, of an uncommon bore,
Hung uncomfortably high on his side
The attention he drew from the unseemly crew
Of misfits (an unsavory lot)
Was cause to give rise to a keen viewer's eyes
Trouble might be more likely than not.
Thugs are known to have fun by the threat of a gun
To a stranger perceived as a dude.
They often get rough and hostile and tuff;
By their nature they're rowdy and rude.
So it weren't no surprise when there came an up-rise
Of cat-calls and whistles that day.
While others just smiled, some were getting quite riled,
As the stranger dismounted the Bay.
He seemed not to care, ignored every dare,
As he entered a bar called "The Shed."
He called for a brew, then changed it to two;
Said,"Take one over there to Big Fred."
Now everyone knew that Big Fred was the worst
of hooligans staying in town.
In Sidney, Nebraska there weren't any faster
When it came to shooting men down.
The bar keeper trembled and shook as he ambled,
Across the floor toting the beer.
The mug was half empty when he finally reached Fred,
Who now gazed at the dude with a sneer.
The bar room grew still and the tension seemed loud.
You could feel with a god-awful dread
That a message was meant in the beer that was sent
By the strangely dressed dude To Big Fred.
"So it's you," uttered Fred. "Thought by now you'd be bound,
To a Deadwood strike, off mining gold.
I had thought you'd forget memories I now regret;
I hoped that trail would finally grow cold."
"It's the Masterson code and the gambler's creed
To even all scores with a rat."
And by those word every Sidney buckaroo knew
That the stranger who spoke them was Bat.
Fred reached for his iron with a lightning fast draw
That never quite cleared the leather
And no one even saw Bat Masterson's draw
That silence Big Fred forever.
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 9:34 PM UTC
When you were a little girl, did you think love was an easy concept to grasp? Didn't it make you laugh the way that everyone said,
"It's undefinable, it's complicated, it's the root of so much pain"?
When I was a young boy, I used to sift through sand looking for the broken beer bottles
Because I wanted to try and find beauty in something horrible.
So I have done for years.
I've lied, cheated, stolen... sometimes from my own family members.
I used to assume I could pop into your life any time
Like a bad father
And you'd come running into my arms.
Just like a bad father.
When I left you standing at the altar, dressed like June Carter
I remember wishing I could have altered my timeline
So I could be Johnny for real, and we could make it big
People could start writing our names on jail cell walls
"R.I.P. Alex and Sidney"
These are the days where I scatter papers around my room
Pinholes in the carpet from relight after relight
Trying to find the right words to say
To convince you that I'm not the same as I used to be.
I've seen my own eyes gazing at me without a mirror
I've seen galaxies screaming at me and exploding
You pull my heart-strings.
You separate my anxieties.
You are the little bit of crazy within me
And when I let it out it's all sadness and wine
But when you let go, you're just a sugar plum fairy.
You dance and you sing and you laugh like I were a comedian.
Oh, that's right, I am a comedian.
Well, if my job is to make people laugh
Then my last laugh would be you.
This is a bad time, I know
But I still would do anything to rewrite our history.
I can wait a year if you want to run your course
Maybe you'll stay in our little town.
But this poem is to tell you
Your clothes should be in my laundry.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 5:55 AM UTC
How did my interrogation go
at the tea party
with your parents
last night?
I said to Sophia
the next morning at work
she smiled
it went well
to było dobre
as my mother would say
she said
it was good
I smiled feeling relieved
I was beginning to think
it was going to be
the thumbscrews next
I said
your father was hard going
she gestured with her hands
as if to say
that is normal
I was afraid
you might say about us
having ***
she said
I'm not that suicidal
I said
although he did mention
****** relations
she frowned
he asked if I thought
*** after marriage was good
as taught in the Catholic Church
I said
and I said yes
I added
seeing anxiety
etch itself
on her face
Mother was unsure of you
Sophia said
after you left
she spoke in Polish
and said you smiled too much
and your tie was loose
I raised an eyebrow
she's fussy
Sophia said
but Father likes you
and if he's convinced
then you are
half way there
half way?
I said
yes he wants you
to come again
for dinner this time
Sophia said
thumbscrews this time?
I said
she shook her head
no just have a talk
and eat and have wine
and relax
then *** after?
I said
she frowned
no that's not
a good idea
she said
I was joking
I said
she nodded and smiled
I see
and she went off to clean
I went to get Sidney
up and dressed
for breakfast
thinking of her
and wishing there was
no dinner to go to
with her parents
but it seemed settled
and I didn't want
to upset her father
or cause him concern
even if seeing her
walk that way she did
made me burn.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC
They say if it don't make dollars,
Then it don't make sense.
People got their hands out to receive,
Yet hesitant to give,
Shake my head in disbelief as my eyes begin to flood,
Misfit, OJ's glove,
Dagger to the back like medieval love,
What is your self-worth?
Money is universal,
But only worth what's spent,
With that said anything that can be purchased is never priceless,
To be bought out by any that is worth less than that is worthless.
Think to yourself,
Open your eyes,
You were a gift to this earth at birth,
Therefore you were born a winner,
Inevitable sinner,
Created to be nothing less
than to be anything else,
So do you have a number or a purpose?
Lose the inquisitive thinking and be more decisive,
Believe you are righteous in your own ways.
Destined to walk in the glory ancestors paved.
Now are you perfect?
No but **** the minds that thought you were worthless,
Now does that make sense?
I am who I am,
No need to judge,
Can I have penny for your thoughts?
There goes my 2 cents...
By Sidney and Tien
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
Amber was an atheist,
she thought the world was dumb as hell.
Britney was a botanist,
who had a fertilizer smell.
Candice was a coroner,
a scary passion for the stiffs.
Diana was a drummer chick,
that knew a few guitar riffs.
Evelyn was evil, man,
all leather suits and chains and whips.
Farrah was a therapist,
got in my brain with swinging hips.
Greta was a gunslinger,
she'd give most anything a shot.
Hannah was a homebody-
shy as hell, but twice as hot.
Iris was an Ivy Leaguer,
thought I was a total fool.
Janice was a juggler,
who liked to play with power tools.
Kimmy taught karate,
who dated me just for the kicks.
Louise was a lyricist,
who wrote about how guys were *****
Marilyn was mostly mean,
she liked to fight and then make up.
Nancy was so negative,
I had no choice but to break up.
Opal was an occultist,
who liked to gossip with the dead.
Paula was a **********
that made me pay to come to bed.
Queenie was inquisitive,
the questions were too much to bear.
Rosie was a recluse
who never shaved or brushed her hair.
Sidney was a sinful sort,
with toys and gadgets 'neath the bed.
Tina was a twisted chick,
with thirteen voices in her head.
Ursula was uber-cool,
always on the latest trends.
Vicky was on Vicodin,
and we all know how that one ends.
Wanda was a wanderer,
that left to join a circus troupe.
Xena the exhibitionist
liked to do it on the stoop.
Yolanda was young and fine,
and nearly cost me everything.
Zoey was a Zombie fan,
she got hot when he would sing.
I'd like to say I've settled down,
but since the alphabet is done,
I'm gonna met an Ann or Anita,
and give it all another run.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 5:19 AM UTC
See that zombie stood over there.
Caked in fresh blood.
It's under his hair.
Found a fella with a hole in his head.
Sad zombie fella.
Found a slice of mouldy old bread.
Used it as a soldier.
Dipped in his head.
No fun.
Newly made zombie.
He's always hungry,
Now he's dead.
Peeps at Mr Majestical's testicles.
Fancied chewing them.
Loved the juice.
Succulent as strawberries.
Raspberry sauce.
Blood of course.
Derwent fancied a bit of breast.
Loving mother told him.
Breast is always best.
Julie's just a crazy chick.
Fancied a nibble on the dead guy's ****
Yummy, yummy.
Really sick.
Or should I say she ****** it.
As if it were a straw.
Special days of living.
Always was a *****
The kid in the corner is popping out eyes.
Never really worked out why.
Perhaps he was thirsty.
Eleanor.
She fancied a nibble on the bladder and kidney.
Of a once fine chap.
Whose first name was Sidney.
***** tasted of peach lemonade.
Eleanor the dead chick.
Her day was made.
Got really drunk.
That Zombie's really ******
Mum's over there.
One of them?
Or still my mum?
You know what?
I really don't care.
For the first time in my life.
I feel really scared.
Hell.
I digress.
They're chasing me now
I'm making a mess.
Run out of puff and all that stuff,
They're trying to eat me.
That's quite enough.
I'm feeling quite numb.
The dead ******** won.
Stripped all the tissue clean off my ***
Chewed though a bit of a nerve.
Partially damaged.
You feeling the image?
Bled me near dry.
He did.
Son of a *****
Made me cry.
For a second or two.
Lucky me.
One ate my eye.
So glad.
I won't see myself die.
With a skeletal hand.
I'm waving goodbye.
(c)Livvi
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
A hundred-forty west-bound miles of
Montana Highway 200 see a summer
Traveler somewhere between
Grass Range and Jordan,
Deep in grass and antelope.
Waterless miles of meandering
Dry creek beds and barbwire alleyways
Herd the occasional car or truck
Down narrow asphalt chutes of road.
Speed limit signs stamped "70 mph"
Stand mortified and silent at Speed
Demons hurtling westward to Great Falls,
Round Up, or Flowing Wells, or east to
Jordan, Circle, Richey, Lambert, and Sidney.
Extreme heat and cold on the open plain
Demand courtesies of the West;
Travelers always stop to
Help the stranded.
So it was I came at speed to Sand Springs,
A sultry July day, heading to Billings,
Sad to be leaving my lover and my bairns.
A long way off, I saw her car,
Hood up and steam rising.
I shifted down and idled to a stop.
"Can I help you?"
An older woman,
Crow, I think, looked out,
A bit confused at first
Until her eyes cleared.
"I need a ride," she said,
And so began our adventure.
I made room in the truck
And turned around to find
The ranch where she cooked.
Ten miles back, we left the road
To take a trail that wound back
Into hills, dry with early heat.
"About five miles in," she said.
We found the place,
Resting in a scrap heap
Of old vehicles and broken corrals,
Middle of nowhere,
But she was home
And opened up the door.
She asked me to wait a bit,
So I sat, wondering what was next,
While she walked in through her door.
In a minute she returned
Her offering in her hand.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Nodding, I took the gift,
Shifted into reverse,
Left her there.
The braid of sweet grass,
An unburned prayer,
Rode on my dash
All summer long....
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC
My past has become my present,
A broken gift you can say.
Everyday has become yesterday,
Like reruns stuck on replay.
I'm always a few steps away from happiness,
But always fall behind short of breath with reaching hands.
I guess Time walks only to cast shadows to fall behind.
It teases me like a fleeting dream,
Let's me see what's ahead but truly only a mirage,
A present future that's so close yet ever reaching.
I guess Time walks to only cast shadows to fall behind.
Now it seems like I'm getting use to shade,
The cold darkness has become my comfort zone,
Thinking to myself if I deserve happiness?
If I step out my comfort zone will the light blind me?
Is it worth it for a moment of happiness?
I guess Time walks to only cast shadows to fall behind and only Time will tell.....
and when it tells would I listen?
Or make a decision without precision,
That obfuscate my vision that cause this collision of choices.
Each thought eludes me like reaching to grab a cloud,
So close to that answer but truly I'm off by miles.
I guess times walk to only cast shadows to fall behind.
Safe in the comforts of darkness fearing the light would show my past,
Maneuvering through the streets of life without headlights so I crashed,
Stretching out my arm hoping for a helping hand.
Yet so hard to find like a grain of salt in pile of sand,
Waiting patiently to be greeted by happiness before my expiration of time.
But this time, time walked to only to cast shadows to fall behind.....
By Sidney and Tien
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Mr Bedlows
showed you around
the old folk’s home
the day had begun
at the new job
the smell of *****
and old age
drifted by the nostrils
the dimly lit passageway
he opened a door
morning Mr Grigg
morning Mr Mash
he said
to the old men
sitting on beds
then off
you both went again
more doors opened
other old men
welcomed
downstairs and up
the passageways
like circles
of Dante’s Hell
the old men gazed
at you as you entered
their aged eyes
followed you
about their room
you the young guy
the wet-behind- the-ears
young thing
they’d seen wars
fought in trenches
seen men killed
blown apart
mind damaged
body’s crippled
soul’s laid bare
smoke and death
in the air
I’ll leave you with Sidney
Mr Bedlows said
and went closing the door
trapping you
with smell and age
and Sidney’s stare
half hour later
having cleaned him up
and washed and dried
and clothed him neat
you set him on his way
with walking frame
and slow pace
for him
another dreary day
for you the beginning
the other men
to coax
or dress
or wash
or comb the hair
or set them
on their walk
with old timers
chatter
or idle
long ago talk.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
asleep - the smiths
i'm in love with u, sorry - j'san
tonight you belong to me - nicole sidney
the bad list - z berg, ryan ross
i fall for the same face every time - z berg
we almost nailed it - z berg
bubble gum - clairo
she - dodie
girl - the beatles
here, there and everywhere - the beatles
something - the beatles
the long and winding road - the beatles
watch you sleep. - girl in red
i wanna be your girlfriend - girl in red
4am - girl in red
build me up buttercup - lara anderson
broken (acoustic) - lovelytheband
crush culture - conan gray
strawberry kisses - olivia herdt
slow dance - adventure time, olivia olson
the record player song - daisy the great
breathe me - sia
love like you - steven universe, rebecca sugar
love like you (reprise) - steven universe, rebecca sugar
asleep - the smiths
Feb 24, 2020
Feb 24, 2020 at 11:45 PM UTC
You make a good bed,
Sophia said.
I smoothed the top sheet
of Mr H's bed
with a motion
of my hand,
trying hard not
to look at her
by the sink
in the corner.
It's a firm bed,
isn't it?
It's metal framed
for endurance,
I said,
lifting my head,
seeing her standing there
with Vim powder
in her hand
and cloth in the other.
We have ****
I pulled up the blankets
and duvet,
pretending I hadn't heard.
No one around,
she said,
be safe.
Until Mr H
or some other old boy
comes along
and keels over
clutching their heart,
I replied.
She smiled, turned
and began powdering
the sink and scrubbing
with the cloth.
I looked out the window
at the grounds below;
the grass
was a bright green,
the few trees
in full leaf.
I turned
and she was
standing there
with one foot
on the bed
and her skirt hem
lifted, showing
a fair glimpse of leg.
You sure
we not have ****
Not here, not now,
I said,
taking the glimpse
of leg inside my head.
She pouted her lip
and shook her long
blonde hair.
Shame,
it could be good.
I went out the room,
closing the door,
thinking of my next task,
giving Sidney
his morning bath,
and as I walked on,
I heard her
mocking laugh.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:27 AM UTC