"smugglers" poems
This is the Last Straw –
and Something About Sacred Buckets of Holistic Ice Water
****** predators, human smugglers
Starvation in the Sudan, civil war
in Syria, mass executions in China
Journalists murdered almost everywhere
Fashionable infanticide, homelessness
Unemployment, urban terrorism
Mass ****** school shootings, wildfires, racism
An unstable national government
Anti-Semitism, border desperation
Riots, arson, ecclesiastical corruption
**** alcoholism, historical cleansing
Skinheads, abuse, Khardassianistas
Volcanos, the death penalty, free verse
Affluenza, Jerry Springer, The View
Herbal tea, antifa, anti-antifa
And the soul-sucking existential despair
Of inspirational singer-songwriters:
Nah, not a bit worried about plastic straws
But I must go now; The Voices are telling me
To pour a bucket of ice water over my head
(As long as it’s not a plastic bucket)
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
In nineteen hundred forty-nine
China was won by Mao Tse-tung
Chiang Kai-shek's army ran away
They were waiting there in Thailand yesterday
Supported by the CIA
Pushing junk down Thailand way
First they stole from the Meo Tribes
Up in the hills they started taking bribes
Then they sent their soldiers up to Shan
Collecting ***** to send to The Man
Pushing junk in Bangkok yesterday
Supported by the CIA
Brought their jam on mule trains down
To Chiang Rai that's a railroad town
Sold it next to the police chief brain
He took it to town on the choochoo train
Trafficking dope to Bangkok all day
Supported by the CIA
The policeman's name was Mr. Phao
He peddled dope grand scale and how
Chief of border customs paid
By Central Intelligence's U.S. A.I.D.
The whole operation, Newspapers say
Supported by the CIA
He got so sloppy & peddled so loose
He busted himself & cooked his own goose
Took the reward for an ***** load
Seizing his own haul which same he resold
Big time pusher for a decade turned grey
Working for the CIA
Touby Lyfong he worked for the French
A big fat man liked to dine & *****
Prince of the Meos he grew black mud
Till ***** flowed through the land like a flood
Communists came and chased the French away
So Touby took a job with the CIA
The whole operation fell in to chaos
Till U.S. Intelligence came into Laos
I'll tell you no lie I'm a true American
Our big pusher there was Phoumi Nosovan
All them Princes in a power play
But Phoumi was the man for the CIA
And his best friend General Vang Pao
Ran the Meo army like a sacred cow
Helicopter smugglers filled Long Cheng's bars
In Xieng Quang province on the Plain of Jars
It started in secret they were fighting yesterday
Clandestine secret army of the CIA
All through the Sixties the Dope flew free
Thru Tan Son Nhut Saigon to Marshal Ky
Air America followed through
Transporting confiture for President Thieu
All these Dealers were decades and yesterday
The Indochinese mob of the U.S. CIA
Operation Haylift Offisir Wm. Colby
Saw Marshal Ky fly ***** Mr. Mustard told me
Indochina desk he was Chief of ***** Tricks
"Hitchhiking" with dope pushers was how he got his fix
Subsidizing traffickers to drive the Reds away
Till Colby was the head of the CIA
January 1972
10.1k
hickory nuts
and wind trees
are keeping
at the old buckle bay
light house corners and
shaker church craft
slip anchor on the southern tip
secret legions
and phenolic board
tuck in at gout dock
bands and nations
and miracle speak
fill in the center hall
sand hooks
and water domes
cover wharf road
***** bay toppers
and seven horse chugs
scatter the swollen upper deck
packards and pushers
and rusty back rails
skirt the night
lanterns and sterns
and navy gulls
steady on task
sand cakes
and drift wood
held tight on
the mystery tour
yellow tails
and tide pools
flat line
at royal reach
paddles
and cables
find ripples way
smugglers and smitties
take cover
from a
northern gale
down on
pocket shoal
there’s a graceful hue
~ they’re serving up
belons and xan…
it's time to get in
for a fill
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
Down here by the Murray River,
where life swims all around;
above and beneath the surface,
in this heat, everything flows —
Beers, BBQs, budgie smugglers and babes in bikinis,
memories bobbing above ground
capturing freedom; post-pandemic and pre-celebrations.
Down by the Murray River,
watching things flow safely and soundly,
birthing new possibilities:
boyfriends, babies, businesses and brews?!
Endless possibilities abound,
prophecies realised; salvation.
Down by the Murray River,
with nature, our souls sing loudly,
simplicity is possible,
trusting and enjoying,
everything is allowed.
Jan 13, 2024
Jan 13, 2024 at 4:28 PM UTC
the lapping water drifting to the sand,
the smugglers hurry o'er the silver wave,
a rose-moon blushing where the waters lave
and moonlight glistens on the breezy strand.
the oars are steady, gliding to the land
the stroke of midnight near a watery cave,
their whisp'ring feet run silent as a grave
to its dark reach to hide the contraband.
the waves roll mistily with honeyed breath
the sky, a vault of iron, weeps a tear,
the sweeping waters break and start to veer,
a gold tooth glints, the night as black as death,
a dreadful shout, the watch is drawing near,
how suddenly their faces pall with fear!
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
*(Blackened tissue beside debris of bleachd cocktail
Power pundit in cubicle
A ship in shadow-pieces passing by, unnoticed*
smoking water.. now costs getting kickd out ur xafe
Your blood lies in a high-account and all the stampz areMelting
Crawling in a desert, accusations shave the top off my black land
Did failing the test lead to a power-packed punch in strands
No time for treagedies clogging up the freeway
Twenty watts up the waterfall and your ride is here
Befits a ceremonial decapping
Catch ur vogue latte on the way out
Come aboard by jet and then expect a red carpet, soaked dry from the spoils of erstwehile-smugglers
Let em bleed green notes till the moths all come round the flame
Wait for it… the flame grows hugher… and int it all…………poof!
That was easy.
Don’t chuckle out loud when expletives slidie down your back
Like champagne off the shoulder of your ne-xt planet’s ride
Duck in time cos the butters hard and the toast is dry
Four friends over six decades carry grudges heavey enough to pump oil to lakes
And the unexpected happens.. the one they didn’t watch, wwent missing
All eyes on the little one.. no, you didn’t catch them all.
You became immunes to the skills you advert-tarted and sqeueamish set in
you didn’t know casn host violence in a putrid-robe?
One finger pointing out, makes at least three in.. to the pointer
How can one planet swallow so wide a dichotomy in plasticky degrees?
It’s too wide this time to make that jump – we will ingest what weve been giving all along
And some end up well-funded while others simply dwell.. as frogs in a well.
sun can climb in sometimes, but for half an hour
their fingers are small for the mine, keep small the issue
don’t cry when it rains in expectorata
I think frogs can swim.
*when do I ever learn that..
I am simply a frog in a well
near craxks )*
21feb
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 6:49 AM UTC
We are the calloused hands of agriculture
The sun burned neck of labor
The bruised heel of infrastructure
We are those who go without praise or applause
Who wake up early
And go to sleep late
So that our sons and daughters have food on their plates
We are hated for our pigment
We are hated for our accent
Pigeonholed as rapists and smugglers
But really, we do the **** pendejos would never do
And we do it with pride on our sleeves
And love in our hearts
Because sometimes our families are countries apart
We take jobs that are not glamorous
And let racists hammer us
And use that hammer to sustain our families
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
a bedtime story
In the distance stands a lighthouse
seeing all with cyclops eye
once a beacon, now a hollow,
dead in misted moonlit sky.
Proudly once she ruled the headland,
warning all of crag and shoal
trusted friend to salt scoured sea dogs,
smugglers caught within her glow.
Beauty lived as Keepers mistress
'till one day her love did bloom
walking clifftops with her lover
brought her ending, far too soon.
Bloodied, torn by cliff face ragged
screaming for the life she craved,
Beauty held her rounded belly
As fury deep hit waters grave.
Beauty stands alone in darkness
there above the tempest sea
bloated souls of those who perished
now her only company.
When the moon is high above us
wrapped in rags and witching stare
Beauty stands atop the catwalk
weeds 'a winding through her hair.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
Every winter
our fish would migrate south.
Probably to Florida or Cancun
or any of those places where
grandparents live
and it's always warm.
Fish like it in warm places.
They would tap
the side of their fish bowl and mom
would grab a glass of water,
In they would jump.
Then, Mom would pour the fish
into a container,
put it in the mailbox,
and send it south.
House fish need this,
because they can't get out of their bowls.
It's like taking a dog for a walk.
River and lake and ocean fish just swim there.
When all of the fish get south,
they have a fish party,
where they eat gangsters and smugglers,
I think.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 3:48 PM UTC
a series of quatrains
Anchor’s bound for hell as it falls
Sadly I watch the fast rope slip
It is gone, I need a strong sip
From a sailor’s bottle, land calls
In a boat, earth and moon move you
these deceptive cargo ships hide
the stash of smugglers, I choose
To rock back and forth with the tide
Such fearless ships save lives at night
and daytime too but not for thanks
for it also ferries heartbreak
when lovers part on boarding planks
A message in a bottle lost
was found on a cold Cornish coast
The message read “darling please
know my love will swim across seas”
I daren’t live by sea much longer
Oh! what I’ve seen, fear gets stronger
with every lapping slurp I hear:
the drowned whispering in my ear
Once I fished in this bay of shells
My line was frayed from reeling sharks
A blue whale fought me three miles out
In his bowel I awoke at last
Boat or ship? For now ‘ships’ they fly
A rocking chair, without duty
They float, enchant, sink but don’t cry
shipwrecks are a thing of beauty
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC
K.p’s dad was a Science Fiction author,
While his son and I learned at school.
The teacher talked about planes, bombs, and towers-
Explosions, debris, and jet fuel.
We were poised like guppies, fidgeting with our lips,
Our bodies seemed made of lewd rubber.
Not one of us understood the weight or gravity-
Of one person killing another.
K.p’s dad wrote about a fair United States,
Called: “The Defined Territories,” rather tenacious.
A satire exploring justice with exaggerated sameness-
That most readers found to be tasteless.
His main character was a ‘rookie cop,’
And every skin color was uniform and equal.
Homosexuals gladly aided population control (by not making babies)-
And bullets were designed to be non-lethal.
In the story: a group of smugglers find a stockpile of real guns,
Automatics, ammunition and bombs.
The valiant cop pursues them through page turns and plot-
With sweat budding on his palms.
K.p and I fought over a girl at school,
I broke his nose and we each served detention.
At the end of his dad’s story the smugglers are caught-
Fined $1,000 and given lethal injection.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
Smugglers paradise
Casablanca '41
Sam plays it again
A black and white love affair
That is far from black and white
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 12:45 PM UTC
When the tide is high and the spray flies wild
And storm-battered cliffs loom grey,
Gulls are flung like litter in the wind
Above the tossing boats in the bay.
Now grey-gloved fingers feel from afar,
A muffling shroud of fear,
For the mist's stolen in with a furtive glance
At the lighthouse winking on the pier.
The ******* surf on the shingle shore
Rattles like smugglers' bones
Stirring the dark and dreary depths
With gales of ghoulish groans.
Wrestling waves in a turmoil twist
Their heaving muscles in mounds,
And crash to a crescendo of spittle and spray -
A rejoicing of ocean sounds!
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:14 AM UTC
They pull the strings behind the scenes, they think themselves queens and kings controlling everything.
And we're the poor pawns that fawn on and on and on, day to day, from dusk til dawn.
We need to stop the cycle. No, we HAVE to stop this cycle. Get off the bike, though, we might not like to, Because we're prisoners and though we're lacking actual shackles, our rights are *** backwards, and the rulers are money-hungry psychos.
We the people pay the price,
The price for living paid in pain and constant suffering,
Nothing's really what it Seems,
And no one Sees because We numb ourselves through drugs and Vicodins,
Pill-poppers, downers, uppers,
Blunt-puffers, paint huffers,
Wrist cutters, coke snuffers,
Methamphetamine intravenously-injecting stupid *************
Drug smugglers, crack stuffers,
Mother struggles, baby suffers,
Speed lovers, glass crushers,
We numb it all so no one bothers.
but sitting comfy at the summit,
Watching the planet plummet,
Are the ones pulling the strings behind the show.
The ones without a soul.
The ones behind it all, yet few of us do know.
It's time we all wake up, stop confirming to the rules, it's time we cut these strings and put the people in control.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC
On this beach I stand watching and waiting,
a storm is brewing in darkening skies above,
the wind chases the tide forming white horses,
that gallop towards the jagged rocks of this shoreline,
these equine embodiments are only to be short lived,
dispersing their bodies to form a fine white saline mist.
The intensity of this cold wind increases with restless fury,
whistling away whispering to me this is only the beginning,
now mother nature takes hold of the rain's of this tempest,
slowly whipping them up into a frenzied thunderous downpour,
the heavens display starts now becoming a violent electric show,
that does scatter lightning bolts across a surging wild sea below.
The Puffins and Gulls have found shelter on white cliffs that stand proud,
against this wailing wind that tears at it's chalk face then screams aloud,
for it is only mother nature that has the right to turn a bright day into night,
commanding from the elementals her bidding of old wrongs and old rights,
from a distance I see the harbour lights flicker on, to light the way,
for fisherman that ventured on this ocean on a merciless cruel day.
White foam skips rapidly to shore on the backs of black unforgiving waves,
they glide past me like the ghosts of old sailors that have drowned at sea,
now it is time to join these restless souls of the sea as I feel the cold water around my feet,
I am chained to a rock of granite as punishment for my sins and a smugglers name I'll keep.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis
By NeonSolaris
© 2008 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
If you got a kidney
I'll trade ya
I got a giraffe
A connection with illegal African animal smugglers
And I promise
Giraffe meat is delicious
My oriental connect
Just sold me some ground up tiger ****
***** strong!!!!!!
You and your lovely lady friend
Will go all night long
Hit me up on my trap phone
We'll make a deal
Or if buying blue eyed babies is more your thing
It's something I can swing
On the down low
Basically
What you want
What you need
Hit me up
I got you man
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
We’d moved on in to a clifftop house
When our babe was very young,
I had to ***** a barbed wire fence
To keep our darling at home,
For Ellen was a precocious child
With a beautiful, smiling face,
But for all our efforts to tame her down
It was hard to keep her in place.
She would bounce about, would run on out
The moment we turned our backs,
Many a time I would see her climb
And she’d give us heart attacks.
‘She’s halfway up the chimney, John,
She’s climbed right up to the thatch,’
The wife would cry, and I’d almost die
In bringing our daughter back.
She’d stand awhile by the cottage gate
That led on out to the track,
That wound its way right down to the bay
On a narrow, winding path,
I wired the gate, and I thought it held
Till the day she broke on through,
And made her little way to the bay
Before we even knew.
I found her at the mouth of a cave
That sat just up from the shore,
And breathed a sigh of relief as we
Embraced, like never before,
But she pointed in to the darkened cave
With her tiny little hand,
‘I want to go in the cave with him,
That funny old sailor man!’
‘There isn’t a man in the cave,’ I said,
‘You must have been seeing things.’
‘Oh no! He asked me to follow him
And he showed me lots of rings.
He had a black patch over his eye,
And a ponytail in his hair,
I want to go where the sailor goes,
Will you let me go in there?’
I carried her back up the winding path
Though she clung to me and cried,
‘That cave is simply an eerie place
And it’s cold and damp inside.’
I should have taken more notice then,
I thought it was just a rave,
For days, young Ellen would speak of him,
The man who lived in the cave.
I went to check at the library,
The history of the town,
And read that smugglers used that cave
When nobody was around,
And long before there were buildings there
A smuggler on the run,
Had sheltered there in that dismal cave
With his daughter, Ellen Gunn.
I raced on home to the clifftop house
To find young Ellen gone,
The wife was having hysterics there
And I was overcome.
I ran, pell mell down the clifftop path
It was such a deathly scare,
And searched to the end of that awful cave
And I found her Teddy Bear.
A fisherman on the beach had seen
Young Ellen on the sand,
Then watched as a sailor took her in
To the cave there, hand in hand.
‘I thought that he was her father,’ said
The rustic fisherman,
‘She seemed quite happy to go with him
And he looked a kindly man.’
I must have searched it a dozen times
And I called, and cursed, and cried,
And prayed to god that I’d find my girl
Hid somewhere deep inside,
When out of the depths, she toddled out
Stood still, turned back to the cave,
And that’s when I glimpsed that sailor man,
Who stood at the back, and waved.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC
Sulim said, ‘’the moon rises on the sky like a child.’’
''The jeweler is going to come tomorrow to
Bring me jewels for those wanting their life to be styled.
Although I can't sell them, I want all her dreams come true, ''
Frederick said. She replied, ''I can't wait to choose them.''
''They are expensive, and it's hard to find customers.''
Sam said, ’’ increase the price when two eyes light on a gem.''
''I have to deal with the coast-men, who are expert smugglers.''
'' 'Twas another world, when jewelry meant a business.
I had to wear a lapel clip to be fully dressed.''
Sam said, ''to the jewelry theft, I'm an eye witness.''
''To protect this ship from pirates, I'll do my best.''
He kissed her, '' you're the most important jewel for me.''
She touched her womb, ''this fetus is the most important.''
''And I hope he will become what I want him to be.
I know he feels, even his feeling is quite dormant.’’
(After a few seconds of thinking, Frederick continued to talk with her.)
''Are you sure it's a boy? '' ''I am absolutely sure.
Moreover, he will be like his dad.'' The man held her
Into his arms, '' I'm strong enough this fate to endure.
Is he as beautiful as me? '' He played with her hair.
Dreamy and meditative, Geraldine told him,
''He's already a sailor in my womb.'' He laughed.
''Son, I want you to hit her a little in a gym.''
She exclaimed, ''he moved.'' ''He’s maestro at this craft.''
(Early in the morning, Frederick and Geraldine woke up. They used to sleep in the same bed, although she was pregnant.
She had to prepare the breakfast for the sailors, and he had to go to the nautical bridge to take back the control of the ship.)
''You'll stay at Lisbon for a few years because the child
Must grow up enough to be taken with us on the ship.''
''I do not let you roaming through the freedom and the wild.''
''I don't go, I stay with you, '' he whispered lip to lip.
''Are you afraid of losing me? He asked tenderly.
''I'm afraid that something bad is going to happen.''
''With five belly dancers around fashion'd slenderly? ''
''Imagine this! You're going to be a real captain! ''
He laughed. She gave him a pat on the back with her cushion.
''Do you see those five lateen sails? They dance in the storm.''
He wanted to make love with her, but she kept on pushing.
He immobilized her screaming ''Love me to keep me warm! ''
Ismail knocked on the door and told Frederick that the jeweler was on the ship.
(to be continued...)
Poem by Marieta Maglas
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
Theres a fine line
Between the dead and the dying
Some of us let go
And some of us are trying
But none of us will make it out alive
Some of us will thrive
Some will struggle
But none of us will survive
It's time we smuggle
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 11:23 AM UTC
Madison mounted her coal black mare
In the yard of the Smugglers Inn,
Her coat was black and her hair was fair
And her jodhpurs tucked well in,
The sky was in a threatening mood
With its thunderheads from hell,
As lightning forked on the ancient rood
And the rain teemed down as well.
‘You need to get to the Laird,’ I cried,
‘Tell him to haste to me,
Another day and she may have died,
I’m trying to set her free.
But the Pikemen stand outside her door
And they say they guard her skin,
There were locks and chains on her door before
Up there, in the Smugglers Inn.’
‘Tell him to bring his gallant troop
To dismay the Duke of Bray,
He means to imprison his daughter
In his tower, the Lady Grey,’
The Pikemen said that I’d lose my head
If I tried to breach her door,
And wouldn’t answer whenever I asked,
‘What is she locked in for?’
So Madison wheeled the mare around
And she put it to the spur,
If any could ride a horse to ground
I knew that it was her,
She headed off to the Castle Croft
Head bent to the driving rain,
With lightning flashing around her mount
I watched her across the plain.
What seemed to take forever, I thought,
Was merely an hour or two,
But then my fears were set at naught
As the troop came jangling through.
Each man had raised his sabre and
He’d kept his powder dry,
My heart was surging within me as
The troop came riding by.
And then, at last, was Madison
Still riding with the Laird,
Determined then to save her friend,
To show her that she cared.
The Pikemen soon were beaten down
Were lost in the affray,
I never did catch a glimpse of him,
Their lord, the Duke of Bray.
It took a moment to smash the locks
On the door of Lady Grey,
And all the troop had cheered out loud
As the chains, they fell away.
Madison was the first in line
To embrace the one within,
But we were not to know what lay
Up there, in the Smugglers Inn.
The Lady, held in a firm embrace
Had staggered out through the door,
But blood and pustules were on her face
Like we’d never seen before.
A dying Pikemen called, ‘You fools,
You’ve unleashed a bitter ague,
And then he sighed just before he died,
‘Behold, you have the plague!’
David Lewis Paget
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 6:16 AM UTC
I witnessed the calf's first steps
On matchstick legs.
Mother's tongue towel;
A giant of love and pride.
There was poetry inside.
I've seen deaf lovers gesticulate a
Love story across a room full
Of walls of noise and chatter.
Like smugglers they would hide,
Sneaking poetry inside.
I've seen old mothers stand,
Back straight, denying war
Machinery access.
A protective circle of lives,
Around the
Poetry inside.
I've poked at something
Dead in a ditch
With a stick just to look at the
Maggots and bugs
Couldn't help it though I tried;
There was poetry inside.
I traced her face with mine,
I gazed into
Her spacious eyes as we'd
Unite and move together
And that warmth could not have lied;
There was poetry inside.
Each thing a gallery, that's how I see
The world -as if I read it-
Which I swear by and abide:
It is glaced with art and colour;
It has poetry inside.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
We went to live in Smuggler’s Cove
Near a cave, right on the beach,
Where once they’d hidden ill-gotten gains
In the cave, and out of reach.
The locals said two hundred years
Since the smugglers came ashore,
Carrying casks of Spanish wine
And a chest of gold moidores.
Led by a man called One-Eye Red
For the only one he’d got,
He’d lost the other, the locals said,
To a random pistol shot,
He wore a patch on the missing eye
For the wind blew in at the hole,
And froze his brain till he went insane
When the winter winds were cold.
He hung with Sally, a thatcher’s wife
Who would meet him in the cove,
And he would sample her plain delights
Till the time came round to rove.
She kept lookout on the cliff top there
For a glimpse of Revenue Men,
And would fire her flintlock pistol where
She had thought she’d sighted them.
My wife, her name was Sally too
And I’d rib her there in jest,
‘You’d better not hug a smuggler, Sally,
Dressed only in your vest.’
We’d laugh back then in those early days
As we worked to settle in,
But sensed some dread foreboding there,
In the air from old past sin.
It came on strong in the winter time
When the cove was filled with mist,
The mouth of the cave was grim and dark
It would almost seem possessed,
Then Sally started to walk at night
As the waves crashed into the shore,
She said she needed to beat the fright
That she’d suffered from times before.
I’d watch her walk to the darkened cave
Then halt to stare in the mouth,
It opened onto the northern shore
Then she’d turn, and wander south,
She’d come back shivering, pale and wan
And would warm up by the fire,
Then come out with the strangest thing
That it filled her with desire.
She’d strip right off by the glowing hearth
And I’m not one to complain,
She’d not been so very down to earth
Since the Lord invented rain,
Then one night when the mist was thick
I could barely see the cave,
When a ghostly figure stepped from the sea
And walked all over my grave.
Then Sally turned and she spoke to him
As my stomach churned inside,
They walked together into the cave
Like a bridegroom and a bride,
I left the cottage, the door ajar
And I ran down to the beach,
But when I got to the mouth of the cave,
Sally was out of reach.
Sally was out of reach that day
And has been each day since,
The phantom that walked her into the cave
Was One-Eye Red at a pinch.
I called and called for her to come back,
I even tried to insist,
But all that I’ve seen on a winter’s night
Are their shadows, abroad in the mist.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 1:53 AM UTC
Stolen Child.
Insane grandma.
Homeless mom.
Convicted boyfriend.
Minimum wage.
Passport with no plane ticket.
A life broken.
No funds.
No career.
No future.
The Wrath has spoken.
It has been heard to deaf ears that hear.
Damnation.
A ****** nation.
America.
No justice.
Mo deals.
No bargains.
No victories.
Only misery.
A nightmare.
Successful nightmare.
No escape.
In death do you win life or lose it.
I don't know how to play this game.
People lose games they I can't play.
I don't have any players on my team.
No cheerleaders.
All I hear is "Boooo".....
I hate this world and the people in it 100% nothing this.
Solitude.
Loner.
Solo.
America's #0.
A day in the life of nobody.
No one who matters.
No skills.
No Talent.
No manners.
B****y.
Bitter & sarcastic.
All the flaws no one would want.
Friendless.
Thoughtless.
Dangerous.
I am a bad mother.
I am a bad girlfriend.
A driver.
A bad person.
A liar.
I seek vengeance.
Always and forever.
Never forgives.
Never forgets.
Never gets justice not in this lifetime.
A heart of pure hatred.
Just like "Grandma".
But not to Ariel just the rest of the world.
Filthy rich makes me sick.
Squandered wealth.
Gamblers, drug smugglers, prostitution, slander **** & con artists they all make me sick.
Carnivores, butchers, sadistic criminals, pyro's, nymphos, pimps, sm*t, hustler's, farmers, & attorneys.
Sick to my stomach.
The boiling point.
****** detest.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
Upside down she hangs
from the stainless steel pole
She moves as her legs swings
Holding firm as she plays her role
Cat calls from ***** men echoes
From the lighted dance floor
She danced in high heel shoes
Often looking through the door.
She was half naked and she knew
That was her fate as a pole dancer
She felt ashamed, for she was new
She had no rights as a *** worker
A job assigned her by the smugglers
Tired, She often thought of the end
How could she escape her handlers
They had to do this every weekend.
Somebody threw her an old dollar bill
Undulating her hips, she tried to go low
One man touched her against her will
She flinched and gave him a big blow
This brought more jeers from the men
The music stopped, in came her handler
He seemed angry and slapped a woman.
The echoes, her high heel shoe squeaks
Then the music suddenly pauses for the show
It starts with the pimpish boss and the geeks
Suddenly I began to wonder to myself, how?
How did I unwillingly become a *** slave
Can somebody tell me where I live?
Why have not a soul to tell me to be brave
Tell me, do everything you can to keep alive.
Roll calls from the pimpish boss of bosses
I was born free but now I was a *** slave,
Who is to be held accountable for the abuses?
I need freedom, I need to say bye and wave.
Upside down, for many hours I would hang
From the steen of the stainless steel pole
Making sinful moves, making my legs swing
Holding firm to dear life as I played my role.
How did I become an object of pleasure
Can somebody kindly answer my questions?
Why have I not a soul to help me find closer
To tell me, sister, there are better options!
How soon did society forget to fight for me too
Can somebody please hola at the government,
Tell them I am a woman, not an animal in the zoo
Make a plea against *** slavery, just a statement!
Now is the time to question *** slavery
Can somebody tell my mama to keep fighting
Have not a father to free me from my misery?
Beyond my will somebody sold me, I'm missing.
©️IB-Poetry
2/21/2018
'
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC