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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.
The close chopped hair cuts
giving us away.

Hutch just nodded, he never did say much.
A ****** 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 shot.

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, 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 ***!
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 **** 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 ****** 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.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Sitting in Circular Quay in a bistro on a warm winters day
dreaming while watching the tourists and ships sail by.
As I eat oysters and drink the day in with my wine,
past memories wash over me.

Morning teas, chats, and paper bark trees,
hikes through the bush and walks along the beach.
Watching dolphins play at dawn
and fishing the waters on New South Wales shores.

The Harbor Bridge alight with Bicentennial Fireworks;
a surreal beginning to this adventure.
Wringing every drop from days spent,
finding a new world with each step.

Discovering myself through the wisdom and eyes of you,
maturing, becoming my own.
Like family, you’ve been both mentor and friend,
carrying me through fire and back.

My life was undone as I first saw your shore.
Feeling my heart would break
with our first goodbyes,
unknowing that an permanent bond had been forged.

Tracing back over the years since we met,
I’ve been given more than my share.
Making me ponder how I have been blessed,
to count you as a true friend.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Tim Benjamin Apr 2014
To the girl sitting next to me in summer school
I want to tell you that you look beautiful,
Beautiful like in the way the summer sun bends around the north pole because it refuses to set its constant and lasting
Just like the way my heart jumped the moment i saw you for the first time and it has refused to come down
Everytime since, when i see you, although i have never been much of a dreamer, i daydream about all the things i want to do to you like...
Make you smile... or blush
So that my daydreams will have the perfect backdrop of love to memorize your every freckle, and then i want to drink the smile i put on your face beause i know it is the only thing that can quench my thirst
I want to tell you that I want to learn ballet, just so i can catch you everytime you jump and make sure that ill never let you fall... unless it's for me...
I want to learn to draw
Because I want to draw my way into your life, van gogh my way into your past present and future, i want to spend my whole life with you, and on your dying day i want to roundhouse kick death for even thinking of taking you away from me
But most of all i want to make you... happy
Happy in a way that is unexplainable
Like why do birds suddenly appear everytime you are near
It would be to easy to say that just like me they long to be close to you
And i want it to be unexpected like when you fall asleep after a long day
Slowely at first and then it engulfs you completely
I want to tell you that I want you to be able to feel the sunlights warm caress even on the darkest of days
And on days when you can't see the stars in the night sky
I will cut stars out of my paper heart
Even though they always seem to rip when held in hands that aren't careful enough
and then I want to hang them from your ceiling
So you will always have something beautiful to look at
And if you would just notice me I promise that I can love you like that...
But instead when I finally noticed that you caught me staring at you about 15 minutes ago... I opened my mouth and instead of all the soliloquies that dance through my head whenever you saunter into a room all that came out was hi...... did you do the homework?
I think it was a good start.
KiraLili Aug 2015
Hot summer nights
Older neighbourhood in a high prairie town
They start to come out on the steps
Concrete stairs 6 to 10 risers high
No AC in these places
Cooler outside for mothers and babes
Young men gather on the corners for smokes
All TVs are cranked inside with the same game on
Talk turns to the blue moon to come
Time passes slower on these evenings
The week is over and the older homes look as tired as the people tonight
Stoop sitting is the backyard in these places
This is what makes a nieghbourhood different from the burbs
I sit back on the computer,
Browsing through the pages of those I grew up with
Those people who thought they knew everything about me
I sit back and see what they’ve made of themselves

This girl is single, living alone with her four cats
This other girl now has two kids, unmarried and no degree
This girl is engaged to her high school sweetheart, yet they don’t look happy
This other couple broke up, wait they’re back together, nope spoke too soon
This guy is working at the local supermarket, never went to college after his arrest
This guy gained a few pounds, no longer the star athlete
This guy dropped off the map

See being the quiet girl, I learned secrets
I knew the deepest secrets of every single one of these people
Because while they sat in the back of the room chattering on about their so called problems
I was sitting in the front,

Listening

This girl had two boyfriends, and even more flings
This girl slept with four guys in one night
This girl’s boyfriend cheated on her, over and over again
This couple would sneak off in between classes, during lunch, or school assemblies
This guy was the trophy child, who gave away free drugs to his friends hidden inside pens
This guy was the quarterback; everything handed to him on a golden platter
This guy was the school stud who was hiding a relationship with his boyfriend by sleeping with every girl he could

Back then I listened because I wanted to feel apart of something bigger
I wanted to be one of them,
I wanted to be invited to all those weekend bashes
I wanted to be the girl people felt awed by, inspired by, idolized
I wanted to be part of the “in” crowd

So I stood there, day after day
As they teased me
Berated me
Shattered my confidence
Tearing apart everything I was
Telling me I would never amount to anything
Telling me I was fat, ****, stupid
That I unworthy of love
Telling me…

I

Was

Nothing




Let them tell me that today
I see everything of what they have become
Those people I wanted to be are no longer there
Their confidence shattered by reality

The best days of their life ended the day they left high school

Mine on the other hand are just beginning
I am the girl who is wanted
I’m the girl who can go wild
I’m the girl who can be passionate
I’m the girl who is adventurous
I’m the girl who brings pride
I’m the girl who is the athlete
I'm the girl who travels the world
I’m the girl who is unashamed of who I am

Because by pushing me out
My oppressors gave me everything I needed
The strength to try
The courage to dream
The ability to think
The confidence to be unique
Independence to thrive
But more than anything
My oppressors gave me desire

Desire to be more than they believed I could be
Jordan Hudson Dec 2017
Silence, the wind, the sky
The sun going down as time goes by
Passing are lights, across the road
Not one person stops for the lost load
Waiting on the edge
Going to tip off the ledge
Fragile or not, it is not cared for
As months pass, it rains and snows
Will someone get it, we do not know
Precious luggage waits on the side
Day after day as cars drive by
Passing are lights
This is about objects being dropped off of trucks to the side of the road
Carter Ginter Dec 2017
How can I tell you
That if it weren't for the distance
That I'd want to try again?
How can I tell you
That I still love you and I miss you
When I know you deserve better?
How do I sit with this feeling
Loving you so much but hurting still
Because I can't think of how it could work out?
You could do so much better
Without my complications in your life
Because part of me wants to try again
But the rest is afraid to know it could fail
I don't know how to tell you these things
Because I know it could make it worse
You're working on moving on
And I don't know what a poly future looks like
I can't make any promises
And I can't think of how we would be
Because distance is hard
And poly is hard
Love is hard
But is it worth it?
Sara Kellie Dec 2017
My name is Sara, a transgender chick
Wanted a *****, was given a ****
I hide it in knickers of satin and lace
before sitting down to make-up my face,
Next the prosthetics, I'm using two bits.
Stuck to my chest, they'll do as my ****
Now for my legs I'll put on false tan,
I wouldn't do this if I were a man
Alternative nights, a t-girl delights
to sit on her bed and pull on new tights.
I'll put on a dress, a cute one no less.
Then for my shoes, high heels I choose
A sandal style shoe as every girl knows
not only looks cute, they'll show painted toes
A bit of eyeliner, eyebrow definer,
lipstick and blush, I'm now looking lush.
I stand in the mirror all ready to go,
there's only one question I just have to know.
"Does my *** look big in this?"

Poetry by Kaydee.
I wrote this poem in 2010 shortly after introducing myself as Sara to the world.
Fay Kim Oct 2018
One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

I see my flaws at the door
You're shaking their hands and letting them in.
I sit so close - skin to skin while you discuss my chopped hair and tarnished skin
Blandly discussing how you want me thin.

Five.

Six.

I blame the mirror for making me like this.
Counting the marks that don't look so beautiful - don't shine or sparkle.
Fighting the tears and biting my lip
I look at you with reassuring eyes.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.


I don't think you ever wanted to be mine.


Ten.
September Roses Jul 2018
A little box
Without a key
You hold an air
Of mystery
To sit and glare
Right up there
Flashing red in front of me

I am the one who fills it
And I fill it with myself
No one would guess what's in you
Sitting up atop my shelf

I have thought of your discovery
The pros
And all the cons
But looking at my history
All candidates are wrong

So I suppose you'll stay a secret
I'll keep you to myself
Painted red,
Flashing dread
Little box on my shelf
Please forget you saw this
Yall feel free to tell me why you guys all like this poem so much. Curious
September Roses May 2018
We are tied together by our stories, our history
Tales woven through our ancestry, when our parents talk of their younger days,
When their life was ahead of them,
the future was anything and everything,
they speak of their old friends with ache in their soul,
Of times when their hearts were filled with fire and passion,
running through fields growing memories  planted by the world around them
When they could sprint the wind in their hair,
adventure ahead,
hope in their heart.
They speak of the days behind with woe
Because essentially just their ideas of the future as a young mind, were more enticing than reality.
As dreams failed and hope faded
As their minds wear
and their treasured stories that made them who they are fog over
As threads begin to wear
As tales they once yelled to the world with pride fray at the ends
Your whole world slipping away as the thread unwinds
But they get the joy of passing down the tapestry to their pride and joy,
to the life they made,
Every moment we live with ease of no appreciation for every experience every laugh
Moments we take for granted
Moments we will pine for when they run out
Moments the elderly urge us with fire to cherish
Moments we'll wish we listened about
There is a vast tapestry of memories behind you and infinite thread panning out in front of you, connecting to other tapestries,
visiting at friends,
at enemies,
joining with soul-mates future.
Some cut away,
some ripped from the tapestries too soon before they could weave their own.
A loose thread cannot be fixed once more are made,
and the patterns will never be what you want them to be, savour each stitch
Take time on every thread
You don't want to be sitting there 50 years old thinking about the life you wasted
About the memories faded,
About how every slipping memory's never like the moment you made it.
Don't be sitting 90 filled with regret
Filled with hatred for every opportunity you left
Screaming into the void about how much you hate what your life become.
because they say time flys when your having fun truth is time only flies when you're young.
Sitting by the sea
What a site to see
waves the gulls the rocks and shelves
a volcanic sea
places for life to hide themselves
from the coming tides
looking to the sea helps me to think of friends
to think of things of past
Help me to relax and find the hidden treasure siting by the sea.
Sebastian Macias Jan 2018
It's a dark ominous night
The cards are dealt
My hands do not shake
There's a storm coming
And we are too close to sail away
I've plenty to drink
and I am insides out
There's fear to my right
Whiskey to my left
And my past deal 'em out
Our horns are up tonight
Your move, darlin'
Hisham Alshaikh Jul 2018
Was it love? or was it an arrow?
My heart, you took, left me in sorrow
Your heart, may I borrow?
Till death, I will keep, not returned by tomorrow
My fortune is narrow
That what left my heart hollow
And my face sallow
Your secret, I revealed, left me feeling shallow
Running in agony in the furrow
Towards the nearest tree, willow
With no one fellow
Sitting on the branch lonely with my shadow
What a blue life! Thought it would be yellow!
Memories of you are my softest pillow
Such emotions, I shall not allow
Your fingerprints, your footprints, your trail I will follow
With all of my might, we become the lovers of the morrow
The pill of hope, I will swallow

--Hisham Alshaikh
Was it Love? Or Was it an Arrow?
Cné Mar 2017
Sitting on a ****
Having a rest
Dreaming of wearing
A beautiful dress

Hair cascading
Red curly locks
Waste of time, who cares
There are no clocks

Awaiting a happening
With nothing in sight
Mischief merriment
Anything, even a fright

Breena, bored to death
'Tis true
Wanting only,
For something to do.
Wrote this for a painting I did of a red headed fairy sitting on a tree ****.
misha Jul 11
I sit by the window on a Saturday morning
with nothing but a cup of tea in my hand.
I was too late to watch the sunrise, so instead
I watch the way the flowers blow in the wind
painting streaks in the canvas of the sky.
The incessant scratching of a coin against a lottery ticket burrows into my mind.
My inner voice shouts over it, just to remain in control
filling up my head, pushing out my thoughts and threatening to explode
but perhaps it is too late.
The scratching already comes from within.
It reminds me of the time I scratched my arms raw
after my mother told me
no boys would like me if I kept hurting myself.
Just like the time my mother told me
that I could never make it as a poet.

I redirect my attention to the window
trying to focus on what I want to see
(is that what they tell you to do in therapy?)
Unfortunately,
I had already wrung every drop of poetry
Out of this humble garden.
Back in the kitchen, my mother stands up,
and I notice the scratching has stopped.
Instead, the sharp and familiar sound of ripping paper fills the air.
I am reminded of all the poems I had ripped to shreds to start anew
as she curses and throws the ticket in the trash,
dramatically slamming the door.
A selfish part of me is happy that she didn’t win.
Because I know that if she did, she wouldn’t hesitate
to do the same to our lives.

Relocating us to a place
where flowers and fountains are found in rows
like fresh cuts on an arm
and not in haphazard paint splatters
like stars in the sky, or freckles on a face.
A grand white mansion,
elegant as a mausoleum,
where the sound of scratching
and early morning yelling
and late night sobbing
would echo through the empty rooms
bouncing from wall to wall
until the house threatens to fall apart.
Or else, we would be on a plane,
to some far off destination,
Sitting all in one row and
shielding our phones from each other,
thinking how much better it would be
to sit amongst strangers.
Logan Robertson Oct 2018
It was a Saturday night  in the park
his trees were singing
out of tune
his clay pigeons needed to come out
of his closet
for he was parked
on a stool
at his favorite watering hole
amongst a full house
where pairs beat singles
and there he was
shooting blanks
drowning in his sorrows
on his nine lives of lowlife
hoping for a sitting duck in despair
the kind that waddles right up to the Romeo's
with suspense in their hearts
and spontaneity in their wings
a cackle
that he can tackle
to take home
to his garden bed
for him to be fed
but what he got
was for not, naught, knot
wistful thinking
sitting in a bar sinking
for the jukebox played a broken record
finding love in the wrong places
and the joke squarely was on him
for thinking, he could round the bases
looking no further than the escape of his glows
or a crutch of decoys
and sitting ducks
for he was no Romeo
yet
there he was still, like steel,
a stole away in society
forlorn, preserved
like mamas mothballs tucked away
in basement storage
squandering the forage
for there were no triple treats
tonight for him
or forever sounds grim
for his reality check gone dim
or
no eye candy
for his heart beats
no picnic
for his ****
and all the bottled whiskey
could not drown out his pain
as his eyes were slain
as the sitting ducks turned
from his fantasy corner
phantomlike
and though
he's sitting at the bar, a loner
reminded that in cards of life
pairs beat singles
and in his worn hand
familiarly holds a lonely joker
for it's like he tries
and its
like his sitting ducks
are like hoofed deer
and his little sweets,
are spooked
hoofing
away from his
now darken forest
like red ants at his picnic
and the gleam in his eyes turned
to the poorest
its
its
as if his life and watering hole
was condemned
his garden bed cut at the stem
it is as if he has a red vest on
and a rifle don
and all the hoofed deer
panic
looking at him in fear
like he's manic
or maybe it's his eyes
that hold dark skies
he orders another double
trouble
for what else is there to do
on his Saturday night
than to sit in a bubble
forever sounds grim
but sing him a sweet hymn
he says please
to wit as he steals peeks
at the bartenders triple treats
like a bee to a hive
his joker still strikes a beat
if only he can find a bolster
for his gun needs a holster
and a deer in the headlights
would be hard to find
the confession now told, tolled, towed
through tears
the guy in the bar window
is me, sitting
resigned

Logan Robertson

10/18/2018
If I could wish upon a star I wish the next man happiness.
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