Michael Amery Oct 2014
Bathed in my own tears
Baptized in love's broken promise
I lay here and remember
Whispered words unsaid

Night's mystery does little to dampen the pain
Memories brought back in an instance in this digital world
Your Instagram smile looks up at me and I recall all that was good
Social media failed to capture the hurt
Just sitting in it. This is what comes out.
June Montag May 2014
people passing by and
cars driving past with
city wind in my hair and
cooler air as
the sun sets and
the world gets dimmer.
you could absorb the whole city from
     a sidewalk bench.
found on the back of a receipt from a month ago.
Stephen E Yocum Nov 2013
In ’68 Hutch and me,
Sitting at the bar drinking
Our third cold beer.
In a semi Fern Bar
Laguna or Newport Beach
Which now, I’m not sure.
It was around nine or so,
A week day night,
The place more empty than not.

She came in alone, made
Entry like the dramatic host of
A TV show. As if she were the
Center piece on the nations
Thanksgiving Dinner Table.
Over dressed to the nines,
Lots of color, heavy make up
She didn’t really need.

Her perfume scent hovered
Around her like a cloud of insects  
On a hot summer night in a wet meadow.
Kind of made my eyes water up.

She perched daintily like a dancer,
Upon a bar stool,
Three empty stools down,
Nodded the bartender her regular order.
A martini, a double it was,
With but a dab of vermouth.
One green olive on a stick.
The glass was prechilled as if
It had been waiting only for her.
She pounded that first one down,
As if the stem wear was a shot glass.
Another full stem glass appeared,
That one also quickly consumed
Two bright red lipstick stains all that
Remained in or on the stemmed glass rim.

Her main task accomplished,
She audibly exhaled,
As if tired or relieved.
I couldn't tell which.
Turned around on her stool to face
Hutch sitting closest to her.
“You boys Marines.” She declared,
More than inquired.

Hutch just nodded, he never did say much.
A Sniper just back from The Nam,
A dark scary guy of few words.

She opened her fur trimmed cloth coat,
exposing two very nice stocking clad legs,
And just a quick flash of red underpants.
Rotating towards us so we got a better view.

She announced her name,
like as if we should know it.
Our blank stares informed her we didn’t.
Her face was to me, somewhat familiar.  
From movies in the 40s or 50s.
We were early 20 guys, she much older,
Trying hard to look younger, not succeeding.

Soon she was sitting right next to Hutch,
Two more Martini stems had come and gone,
Her lipstick finger prints upon them.
And still Hutch had not spoken more than
Three or four words.

She bought us a pitcher of brew,
Hutch grunted a short bit of gratitude.
We didn't have to say much, she was in charge.
It was all about her, she rambled on and on
Speaking volumes saying not much at all.
Beating back her crushing obscurity,
With flowery reminiscence recall,
Of glory days then long gone away.
Important for the moment, if only to her.
It was all; “me and I, I did this, I was that,
I slept with him,
And him and him”.
How about so and so?  I asked,
“No Darling not him, he was gay!
Still is.”

It was not long and she was touching Hutch.
On the hand, the shoulder, she was working him
With languid hungry looks from her big baby blues,
And the message could not have been plainer,
Had she held up a large hand lettered sign.

I don’t believe she was a “Working Girl”,
Just someone very lonely seeking to find
Herself, and some company for the night,
All to prove that she was still alive.

Looking at her, I could only think,
How sad and pathetic she seemed,
How desperate her plight.
To humble herself so,
In that dingy bar, among strangers
She did not know, Acting yet, still
On the only stage she could find,
Staring in her own bad ‘B’ movie drama.
In that dingy smelly bar.

Hutch and her left after a hour or so,
He never told me much about it.
He was unofficially AWOL for three days.
I covered for him, kept his name off the
Missing Morning Formation Reports
and the Daily Duty Lists.
No one cared to check. Our unit made up
Of mostly guys back from the war,
A pretty loosey-goosey outfit.

Once in a while now I see an old movie,
most are Black and white, Film Noir stuff,
And there she is, a much younger her,
Looking pretty damn good,
Not real big roles they were,
Claimed she was in the chorus
Of "Singing In The Rain" in '52.
To this, I can not attest,
watched that film several times,
But I never saw her there.

Had parts Playing damsels in distress,
A mobster’s gun moll a time or two,
Or unhappy Play Girls on a bar stool.
I guess it was type casting that done her in.
Or maybe she got a little too long in the tooth..
A sad ending to a short B movie career.
Life ain’t easy, even for a so called “movie star”.
Fame is not all it’s cracked up to be.
A smattering of fame, apparently worth,
Nothing at all.
True stuff from an old guys past.
She had called the Company Office
once or twice, looking for Hutch.
He told us to tell her that he had
been Shipped Out, when he actually
hadn't.

She no doubt found someone else to
tell her story to.

I saw that woman the other day on TV,
an old film on Turner Classic Movies
doing her thing. I sort of wonder what
ever  happened to her, but refuse to
Google it to find out.
Some information you don't need
or what to know.
It did inspire this little Poem Noir write.

Got a letter from Hutch in '70, we were
both out of the Corps. He was headed to
the Arabian Desert as a hired gun, to guard
some pipe line operation. Have no idea what
became of him after that. Hutch was a real hard
case, 14 confirmed kills through a sniper sight.
I hope he made it out of the desert all right,
maybe sitting on a beach someplace recalling
his back in the day three nights with a once
upon a time B movie star. Actually I doubt he
recalls her at all.
RW Dennen Sep 2014
Almost round 4:00pm two Asian lover dovers with giggly
laughter took the South Bound subway to South Philly.
Their outward display was so neat and pleasing like a painter with my pen I had to write this...


Watching two Asian school youths;
    frequently there;
every smile every nuance of expressions,
    their soul-mate world
tells about their quiet and giggly adoration

Transformed from their
    hard steel bench
is now a park bench
    Encompassing strident voices fade;
Their happy world is victorious

She sits upon his lap
    And whispers; they faintly laugh
Their entwined thoughts
    cannot be pulled asunder

As I write, I observe;
    I laugh to myself,
the remembrance
    of my soul-mate and myself
many years ago...
Joe Cole Aug 2014
Yep puppy sitting my daughters eleven week old
red fox Labrador bitch
All long legs big feet and puddles of pee on the carpet
Oh dear, Mollie dogs not happy
This pup is into everything
The contents of my pockets now strewn over the floor,
Teeth marks in my very expensive cell phone
But
I wouldn't change anything
Its been eight years since Mollie dog was a puppy
And I'd forgotten what fun they can be
Anyway how do I explain to my daughter about
The scratches on Ambers' nose?
Well she learned the hard way about what happens
When a puppy investigates one of my boys
My boys Max and Merlin terrify the local dogs
Nicole Ashley Dec 2014
Hope is all we have
Waiting and waiting

Sounds of a clock ticks on and on
Pulsed in our ears

Waiting for answers

No phone calls
No music or TV

Silence

Just silence


For truth
Not lies

Hope is all we have
Sitting and waiting


Sounds of a clock ticks on and on
Mason Sep 2014
Blue, and sitting.
The harmonica sounds
like my mother.
I need my guitar
to get me out of here.
The world is strange.
I'm afraid.
The harmonica sounds
like my mother
crying because she's telling
the truth,
that she's afraid.
That the world is strange.
That only my guitar
can get me out of here.
inspired by The Old Guitarist, Picasso
Sara Robinson Oct 2014
I've been here before
sitting, waiting, wishing,
but for what, love from another
or just a longing for a real love
do I really need you in my life
or is it just a want
am I thinking too hard over this
or am I on the right path
should I be waiting here
waiting for some sign
a sign to tell me where to go
or what to see
or who to love
is it right for me to wish that you were here
to wish that for once you could see me
is it right to wish for you to truly show me how you feel
to show me that you'll be here for me
be here when I slip up
to show me that you'll be here to tell me its ok
to tell me you love me
as I sit here longing for comfort
the comfort I know I'm suppose to receive from you
I can't think of one time you've been here for me
you were always around but you never lived up to your title
you are suppose to carry me when I'm hurt
you are suppose to rescue me from the situations I get myself into
you are suppose to be the one guy I can trust
but I can't, I can't depend on you
I can't be sure you'll be here when I'm in trouble
I don't know if you'll always be here for me
my one wish more than anything is for you
for you to wake up and see what your missing
for you to realize why you are losing us
for you to see the pain you cause us
the pain that happens because of your action
it's not a physical pain that you cause it's emotional
it's the kind of pain that lingers there for years and years
the kind of pain that cause us to lash out at you
the kind of pain that makes us wish you weren't here
where in turn we truly want you to be here
but to be here in a completely different mind set to be here in love
to be here with a caring and trustworthy attitude
to show us not tell us you care
to use your actions to let us see you changed
your word means nothing if there is no difference in your actions
I say all this just to be left here
left here sitting, waiting, and wishing.
This poem is about my father who has always been around but never lived up to what a father should be.
I am the blackbird sitting
on the branch . . . watching you
Peering into every aspect you do
Kaw . . . Kaw
and you . . ,

Late at night if I ever get out of here
I swear I will turn into a thunderstorm
And hurl my bolts of light at you
And pound you with my thunder

I am the blackbird . . . and I am still
watching you
Can you feel the unease of my stare
Kaw . . . Kaw . . .
now you are aware

He held a grudge forever more
Never could he release the hate and pain
Nothing nice again , just rain
He could never get out again

The blackbird and me . . . .
as the feathers flutter to the ground
Went both of us . . . around and around
Dagers drawn , guns blazing

Like I said it is late of night
Cursing and swearing my heart pounds
Mark on my bolts , holding thunder
I notch another line on the barrel of life

Blackbird ! Blackbird !  Blackbird be !
I am the blackbird sitting in your tree
Peering into the aspects that you might be
Kaw . . . Kaw . . .
Lixian Ng Apr 2014
I talked to a girl,
Who was texting,
On a white iPhone.
A quiet person,
forces herself in,
A conversation
with someone who isn’t interested.
Small talk.
Empty fluff.
Electronic letters,
Whet her appetite.
Chit chat is nothing.
Nothing more,
Than a pointless lesson,
On how to deal with odd people.
Shannon Kelly Sep 2012
I sit on the bus that rides on my road
Dreary with excitement
Shimmery powdered eyelids dropping
Smelling the Japanese cheery blossoms

And I nod and smile
As he asks to sit next to
Me,
And I listen

To the bus with exhausted roars
Wielding the weight,
To the drums of the earphones sitting next to me
Beating like his heart rate.

I sit and try not to listen, as I watch the sun
beams
Glistening across my golden eyelids,
Dropping,
Until I cannot watch,
Until I sleep

In and out of the thoughts
That invaded my guarded mind,
Off of the routine road with the wind
That I was drifting on all the time.

I sleep for the thoughts that are blocked by
The sounds.
I wake for the hope,
the reality of you driving me around.

Take me straight out of town
Away, afar
From this busy, unwanted land.
Take me away,
Do not worry about the scars

Take me away,
Off of this routine road
I will not suffer
Of this, I know.
Kennedy Taylor Dec 2014
It’s cold and quiet here, sitting on the moon.
Watching as the world spins by, making its rounds.
Even with the stars shining, there’s still a sense of gloom.
The beat of my heart and inflection of my thoughts are the only sounds.

Where are you, sitting on the moon?
Alone, I feel as I rest here, I’m afraid it’s true.
As I lie on the moon, cold and alone, I've begun to feel attune.
Though I’m afraid feeling alone would not change if I were with you.

A strange place to be, sitting on the moon.
You can rest with me if you’d like, this isn't beguile.
Though I am afraid we would not be able to commune,
I would not mind if you came by the moon and stayed awhile.


It’s cold and quiet here, sitting on the moon.
I've never felt more content than I do on this grey mound.
I would not mind a silent visit, even if you just passed through.
And as I took my final breath, I couldn't help but smile,
Sitting on the moon.
late one night
in the dead of winter
I stir in my comfy bed

                             h  
                          y   i  
                        k       g
that is piled s            h
with white linen comforters
and enormous bone colored
satin covered pillows

my mind
is in an aggravated state
and in much need of
a good old fashioned dose
of mental stimulation

I slip my warmed toes
from underneath the covers
and gingerly place both feet
on the cold wooden floor

I could wear woolen socks
or even bedroom slippers
but I truly enjoy the coolness
and the tingling in my toes
as I stand to put on my robe

winter can be such a delight

As I open my bedroom door
it creaks loudly
sending an echo of itself
shooting

down
         the
              hall

in the distance
the small amber hued night light
shining like a tiny beacon
calling to me, guiding me
towards my ultimate destination

the antique clock on the mantle
reluctantly rings the last of the twelve
as I quietly enter the tiny room

the deep echo of the ring
resonates through me

the glowing embers
of the well worn fire
still throwing off
an abundance of heat

a strong wind tapping
its icy fingers upon the window
begging for entry
leaving a trace of frost behind

one small candle sitting
in an ornately carved
golden holder on an
old dusty table
with just enough light
until my eyes can adjust

my favorite book
lying in my favorite
overstuffed chair
silently beckoning me

a small voice in my head
whispering“time for an adventure”
as I poor a cup of tea
and arm myself with some
earlier baked cookies for the trip

I settle fully into my chair
like a hibernating bear would his cave
and begin reading in the dim light
the words coming alive on the pages

I feel myself falling slowly
into the world of vampires
and beasts of the night
a real place of comfort for me

raven haired beauties
with pearly white fangs
seducing young men
into their unholy beds

male vampires
with steel gray eyes
their icy fingers upon
a young girls throat

horrific bloodied beasts
hunting the local woods
in search for their next
innocent human meal

and lastly

the risen dead existing
within the nights shadows
feeding off our inner fears
as we unwillingly become
their ritualistic sacrifice

the darkness of
the books poetic words
capture me like a prisoner
holding me rather firmly
within its frigid grasp

I tuck deeper into the chair
pulling a light blanket
across my shivering knees
and read on into the night
with no desire for morning to come
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