"slippered" poems - Hello Poetry

"slippered" poems

All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the merry deer ran before. Fleeter be they than dappled dreams the swift sweet deer the red rare deer. Horn at hip went my love riding riding the echo down into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the level meadows ran before. Softer be they than slippered sleep the lean lithe deer the fleet flown deer. Four fleet does at a gold valley the famished arrows sang before. Bow at belt went my love riding riding the mountain down into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the sheer peaks ran before. Paler be they than daunting death the sleek slim deer the tall tense deer. Four tall stags at a green mountain the lucky hunter sang before. All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling my heart fell dead before.

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32.5k

All In Green My Love Went Riding

All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the merry deer ran before. Fleeter be they than dappled dreams the swift sweet deer the red rare deer. Horn at hip went my love riding riding the echo down into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the level meadows ran before. Softer be they than slippered sleep the lean lithe deer the fleet flown deer. Four fleet does at a gold valley the famished arrows sang before. Bow at belt went my love riding riding the mountain down into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the sheer peaks ran before. Paler be they than daunting death the sleek slim deer the tall tense deer. Four tall stags at a green mountain the lucky hunter sang before. All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling my heart fell dead before.

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It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers I was small then She had a parakeet that landed on my head and a bathtub too with water so deep! and legs and claws! **** thing nearly chased me down the stairs! She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks where bugs hung-out in the haze of teenage August I played in the tall weeds with a shoeless Italian boy who ate tomatoes like apples and cucumbers right off the vine! He was ***** free and foreign! We played— reckless, abandoned behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn and through the endless fields I didn’t know.... His name was Tony I ate pizza with him—the first time At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight but I could watch night flowers bloom on wallpaper She came in to say good night slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open and I peeped her ******* like Tony’s cucumbers! I had never seen my mother’s wonders.... Night spread its wings from the old fan— a bird of tireless exhaustion whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage tireless exhaustion tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock stretched out on the whine of the overland trucks Route Five through the night of an open window In the grape arbor below— tremulous incessant crickets crickets crickets tremulous incessant—insides of a child a summer child not yet ready for the fall of answers Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen I followed her everywhere I could I was small then-- do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit I followed Maureen through my dreams of being sixteen and woke to Peggy’s “Fever” while she tied her sneakers against the mattress by my head I followed Maureen (in my mind) tanned and bandanned to work in the fields of shade tobacco with all those Puerto Rican boys! She knew where she was going! I was small then ...do anything for a stick of gum “Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!” ...through the goldenrod of roadside through the smell of oil that damped the dust I followed Maureen’s white shorts and chestnut hair...to the corner store I followed the way the boys smiled the way the screen door slammed on her bright behind the way her lips taunted and took the coke-bottle’s green I followed Maureen I swear, I tried for hours to get that right! Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever” Maureen ties her sneakers in my face Flaunts her years above my head She has that look— “We kids don’t know nothin” (Little turds” that we be) …followin’ Maureen through the goldenrod of roadside tic-tockin’, beboppin’ “Fever— in the morning Fever all through the night….”

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Aug 24, 2016

Aug 24, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

I Follow Maureen

It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers I was small then She had a parakeet that landed on my head and a bathtub too with water so deep! and legs and claws! **** thing nearly chased me down the stairs! She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks where bugs hung-out in the haze of teenage August I played in the tall weeds with a shoeless Italian boy who ate tomatoes like apples and cucumbers right off the vine! He was ***** free and foreign! We played— reckless, abandoned behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn and through the endless fields I didn’t know.... His name was Tony I ate pizza with him—the first time At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight but I could watch night flowers bloom on wallpaper She came in to say good night slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open and I peeped her ******* like Tony’s cucumbers! I had never seen my mother’s wonders.... Night spread its wings from the old fan— a bird of tireless exhaustion whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage tireless exhaustion tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock stretched out on the whine of the overland trucks Route Five through the night of an open window In the grape arbor below— tremulous incessant crickets crickets crickets tremulous incessant—insides of a child a summer child not yet ready for the fall of answers Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen I followed her everywhere I could I was small then-- do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit I followed Maureen through my dreams of being sixteen and woke to Peggy’s “Fever” while she tied her sneakers against the mattress by my head I followed Maureen (in my mind) tanned and bandanned to work in the fields of shade tobacco with all those Puerto Rican boys! She knew where she was going! I was small then ...do anything for a stick of gum “Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!” ...through the goldenrod of roadside through the smell of oil that damped the dust I followed Maureen’s white shorts and chestnut hair...to the corner store I followed the way the boys smiled the way the screen door slammed on her bright behind the way her lips taunted and took the coke-bottle’s green I followed Maureen I swear, I tried for hours to get that right! Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever” Maureen ties her sneakers in my face Flaunts her years above my head She has that look— “We kids don’t know nothin” (Little turds” that we be) …followin’ Maureen through the goldenrod of roadside tic-tockin’, beboppin’ “Fever— in the morning Fever all through the night….”

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by Danny Smith The old man rises from his chair gently cursing the ache that crept into his bones when he wasn't looking His slippered feet scuff the carpet making a journey they know without him to the window He watches down on the cars as they flash through the rain on an urgent journey somewhere Leaning forward to rest his forehead on the cool damp pane that shields him from it all his prison wall The cars seem to softly merge as fragments like a broken mirror tease and torment A lifetime of dreams and tomorrows that somehow became painful yesterdays much too fast Squeezing his eyes tightly closed he remembers her face and the soft scar on her cheek a perfect imperfection The laughter and cries of children running to him with chocolate smeared mouths grown now, gone now All of them to different worlds ones where he was afraid to travel to out there Plenty of time to make it through but the nights seem to skip the sunshine days sentenced he shuffles back to the chair lowering himself with limbs that can't be his removes his slippers Reaches for the polished shoes years old but hardly worn and still uncreased laces them Moves slowly through the house turning of lights, collecting a wallet a pack of cigarettes, a photograph pocketing them The old man stands at the open door just a fragment of someone elses memory, as he walks into the rain ©Danny Smith

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Apr 5, 2018

Apr 5, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC

Just a fragment

by Danny Smith The old man rises from his chair gently cursing the ache that crept into his bones when he wasn't looking His slippered feet scuff the carpet making a journey they know without him to the window He watches down on the cars as they flash through the rain on an urgent journey somewhere Leaning forward to rest his forehead on the cool damp pane that shields him from it all his prison wall The cars seem to softly merge as fragments like a broken mirror tease and torment A lifetime of dreams and tomorrows that somehow became painful yesterdays much too fast Squeezing his eyes tightly closed he remembers her face and the soft scar on her cheek a perfect imperfection The laughter and cries of children running to him with chocolate smeared mouths grown now, gone now All of them to different worlds ones where he was afraid to travel to out there Plenty of time to make it through but the nights seem to skip the sunshine days sentenced he shuffles back to the chair lowering himself with limbs that can't be his removes his slippers Reaches for the polished shoes years old but hardly worn and still uncreased laces them Moves slowly through the house turning of lights, collecting a wallet a pack of cigarettes, a photograph pocketing them The old man stands at the open door just a fragment of someone elses memory, as he walks into the rain ©Danny Smith

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. *She walks the castle walls at night, with a rose held fast in her fingers, the mist rolls away across the land, the memory of her lover still lingers. Cold flagstones beneath her slippered feet hold the histories of the aeons tight. Old battles, wars, and terrifying sieges, ghosts of ancient warriors wail in the night. And still she clutches his parting gift, she wears the bond burden of his ring, his love weighs upon her broken heart, tears flow free with a melancholic sting. They fall upon the stones and disappear, additions to the heavy tomes of history, little gems writing sadness in a story, as she stares into the distance so wistfully.* © Pagan Paul (10/02/18)

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Feb 12, 2018

Feb 12, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC

. *She walks the castle walls at night, with a rose held fast in her fingers, the mist rolls away across the land, the memory of her lover still lingers. Cold flagstones beneath her slippered feet hold the histories of the aeons tight. Old battles, wars, and terrifying sieges, ghosts of ancient warriors wail in the night. And still she clutches his parting gift, she wears the bond burden of his ring, his love weighs upon her broken heart, tears flow free with a melancholic sting. They fall upon the stones and disappear, additions to the heavy tomes of history, little gems writing sadness in a story, as she stares into the distance so wistfully.* © Pagan Paul (10/02/18)

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You realise your gaze, As you watch the grace of her footsteps, While she sings your favourite tune, Through the hollows of her teeth, Under the blankets of her breath. One, two and three, The purity of a clear glistened pool, Coins of the unknown faith, With the leather-slippered angel, And the acrylic colours of Rome.

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May 6, 2015

May 6, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC

The Trevi Fountain

You realise your gaze, As you watch the grace of her footsteps, While she sings your favourite tune, Through the hollows of her teeth, Under the blankets of her breath. One, two and three, The purity of a clear glistened pool, Coins of the unknown faith, With the leather-slippered angel, And the acrylic colours of Rome.

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Lived on one's back, In the long hours of repose, Life is a practical nightmare-- Hideous asleep or awake. Shoulders and ***** Ache----! Ache, and the mattress, Run into boulders and hummocks, Glows like a kiln, while the bedclothes-- Tumbling, importunate, daft-- Ramble and roll, and the gas, ******* to its lowermost, An inevitable atom of light, Haunts, and a stertorous sleeper Snores me to hate and despair. All the old time Surges malignant before me; Old voices, old kisses, old songs Blossom derisive about me; While the new days Pass me in endless procession: A pageant of shadows Silently, leeringly wending On . . . and still on . . . still on! Far in the stillness a cat Languishes loudly. A cinder Falls, and the shadows Lurch to the leap of the flame. The next man to me Turns with a moan; and the snorer, The drug like a rope at his throat, Gasps, gurgles, snorts himself free, as the night-nurse, Noiseless and strange, Her bull's eye half-lanterned in apron, (Whispering me, 'Are ye no sleepin' yet?'), Passes, list-slippered and peering, Round . . . and is gone. Sleep comes at last-- Sleep full of dreams and misgivings-- Broken with brutal and sordid Voices and sounds that impose on me, Ere I can wake to it, The unnatural, intolerable day.

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William Ernest Henley

Lived on one's back, In the long hours of repose, Life is a practical nightmare-- Hideous asleep or awake. Shoulders and ***** Ache----! Ache, and the mattress, Run into boulders and hummocks, Glows like a kiln, while the bedclothes-- Tumbling, importunate, daft-- Ramble and roll, and the gas, ******* to its lowermost, An inevitable atom of light, Haunts, and a stertorous sleeper Snores me to hate and despair. All the old time Surges malignant before me; Old voices, old kisses, old songs Blossom derisive about me; While the new days Pass me in endless procession: A pageant of shadows Silently, leeringly wending On . . . and still on . . . still on! Far in the stillness a cat Languishes loudly. A cinder Falls, and the shadows Lurch to the leap of the flame. The next man to me Turns with a moan; and the snorer, The drug like a rope at his throat, Gasps, gurgles, snorts himself free, as the night-nurse, Noiseless and strange, Her bull's eye half-lanterned in apron, (Whispering me, 'Are ye no sleepin' yet?'), Passes, list-slippered and peering, Round . . . and is gone. Sleep comes at last-- Sleep full of dreams and misgivings-- Broken with brutal and sordid Voices and sounds that impose on me, Ere I can wake to it, The unnatural, intolerable day.

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PSA: this is not a good poem, this is an explosion. pacing internal dialogue echoing within my fatty brain, overweight from months of stagnant vegetation. one repetitive sentence feebly attempts to remove the attackers “go away go away go away go away” running linoleum floors squeaking as my slippered feet find their grip, praying that these feet don’t lead me to a kitchen full of knives, hungry to meet the stretch marks striping my newly obese thighs. i’d rather have scars than these purple proofs of my inadequacy the familiar hair-band meets my forearm for the first time in an age, my vegetated brain slowly recognises this pattern from once before and the skills from months of therapy begin to kick in breathe in breathe out falling wondering how on earth i will live for seven more weeks desperate to make my voice heard but stumbling into silence as my head slams the wall and bounces off the floor leaving me stuck in my own harrowing mind, one that is far too tired, lonely and ill to fight for much longer.

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Jun 21, 2014

Jun 21, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC

a cry for help upon deaf ears.

PSA: this is not a good poem, this is an explosion. pacing internal dialogue echoing within my fatty brain, overweight from months of stagnant vegetation. one repetitive sentence feebly attempts to remove the attackers “go away go away go away go away” running linoleum floors squeaking as my slippered feet find their grip, praying that these feet don’t lead me to a kitchen full of knives, hungry to meet the stretch marks striping my newly obese thighs. i’d rather have scars than these purple proofs of my inadequacy the familiar hair-band meets my forearm for the first time in an age, my vegetated brain slowly recognises this pattern from once before and the skills from months of therapy begin to kick in breathe in breathe out falling wondering how on earth i will live for seven more weeks desperate to make my voice heard but stumbling into silence as my head slams the wall and bounces off the floor leaving me stuck in my own harrowing mind, one that is far too tired, lonely and ill to fight for much longer.

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I hear the halting footsteps of a lass In ***** Harlem when the night lets fall Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass To bend and barter at desire's call. Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet Go prowling through the night from street to street! Through the long night until the silver break Of day the little gray feet know no rest; Through the lone night until the last snow-flake Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast, The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street. Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace, Has pushed the timid little feet of clay, The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet In Harlem wandering from street to street.

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I hear the halting footsteps of a lass In ***** Harlem when the night lets fall Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass To bend and barter at desire's call. Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet Go prowling through the night from street to street! Through the long night until the silver break Of day the little gray feet know no rest; Through the lone night until the last snow-flake Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast, The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street. Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace, Has pushed the timid little feet of clay, The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet In Harlem wandering from street to street.

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Glances from across the room louder than the music louder than the bass that everyone is waiting drop. Musical notes clamouring against the floor, don't pick them up. leave them there, walk around them on tip toe in ballet slippered feet. feather light or lead heavy. veins of lightning. forming vowel sounds with my mouth. ooooooOooOOO EEeeeee i. i. i. AHhhhhh Sew me together with fingertips like the soft kiss of lemon drops, coming up the stairwell the warmth of wanting the bite of yearning. Flushed pink. Pinched red. Pricked purple. Spaghetti mind of soft thoughts turning hard and stale like cracked chapped candy cane lips. Naked and waiting. Scabbed mosquito bites that bled bright red. OOoooowww. Gimme a sec. 3-5 business days until rejection. I'll keep you posted. 48 hours of maybe. Lemme get back to you. No RSVP establishing a lack of certainty. but but but Re: Urgent: Plz Respond ASAP But when?

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Jul 23, 2014

Jul 23, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC

Glances from across the room louder than the music louder than the bass that everyone is waiting drop. Musical notes clamouring against the floor, don't pick them up. leave them there, walk around them on tip toe in ballet slippered feet. feather light or lead heavy. veins of lightning. forming vowel sounds with my mouth. ooooooOooOOO EEeeeee i. i. i. AHhhhhh Sew me together with fingertips like the soft kiss of lemon drops, coming up the stairwell the warmth of wanting the bite of yearning. Flushed pink. Pinched red. Pricked purple. Spaghetti mind of soft thoughts turning hard and stale like cracked chapped candy cane lips. Naked and waiting. Scabbed mosquito bites that bled bright red. OOoooowww. Gimme a sec. 3-5 business days until rejection. I'll keep you posted. 48 hours of maybe. Lemme get back to you. No RSVP establishing a lack of certainty. but but but Re: Urgent: Plz Respond ASAP But when?

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Evening in her slippered feet Approaches from the heat of day Shadows in the molten light Lengthen as they have their way Silence in the hovered moment Stillness in the mote of time, The glow within a sunbeam's ray Ensnares the warmth of joy as mine. Drifting insects float on bye Suspended in the evening light Against the lace of silver birch With gnarled trunk of speckled white. In the dark blue, far azure A gosshawk glides on high, aloft A predator surveying late For living things in farmer's croft. A waterfall of children's laughter Cascades through a field of green, Overtones of golden shadow Fills the air with love unseen. Earthworms in their darkened tombs Are wriggling for the coming night, Rabbits stretch and move to grazing Anxious for the closing light. The chill night air descends as dew The picnickers depart the scene, Starlings flock to perch and roost Whilst velvet silence hangs serene Vaulting high above the foothills Crowned with purple alpenglow Taranaki's snowclad grandeur Last to see the day light go. Contemplation be my friend For deep within contentment's breast The joy of living sings it's song And sooths my happy soul to rest. Marshalg Taranaki Evensong 23 October 2010

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Oct 27, 2010

Oct 27, 2010 at 1:10 AM UTC

Taranaki Evensong

Evening in her slippered feet Approaches from the heat of day Shadows in the molten light Lengthen as they have their way Silence in the hovered moment Stillness in the mote of time, The glow within a sunbeam's ray Ensnares the warmth of joy as mine. Drifting insects float on bye Suspended in the evening light Against the lace of silver birch With gnarled trunk of speckled white. In the dark blue, far azure A gosshawk glides on high, aloft A predator surveying late For living things in farmer's croft. A waterfall of children's laughter Cascades through a field of green, Overtones of golden shadow Fills the air with love unseen. Earthworms in their darkened tombs Are wriggling for the coming night, Rabbits stretch and move to grazing Anxious for the closing light. The chill night air descends as dew The picnickers depart the scene, Starlings flock to perch and roost Whilst velvet silence hangs serene Vaulting high above the foothills Crowned with purple alpenglow Taranaki's snowclad grandeur Last to see the day light go. Contemplation be my friend For deep within contentment's breast The joy of living sings it's song And sooths my happy soul to rest. Marshalg Taranaki Evensong 23 October 2010

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**** it, did you just light your hookah? I was hoping to have a cozy chat about the world of the Red Queen Not the Mary Jane land you think to lead me into where you live out your lust-filled dreams, I was hoping for a little bit of tea and gossip, just as we used to when we were younger and unknown I don't want to sit on the wet grass while you boast about your brain size --Or other measurements-- the talk always ends up with you under the mushroom, giggling like a hyena, and me just standing there, tapping my slippered foot in disgust.

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Oct 27, 2020

Oct 27, 2020 at 2:28 AM UTC

Alice and the Caterpillar

**** it, did you just light your hookah? I was hoping to have a cozy chat about the world of the Red Queen Not the Mary Jane land you think to lead me into where you live out your lust-filled dreams, I was hoping for a little bit of tea and gossip, just as we used to when we were younger and unknown I don't want to sit on the wet grass while you boast about your brain size --Or other measurements-- the talk always ends up with you under the mushroom, giggling like a hyena, and me just standing there, tapping my slippered foot in disgust.

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I didn't expect such an eloquent piece of work to slip from your mouth, An amazing set of words put together as intricate an atom bomb, Or as an improvised explosive device, so i see, Thus I must be careful where i tread my glass slippered feet, and be aware of what breath of words expels from my lips. I never expected such a skill set of destruction and warfare, From a beautiful mouth, so deceptive, that it almost seems, you are an undercover lover, both beneath the sheets, and between distinguished conversations, regarding such tentative ideals of love and the ambiguity of trust. A terrorist it seems amongst the ranks with a finger on the trigger, with a finger on my lips, and a whisper hush in my ear. It seems i was blind to your type of sweet deception; There are codes i didn't understand, and my mind was melting, from the heat of your touch and the sublime twist of your hips. I can see your eyes ready to deploy a subterfuge of promises, as they look into the distance calculating the logistics, of this moonlight illicit flit of passion; Never did i expect such an eloquent transpose of intentions, Even remarkably as this feels like the Romeo and Juliette of modern times. I am the 'x marks the spot' in no-mans-land it seems, I am the calm after the storm in the aftermath of your expostulation, You, my love, are a sublime soldier in this battlefield we call 'togetherness'. No-one asked you to go to this infernal devastating war; Yet i long for your return from the eternal, internal battle, you fight between your heart and your head.

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Nov 11, 2013

Nov 11, 2013 at 1:38 PM UTC

rachael-stainthorpe

I didn't expect such an eloquent piece of work to slip from your mouth, An amazing set of words put together as intricate an atom bomb, Or as an improvised explosive device, so i see, Thus I must be careful where i tread my glass slippered feet, and be aware of what breath of words expels from my lips. I never expected such a skill set of destruction and warfare, From a beautiful mouth, so deceptive, that it almost seems, you are an undercover lover, both beneath the sheets, and between distinguished conversations, regarding such tentative ideals of love and the ambiguity of trust. A terrorist it seems amongst the ranks with a finger on the trigger, with a finger on my lips, and a whisper hush in my ear. It seems i was blind to your type of sweet deception; There are codes i didn't understand, and my mind was melting, from the heat of your touch and the sublime twist of your hips. I can see your eyes ready to deploy a subterfuge of promises, as they look into the distance calculating the logistics, of this moonlight illicit flit of passion; Never did i expect such an eloquent transpose of intentions, Even remarkably as this feels like the Romeo and Juliette of modern times. I am the 'x marks the spot' in no-mans-land it seems, I am the calm after the storm in the aftermath of your expostulation, You, my love, are a sublime soldier in this battlefield we call 'togetherness'. No-one asked you to go to this infernal devastating war; Yet i long for your return from the eternal, internal battle, you fight between your heart and your head.

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To sew a shoe A simple thing To do Or to stitch a sole And nail a heel For a Gentleman's Stroll A thimbled poke A tug of string A knot A dozen brads And a hope A whisk of shine For some Lad's Trot... Upon this bench My tools of trade I work To ****** a soul One shoe, by shoe They all walk down My road. A Lady's boot A slippered foot Some lace I'll fix them all I have the time They all pass by My place.

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Jul 6, 2011

Jul 6, 2011 at 11:20 AM UTC

The Old Cobbler

To sew a shoe A simple thing To do Or to stitch a sole And nail a heel For a Gentleman's Stroll A thimbled poke A tug of string A knot A dozen brads And a hope A whisk of shine For some Lad's Trot... Upon this bench My tools of trade I work To ****** a soul One shoe, by shoe They all walk down My road. A Lady's boot A slippered foot Some lace I'll fix them all I have the time They all pass by My place.

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Sleep well! And may the world you sleep in be kind and the world you dream in be colorful. Let lust bearing pixies sprinkle their dust About your room, so when you awake in the morning the dust will dazzle your slippered feet and make your tread to the bathroom a little softer. And may I (you) wake up in the morning with Sparkles in your eyes And wholesomeness in your soul, And let both the tint and hue in which you see the world through Be bold and clear, And soft and dreamy, Without deceiving Without sheltering you And your unicorn dreams.

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Jan 6, 2013

Jan 6, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC

Unicorn Bedtime Prayer

Sleep well! And may the world you sleep in be kind and the world you dream in be colorful. Let lust bearing pixies sprinkle their dust About your room, so when you awake in the morning the dust will dazzle your slippered feet and make your tread to the bathroom a little softer. And may I (you) wake up in the morning with Sparkles in your eyes And wholesomeness in your soul, And let both the tint and hue in which you see the world through Be bold and clear, And soft and dreamy, Without deceiving Without sheltering you And your unicorn dreams.

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All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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Jan 31, 2014

Jan 31, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC

william-shakespeare-1

All the world's a stage

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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Fluorescent flickers illuminate the stained cement floors of the hallway. Your slippered feet music an uneven pad and scuff. This ***** city is home, whatever that means. This ***** city holds you like you're someone else's child. A burst of joy and music reaches for you through the window; someone bangs a door and you turn on the tap. As water sputters onto your toothbrush you catch a whiff of Dakota Jim's racist southern drawl, a puff of his ketamine breath. You walk to the window, toothbrush dangling. [Oh London, I know you love no one, but nights like this I feel your heartbeat in your embrace.] History swells beneath your feet. Your eyes land on a seated figure, his grand headdress of feathers overpowering the tableau, his gaze calmer than the other mad happy swirls that make up the crowd. It makes you wonder what he sees. Probably nothing. You will learn that when he seems profound it is usually an accident. You are penned in by jagged skyline hieroglyphics. History swells. Your heavy hearted story is a speck consumed in all this history. All the history you were taught in school was death, you remember your mother bemoaning this war generals and battle dates history. You wonder at how much death this place has seen, how many lives the city has birthed and eaten, hungry mother staving off starvation. We all write our stories on other people's bones. Of course the greatest cities would leave the greatest scars. And what did you come here looking for anyway? [Hello Momento Mori city. I see you. I see your rooftops straining to **** stars. Do you mourn for your dead? Are they heavy in your belly? Are you going to eat me, too?] But now, if you drag your little mind back from the immensities, everything around you is alive. Everyone is dancing, happy to be caught in her belly. Or her womb. Not one of you knows which, but there you are. In the courtyard, the small, steady figure of Freddie Stitz brings a lit cigarette to his lips and smiles up at you in the window. Wipe that toothpaste off your face, you look ridiculous. Go back to bed.

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May 28, 2013

May 28, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC

This is a love letter.

Fluorescent flickers illuminate the stained cement floors of the hallway. Your slippered feet music an uneven pad and scuff. This ***** city is home, whatever that means. This ***** city holds you like you're someone else's child. A burst of joy and music reaches for you through the window; someone bangs a door and you turn on the tap. As water sputters onto your toothbrush you catch a whiff of Dakota Jim's racist southern drawl, a puff of his ketamine breath. You walk to the window, toothbrush dangling. [Oh London, I know you love no one, but nights like this I feel your heartbeat in your embrace.] History swells beneath your feet. Your eyes land on a seated figure, his grand headdress of feathers overpowering the tableau, his gaze calmer than the other mad happy swirls that make up the crowd. It makes you wonder what he sees. Probably nothing. You will learn that when he seems profound it is usually an accident. You are penned in by jagged skyline hieroglyphics. History swells. Your heavy hearted story is a speck consumed in all this history. All the history you were taught in school was death, you remember your mother bemoaning this war generals and battle dates history. You wonder at how much death this place has seen, how many lives the city has birthed and eaten, hungry mother staving off starvation. We all write our stories on other people's bones. Of course the greatest cities would leave the greatest scars. And what did you come here looking for anyway? [Hello Momento Mori city. I see you. I see your rooftops straining to **** stars. Do you mourn for your dead? Are they heavy in your belly? Are you going to eat me, too?] But now, if you drag your little mind back from the immensities, everything around you is alive. Everyone is dancing, happy to be caught in her belly. Or her womb. Not one of you knows which, but there you are. In the courtyard, the small, steady figure of Freddie Stitz brings a lit cigarette to his lips and smiles up at you in the window. Wipe that toothpaste off your face, you look ridiculous. Go back to bed.

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He's a small black man from Baltimore County brings the witching hour always craves a meal or two. Thomas. Treads like Neruda's doves on slippered feet. Flicks his tail and tales are told the galaxies turn Baltimore disappears in the rear view mirror. My man my dark sprite of hunger and thirst first and best Cat.

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Jun 1, 2016

Jun 1, 2016 at 7:58 PM UTC

He's a small black man from Baltimore County brings the witching hour always craves a meal or two. Thomas. Treads like Neruda's doves on slippered feet. Flicks his tail and tales are told the galaxies turn Baltimore disappears in the rear view mirror. My man my dark sprite of hunger and thirst first and best Cat.

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I watched her for a while, the lady with a babe in her arms. With tender care she brushed back its hair, and sweetly smiled into its face. Gleaming eyes gaze into her past, when she was whole..... when she was a Mother. But now in her last days, her death days, scooting slippered, wheelchair feet down forgotten halls, lovingly holding her babe in a pink blanket. Occasional drool drips on its plastic forehead, crystalline blue eyes look into green glass, searching for some signs of life.

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Apr 16, 2016

Apr 16, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC

The Lady With a Babe In Her Arms

I watched her for a while, the lady with a babe in her arms. With tender care she brushed back its hair, and sweetly smiled into its face. Gleaming eyes gaze into her past, when she was whole..... when she was a Mother. But now in her last days, her death days, scooting slippered, wheelchair feet down forgotten halls, lovingly holding her babe in a pink blanket. Occasional drool drips on its plastic forehead, crystalline blue eyes look into green glass, searching for some signs of life.

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I thought I understood it, that I could grasp it, but I didn't, not really. Only the smudgeness of it; the pink-slippered, all-containered, semi-precious eagerness of it. I didn't realize it would sometimes be more than whole, that the wholeness was a rather luxurious idea. Because it's the halves that halve you in half. I didn't know, don't know, about the in-between bits; the gory bits of you, and the gory bits of me. I do not know the technical name for this poem, nor did I right it. It is read aloud by the character Anna in the movie Like Crazy, so the credit for this poem I suppose, is due to the writer of the movie script. I think it is absolutely beautiful and hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

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Jul 10, 2013

Jul 10, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC

I thought I understood it, that I could grasp it, but I didn't, not really. Only the smudgeness of it; the pink-slippered, all-containered, semi-precious eagerness of it. I didn't realize it would sometimes be more than whole, that the wholeness was a rather luxurious idea. Because it's the halves that halve you in half. I didn't know, don't know, about the in-between bits; the gory bits of you, and the gory bits of me. I do not know the technical name for this poem, nor did I right it. It is read aloud by the character Anna in the movie Like Crazy, so the credit for this poem I suppose, is due to the writer of the movie script. I think it is absolutely beautiful and hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

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Up at the top Hands in the air Raising our glasses In a silent cheer To celebrate the things we've done The resolutions we'll make, The disruptions we caused Shots fired in our wake. Houses piled together No room to breathe Visions of death Poison in our dreams. There are the rebels and the gays The fearsome and the rays Of sunshine. The thoughtful ones The glass slippered girls And the sneakerheads. It isn't much We aren't royalty The most we can do Is have the things we think we need In our dreams. Money can't be everything But it sure seems To be that way. Instead of leading the way We dig it up No one walks on sidewalks We all stay in the streets. In the future I hope instead The streets will close at 10 And we'll all be in our beds. Because if something happens And we all go Who will remember us when we're dead If all we did Was steal sneakers from weaker men And spend spend spend?

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Apr 22, 2017

Apr 22, 2017 at 10:14 PM UTC

Up at the top Hands in the air Raising our glasses In a silent cheer To celebrate the things we've done The resolutions we'll make, The disruptions we caused Shots fired in our wake. Houses piled together No room to breathe Visions of death Poison in our dreams. There are the rebels and the gays The fearsome and the rays Of sunshine. The thoughtful ones The glass slippered girls And the sneakerheads. It isn't much We aren't royalty The most we can do Is have the things we think we need In our dreams. Money can't be everything But it sure seems To be that way. Instead of leading the way We dig it up No one walks on sidewalks We all stay in the streets. In the future I hope instead The streets will close at 10 And we'll all be in our beds. Because if something happens And we all go Who will remember us when we're dead If all we did Was steal sneakers from weaker men And spend spend spend?

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It’s December and my roommates and I are deeply into Christmas. We’ve got a little 3ft tall Christmas tree with about fifty-thousand little multicolor LED lights on it (LEDs because we ARE saving the planet). We’re in the ‘study period’ right before finals and It’s a lowkey Saturday night. Lisa and I were pajama’d and gelaxing in our suite’s common room. She was in a tan easy chair and I was slouched on our red corduroy couch, my slippered feet up on a white coffee table. We had a Christmas playlist playing throughout the suite, a ‘Christmas lights of Paris’ Youtube video streaming silently on our TV and cups of Keurig brewed hot-chocolate with little marshmallows. Leong came out of her room and joined us, taking a seat on the far side of the couch with me. After a moment she stretched-out, putting her head in my lap. I love her jet-black, cornsilk hair and it wasn’t long before I found myself stroking it, a gesture primates have been making since the pleistocene period. When Lisa glanced over at us and smiled, I started making gestures like I was looking for fleas in her hair and eating them - in a silly, momentary comedy lost on Leong. We got back from November recess a few days ago. After three years together, it was easy, almost automatic, for us to fall back in our rhythms as roommates. On arrival, I glanced through my drawers, ***** clothes and shelves, taking a casual inventory. Everything was as I remembered it but still, everything had the feel of trivial leftovers from some lost civilization. I got a new M3-iMac, it’s really the best platform for putting docs side by side. The first thing I did was hit ‘restore my setup’ from the cloud. I love futzing with tech - I can remember when that kind of restoration would have taken all day - but fifteen minutes later I could tell from the files on my desktop that everything was restoring nicely. As I sat back on my office chair watching the restoration, I felt myself relax. THIS was real life, this was how life should be done. No matter what else I’d done or where else I’d gone - this was how my life should be - at school, with friends, facing those challenges. It was a peek-moment. It was an illusion that my little iMac welcomed me back, like an old friend, as it finished restoring - wasn’t it?

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Dec 5, 2023

Dec 5, 2023 at 10:30 AM UTC

It’s December and my roommates and I are deeply into Christmas. We’ve got a little 3ft tall Christmas tree with about fifty-thousand little multicolor LED lights on it (LEDs because we ARE saving the planet). We’re in the ‘study period’ right before finals and It’s a lowkey Saturday night. Lisa and I were pajama’d and gelaxing in our suite’s common room. She was in a tan easy chair and I was slouched on our red corduroy couch, my slippered feet up on a white coffee table. We had a Christmas playlist playing throughout the suite, a ‘Christmas lights of Paris’ Youtube video streaming silently on our TV and cups of Keurig brewed hot-chocolate with little marshmallows. Leong came out of her room and joined us, taking a seat on the far side of the couch with me. After a moment she stretched-out, putting her head in my lap. I love her jet-black, cornsilk hair and it wasn’t long before I found myself stroking it, a gesture primates have been making since the pleistocene period. When Lisa glanced over at us and smiled, I started making gestures like I was looking for fleas in her hair and eating them - in a silly, momentary comedy lost on Leong. We got back from November recess a few days ago. After three years together, it was easy, almost automatic, for us to fall back in our rhythms as roommates. On arrival, I glanced through my drawers, ***** clothes and shelves, taking a casual inventory. Everything was as I remembered it but still, everything had the feel of trivial leftovers from some lost civilization. I got a new M3-iMac, it’s really the best platform for putting docs side by side. The first thing I did was hit ‘restore my setup’ from the cloud. I love futzing with tech - I can remember when that kind of restoration would have taken all day - but fifteen minutes later I could tell from the files on my desktop that everything was restoring nicely. As I sat back on my office chair watching the restoration, I felt myself relax. THIS was real life, this was how life should be done. No matter what else I’d done or where else I’d gone - this was how my life should be - at school, with friends, facing those challenges. It was a peek-moment. It was an illusion that my little iMac welcomed me back, like an old friend, as it finished restoring - wasn’t it?

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I was on the bomb site off Arch Street collecting pieces of wood and newspaper ******* in a ball- and small pieces of coal liberated from the coal wharf near by plus a few Swan Vestas borrowed from my old man's box at home I lit a fire near the railway arch and Ingrid said are you allowed to do that? not that I know I said what if a policeman comes? she asked I'll just say it was alight when I came and I was keeping warm I replied but that's lying she said stretching the truth a little I said she frowned at me her bruised eye was on the mend and was just a slight memory now -her old man's handiwork- what if you get burnt? she said risk of the game I said I shouldn't be here if my dad saw me here I'd be for it she said you're always for it I said you've only got to look at your old man and he whacks you I replied not always she said looking away he slippered you the other week for dropping that bottle of milk she said nothing but looked across the bomb site at the passing buses on the New Kent Road I got out a small tin and opened it want a cigarette? she peered at me then at the tin where'd you get those? she said I made them I said made them? yes out of dog-ends I picked up from the gutters and borrowing cigarette papers from an uncle I made them up she pulled a face but they must have other people's spit on them she said but the papers are fresh I said and besides the burning tobacco gets rid of that she looked at me and said yuk I put the tin away and we watched the fire burning a Rozzer stopped me on here the other week and said to me did I see you smoking? I said no I've not been smoking I'd flicked the **** end onto the bomb site behind me and he looked at me suspiciously and said better not let me catch you sonny boy and he walked off I'd have wet myself she said if a policeman stopped me we watched the fire burning for a few more minutes then we went across the bomb site to the chip-shop to buy 6d of chips and stood outside and shared them watching the small bomb fire burning across the way on that cold November day.

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Jun 14, 2015

Jun 14, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC

FIRE STARTER 1958.

I was on the bomb site off Arch Street collecting pieces of wood and newspaper ******* in a ball- and small pieces of coal liberated from the coal wharf near by plus a few Swan Vestas borrowed from my old man's box at home I lit a fire near the railway arch and Ingrid said are you allowed to do that? not that I know I said what if a policeman comes? she asked I'll just say it was alight when I came and I was keeping warm I replied but that's lying she said stretching the truth a little I said she frowned at me her bruised eye was on the mend and was just a slight memory now -her old man's handiwork- what if you get burnt? she said risk of the game I said I shouldn't be here if my dad saw me here I'd be for it she said you're always for it I said you've only got to look at your old man and he whacks you I replied not always she said looking away he slippered you the other week for dropping that bottle of milk she said nothing but looked across the bomb site at the passing buses on the New Kent Road I got out a small tin and opened it want a cigarette? she peered at me then at the tin where'd you get those? she said I made them I said made them? yes out of dog-ends I picked up from the gutters and borrowing cigarette papers from an uncle I made them up she pulled a face but they must have other people's spit on them she said but the papers are fresh I said and besides the burning tobacco gets rid of that she looked at me and said yuk I put the tin away and we watched the fire burning a Rozzer stopped me on here the other week and said to me did I see you smoking? I said no I've not been smoking I'd flicked the **** end onto the bomb site behind me and he looked at me suspiciously and said better not let me catch you sonny boy and he walked off I'd have wet myself she said if a policeman stopped me we watched the fire burning for a few more minutes then we went across the bomb site to the chip-shop to buy 6d of chips and stood outside and shared them watching the small bomb fire burning across the way on that cold November day.

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*"I thought I understood it That I could grasp it But I didn’t Not really I knew the smudgeness of it The pink-slippered-all-containered-semi-precious eagerness of it I didn’t realize it would sometimes be more than whole The wholeness was a rather luxurious idea Because its the halves that halve you in half Didn’t know Don’t know about the in between bits The gore-y bits of you And gore-y bits of me"* -Anna from Like Crazy

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Jul 21, 2013

Jul 21, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC

A Poem That i Love

*"I thought I understood it That I could grasp it But I didn’t Not really I knew the smudgeness of it The pink-slippered-all-containered-semi-precious eagerness of it I didn’t realize it would sometimes be more than whole The wholeness was a rather luxurious idea Because its the halves that halve you in half Didn’t know Don’t know about the in between bits The gore-y bits of you And gore-y bits of me"* -Anna from Like Crazy

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The mists of Time are softer than a foggy morn or shifting sand; Gliding by on slippered feet, she whispers cheating lies so sweet, Of endless days and longer nights, a future drenched in rose-hued lights. When I was young and I possessed all the joys of life, Time was my guest. She sang a soothing lullaby and unawares the years flew by, She eased the future from my grasp, and left me with my solitary past. For what is youth that measures Time and thinks the years will leave behind, No scars to mark Her passing glance, to show you played Her game of chance, Now only memories linger on, for Love is lost and Time has flown. She touched me with her silken hand, I yielded all my dreams so grand, Yet still the memories linger on, though Love is lost and Time has flown.

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Apr 22, 2011

Apr 22, 2011 at 12:56 PM UTC

The mists of Time are softer than a foggy morn or shifting sand; Gliding by on slippered feet, she whispers cheating lies so sweet, Of endless days and longer nights, a future drenched in rose-hued lights. When I was young and I possessed all the joys of life, Time was my guest. She sang a soothing lullaby and unawares the years flew by, She eased the future from my grasp, and left me with my solitary past. For what is youth that measures Time and thinks the years will leave behind, No scars to mark Her passing glance, to show you played Her game of chance, Now only memories linger on, for Love is lost and Time has flown. She touched me with her silken hand, I yielded all my dreams so grand, Yet still the memories linger on, though Love is lost and Time has flown.

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Julie sat on one of the fountain walls in Trafalgar Square and lit a cigarette she looked about her as if she were onto something harder as if she had some one looking at her from some secret place you gazed at her unused to seeing her not in her hospital dressing gown and slippered feet her hair had been brushed neat and makeup applied and she said I was picked up here some months back by some guy who wanted *** he thought I was a pro and the things he asked for god that was the worse and with that she paused and stared at the Square at the people and the pigeons and she inhaled deep and then exhaled blowing the smoke out of the corner of her mouth like you’d seen done in the movies what did you say to the guy who picked you up and what did he want you to do? she looked at you her eyes scanning your features and then leaning closer she said I told him I wasn’t a ***** and to go off some place else you watched her fingers holding the cigarette the way she held it between her fingers as if it was some precious item she’d found what did he want you to do? you asked he wanted *** in all my orifices she whispered before inhaling again the cigarette was clamped between her lips and she rubbed her fingers on her jeans she ******* up her eyes against the smoke my grandfather said if it wasn’t for ****** more women would be ***** and attacked you said that guy was a creep he smelt of strong aftershave and body odour she said what a combination you said she stumped the cigarette **** onto the wall and flicked it across the Square let’s go and view the art in the Gallery behind us she said and you followed her to the Portrait Gallery her buttocks swaying like some ship at sea the jeans tight and clinging and across the Square church bells were pulled and were ringing.

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Nov 6, 2012

Nov 6, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC

JULIE AND YOU IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

Julie sat on one of the fountain walls in Trafalgar Square and lit a cigarette she looked about her as if she were onto something harder as if she had some one looking at her from some secret place you gazed at her unused to seeing her not in her hospital dressing gown and slippered feet her hair had been brushed neat and makeup applied and she said I was picked up here some months back by some guy who wanted *** he thought I was a pro and the things he asked for god that was the worse and with that she paused and stared at the Square at the people and the pigeons and she inhaled deep and then exhaled blowing the smoke out of the corner of her mouth like you’d seen done in the movies what did you say to the guy who picked you up and what did he want you to do? she looked at you her eyes scanning your features and then leaning closer she said I told him I wasn’t a ***** and to go off some place else you watched her fingers holding the cigarette the way she held it between her fingers as if it was some precious item she’d found what did he want you to do? you asked he wanted *** in all my orifices she whispered before inhaling again the cigarette was clamped between her lips and she rubbed her fingers on her jeans she ******* up her eyes against the smoke my grandfather said if it wasn’t for ****** more women would be ***** and attacked you said that guy was a creep he smelt of strong aftershave and body odour she said what a combination you said she stumped the cigarette **** onto the wall and flicked it across the Square let’s go and view the art in the Gallery behind us she said and you followed her to the Portrait Gallery her buttocks swaying like some ship at sea the jeans tight and clinging and across the Square church bells were pulled and were ringing.

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