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Paul M Chafer Jan 2014
Snatching at the words,
Mumbling incoherently,
Such things, such imagery,
Haunting me, taunting me,
Fighting on the cusp of sleep,
Denying me semblance of reason,
For these words I want, no, need,
Their beauty, strings of literary pearls,
Flow sinuously through my mind,
Then begin to dissipate, please no,
Cunningly vanishing at equal speed,
With which I try to recall them,
Smoke thinning, drifting on the wind,
Mocking me as I rouse, knowing,
Deep inside, how good the words felt,
What they would mean, such wonder,
Now gone, but perhaps, perhaps,
They were never as good as I thought,
Maybe such things never are, maybe,
Maybe the real beauty is hidden pleasure,
A delight in the process itself, hmm,
The imagining, I - no, we, for I mean, us poets -
Love that creative part; want to hold it forever,
That heady feeling, that Promethean power,
How we cherish this treasure, and share it,
Sharing is the best, hmm, and the keeping,
Yes, never neglect the keeping, coveting,
The unmatched sense of achievement,
Something known only to poets,
Alas, those forgotten words,
Edging the cusp of sleep, perhaps,
Well, they do not travel so well, still,
We console ourselves with knowing,
Knowing they were there, truly existing,
Trying to escape on a whimsical notion,
When in reality, if we are patient,
They do come home, words to roost,
Appearing, here, there, everywhere,
In various forms, so all is not lost, still,
On the edge of dreams, we fail to avoid,
Snatching at the words.

© Paul Chafer 2014
Dedicated to Steve, aka  Sjr1000, and inspired by his poem, Found and Lost, with sincere thanks.

Apr 7, 2012, 6:08:21 PM by ~OmegaWolfOfWinter
Journals / Personal

"Name: Amelia Weissmuler. Date of birth: June 6th, 1920. Test subject number 314-X. Specimen: Tiger." Amy heard all of this through a haze of sedatives that had begun to lose their already poor effect. She turned in the direction of the voice and saw a fearsome **** SS General standing behind a white clad scientist with a heavy accent. The general said nothing but listened and watched as Amy was strapped down to a cold metal table, completely **** with various wires, tubes and needles protruding from her flesh. She groaned painfully, the needles were extensive, and the **** scientists had no care of decency or respect. she was hit with another sedative and before she lost consciousness she heard the scientist, who she guessed was Dr. Heismeiller, say, "Name, Mordecai Dansker, former Major of the Third *****. Date of birth: September 19th, 1919. Test subject 14-W. Specimen: Wolf. As you
can see, Heir General, these are both healthy specimens, as are the test subjects." Amy heard a
rattling of cages. Her vison slowly went dark but not before seeing the doctor's face, uncovered and psychotic.
* *
When Amy woke up again, she was being suspended from the floor, the tubes and wires accompanied by menacing electrodes. there was an unnatural blue and white crackling of electricity around her, illuminating the other suspended tables nearby, the bodies in various grotesque positions and levels of decay. she tried to scream but found a machine unceremoniously shoved in her mouth, stretching deep inside her. she looked and saw nothing but obscene machines and various glass tubes of colored bubbling liquids. she tried sluggishly to break free but to no avail. what little strength she had was useless against the torturous devices emplanted in and around her. "Doctor, begin the experiment."
"Yaboe!" She heard a solid click resound through the room and heard a male scream in another room. the screams echoed for a long while, then nothing. she heard a gasp of releif from
the doctor and, "General! Subject 14-W... he has... Survived!"
"Good. now start on the frauline." there was a large thud from outside the room. "Quickly! this facility is under seige!"
"Yes sir, heir general. Test subject 314-X prepped and ready. Begin phase 1." she cried out silently as the needles burned hot inside her and the tubes boiled her insides. the electrodes soon incapacitated her and she fell unconscious.
"Phase 1 complete, heir general, subject is ready, proceeding to Phase 2."
Amy felt an intense burning around the needles, and an electric fire through her veins. the machine had been taken from her mouth, but she doubted she could scream any more, as her throat was raw from the silent screams of Phase 1. She felt her body shake uncontrollably as more electric shocks were administered. she was left panting and slumped over. "Sequence complete, the bonding process was a success." there was another thud and sediment from the roof fell to the floor. "Get her down now! They will be through soon!" She was lowered to the ground and unstrapped from the table, picked up, and placed on a stretcher. she raised her hands on front her face and nearly fainted, her hands, or paws, resembled that of a tiger, and as she looked, her whole body was covered in a slick orange, black and white fur. She was put into the backseat of an armored car with a simple blanket draped around
her. Amy felt nauseated
as the car sped off. It hit a bump in the road and she moaned painfully, clutching her furry belly and retching. the **** next to her turned away in disgust. the car ride was long and sickening, and she lost consciousness twice, and finally she tried to lay down in the cramped space. when the armored car finally stopped, she was pulled from the back seat and carried over a soldier's shoulder and into a small bunker. Once inside, amy heard a metal door open and was laid down onto a stiff bed with a single pillow and a single cover. There was a small window in the cell, a drab, grey stream of light shining in her eyes. She propped herself up on her elbow and shielded her eyes from the blinding contrast. Once her eyes adjusted, amy noticed that things had a particular sharpness to them and she had an acute awareness of things based on scent. she stood shakily, and noticed she was almost
six inches taller now, and her new tail swished back and forth along the concrete floor. she stepped
forward and grasped the iron bars and peeked out, seeing a black leather messenger bag and a black uniform lined with white. she couldn't quite reach the uniform, but was able to get a claw around the strap of the messenger bag. she pulled it closer to her and saw that her initials were monogrammed into the leather. she pulled it through the bars and opened the bag, pulling out a small, blank, leather bound journal and a pen. still ****, she sat on the bed and practiced writing, tearing out two pages of scratch paper. She began her journal with, "I am no longer the person i once was. i am something new, something... different."
• * *
The **** captain stepped into the bunker and saw amy, half lying, half dangling on the bed, the leather journal clutched close to her chest. he stormed into the cell and backhanded her awake, snatching up the journal as she cowered in the corner, her tail wrapped around her. the captain flipped through the pages of the journal and then closed iit with a snap. he glanced at it and dropped it on the bed. "it is yours now, Frauline. you are very special to the third *****. the fuhrer himself has asked for you to be placed in the Waffen SS and trained." amy glanced at the uniform on the table outside the cell and he nodded, "specially tailored for you, frauline. he stepped outside the cell and grabbed the uniform, setting it down on the bed. "you may Change into your new uniform and join the rest of us outside." he stepped outside and she was alone. she donned the simple uNdergarments then
slipped into the soft black trousers, after which she put on her military boots. next she put on the black and white jacket signature of the SS. the jacket was sleek and menacing, though it did little to flatten her chest, but that, she supposed, was one of her feminine charms. last was her hat and armband, both adorned with the *******. she gathered the leather messenger bag and stepped outside the cell, where a mirror stood, giving her a chance to see what had been done, the black uniform was a dramatic contrast to her brightly colored fur, and her new black stripes added a fierce look to her. she grinned and flashed menacing white teeth. she turned her body, looking at herself from different points of view. she slipped the **** armband onto her right arm and turned to leave. she stopped when she encountered a high pitch noise right next to the door. for the moment she just walked past, opening the door and adjusting her vision to the outside light. the layout was grey and barren,
as it always was in wartime. the captain was waiting for her along with a small squad of SS troops. a
Few laughed and remarked at her appearance, making cat noises and wolf whistling at her. she glared at them with a bright white snarl carved into her soft face. *they will fear me...

she saluted the captain and said, "heil ******." he returned the gesture, "heil. you are now part of the Waffen SS, frauline Amelia."
"please sir, its amy."
he noted her directness and ferocity, "very well, amy. before we assign you a task, though, you must prove yourself." he addressed the squad, "they are all corporal's and sergeants. you are merely a private. you will gain a rank for each one that you ****. however, they have been told that if they do not force you to submit, they will be killed or sent to the russian front. so you best fight your hardest, private amy."
as he finished, the squad set down their Mauser 98K's and MP-40's and stepped closer to her. her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in ferocious determination. there were twelve of them.
• *
Amy took a fighting stance and faced her attackers. she attempted a punch at the nearest one but was kneed in the gut, she was thrown back a few feet. she fell to her knees and clutched her stomach with one hand, holding herself upright with the other. tears sprung to life in her eyes and threatened to roll down her cheeks. she fought the tears back and stood, feeling her claws extend. she swiped at a soldier's throat, catching him right in the throat. blood splattered the ground as he choked on his own fluids. the remaining eleven were taken aback slightly, allowing her to pounce another soldier, punching and tearing at his gut with lethal force. her fur was bloodstained and she waited a moment too late, watching the cavity she created fill with blood. she was barreled over, the wind knocked out of her by a sergeant. she lay on her back, gasping for air as the soldiers closed in,
landing a few punches and sending her reeling back. she staggered back, struggling for breath. she
Bumped up against something and realized it was a bunker wall, she was trapped. she thought quickly and decided for a new course of action, she waited for one of them to gather his bravado and throw a solid punch at her, which was useless, she grabbed his wrist and smashed his head against the wall, filling his helmet with blood and brains. in the same move, she had grabbed his Luger and had downed three more of the remaining ten. in their moment of confusion she kicked the closest one in the fork of his legs and followed up with a pistolwhip. the man went down quickly and died by the heel of her merciless boot. the remaining six charged at her, one falling by her last bullet and another caught a swift kick in the ribcage, shattering the bones to peices. the rest of the men were sergeants, and they began to retreat, running into the open field. she was about to chase after them when she
heard another Luger fire. she turned to see the captain shooting the deserters. each fell, one by
One by the captain's gun to her surprise he let a single man go. "you have done very well, frauline amy. you have killed eight out of twelve men, not bad at all."
she was panting, her uniform dirtied, "why.. did you let.. him go?"
the captain smiled, "someone has to spread you're reputation, heir captain."
she gaped at him. "i am... captain?"
"yaboe, heir frauline. you have proved yourself worthy to serve under the fuhrer."
she saluted him, "thank you, heir captain."
amy wrote in her journal as they were driven to one of the Stalags: "my promotion to captain has earned me my choice of weapons, ive chosen a few, two long barrel Luger's, a cavalry saber, and a sixteen foot bullwhip. i also carry an automatic Mauser in my messenger bag. other than a few knives carefully hidden on my body, that should be it. ive become the fuhrer's favorite enforcer, though i feel as if i'm forgetting something..."
amy closed the journal and placed it in her bag with a soft snap.
Amy waited for a **** private to open the car door and let her out, tapping her foot impatiently. when he finally came, she had a luger pointed at his chest. "you're late. she got out of the car and shot him, holstering the pistol as he crumpled to the ground. the colonel in charge rushed towards her, "what is the meaning of this?!"
"your man on watch was late, and now he'll never be late again. and also, colonel, as i am a captain in the SS, i am your superior officer and you WILL adjust yourself accordingly or i will replace you with someone who will."
his expression was that of shock, "y-yes, heir captain, please follow me." he escorted her quickly to the main building. amy glanced around at the peering POWs, glaring at them with distaste as they whistled at her. "who's the kitty?" "what the hell is that?"
her hands fell to her lugers and she was ready to fire when she was beckoned inside by the colonel and she followed behind him reluctantly. "you should control your prisoners.
i find an overall lack of order in this camp. you're lucky i'm in a good mood, or i'd have you strung up for incompetence. lets hope my further evaluation of this... facility... does not make me any more inclined to do so."
the colonel stuttered again and dipped his head, "y-yes heir captain."
she stepped outside unopposed by any. she snapped her fingers and a sergeant rushed to her side and saluted. she handed him a journal logbook and he opened it to the page marked with the Stalag number. she entered the closed off areas of the stalag to inspect the barracks.
amy's fists were clenched with rag, a prisoner mocked her from within his confines. his fellow prisoners pleaded with him to stop. "she's lethal!" "she killed eight SS sergeants and corporals singelhandedly her first day!"
the prisoner ignored them and began gesturing at her. she snapped her head up and their eyes met for an instant, she growled through a gritted snarl and was over the fence in mere moments. once over,
the prisoner that mocked her was now on the ground, his throat between her fangs. he cried out once and then gurgled blood as she tore out his throat. she spat the flesh onto the dirt and stood, brushing the dusty particles from her uniform. the men around her backed away when she approached them, and watched her cautiously as she stepped back out of the fenceline. amy picked up her cap from the ground and brushed it off. one of the prisoners called for a doctor, and when one of the guards began to look for one, she merely said, "no, he wont survive. leave him be."
the soldier saluted and went back to his post. she walked up to the colonel and said, "your prisoner annoyed me, as do you, colonel. you have three days to turn this place around or you'll end up worse off then your prisoner over there."
the colonel had turned a pale white and whispered, "understood, captain."
she returned to her quarters and listened for a moment as the colonel shouted orders. "that was fun." she remarked.

Amy was asleep in one of the larger rooms in the main  building, her uniform folded neatly on the table near the bed. she kep one luger on her bedside table and the mauser under her pilllow. her other luger, her sword and her whip were next to her clothes. she was clad only in her fur, as she'd found that the most comfortable way to sleep.
she was woken up by a knock at the door. she blinked her eyes a few times. clutching the mauser handle with one hand and holding the blanket to her chest with the other, she said, "what is it?"
"the colonel wishes to speak to you, heir frauline."
she growled, "grrr... fine. tell him to make it quick." she clutched the blanket closer as he opened the door. she held the mauser aimed at him and said, "turn." he did so without hesitation. she slipped cautiously out of the bed and began to dress. "what is it you wished to speak with me about, colonel?" amy put on her undergarments and then pulled her trousers up to her waist, fastening the belt comfortably.
"there is an important telegram for you, heir captain." she pulled on the jacket over her simple shirt, tugging out any wrinkles. "oh? from who?" next came the holster belts, each hanging slightly lower than her first belt. her sword was another belt, and there was a custom clip there for her whip as well.
"Himler, he has special orders for you." her messenger bag was next to last, slung over her shoulder before she slipped into her boots. ""You can turn now. hand them here." she stepped closer to him and took the envelope with her name scrawled on the front. the colonel excused himself so she could read the orders, "captain amelia weissmuler, once you have completed your assignment at Stalag 14, please make haste to stalingrad as there has been a number of our own turning against the *****. see to it that they cause no more problems. -heinrich himler"
she read it through three more times before folding it and placing it in her bag. she hurried outside, grabbing her hat
From the dresser.
* *
amy went about her inspection, seeing nothing wrong today. "the condition of stalag 16 has improved, heir colonel. well done. now send my car around." the colonel grinned and motioned for the car.
the black car adorned with swastikas roared to life, coming up beside her. the d
chylee plunkett Nov 2012
This is a poem of a girl. A girl who is so cliché, that she needs to write angst-filled poetry to keep herself conscious and her thoughts free, but is too hipster to believe it. A girl who is too freckled to be fair, too fleshy to be flirty, too conspicuous to be classy, too prominent to be petite, but too small to be seen. A girl who’s piercing blue eyes absorbs everything and regurgitates emotions like a tampered slots machine—excessi vely and noisily. This is a poem of a girl who is so over-stimulated with color, texture, love, and life that the numbness in her head is a pink eraser. A girl who was brought up to have opinions and dreams as long as they kept her on the path to perfection, poise, and parenting. A girl who is experienced enough to know the difference between sorrow and guilt, manipulation and cowardice, hysteria and hyperventilation but is too naïve to know why certain boys are a bluish green, why math is a bafflement, and why ground up chili peppers in dark chocolate ice cream isn’t everyone’s favorite food. This is a poem of a girl who salivates at the mere thought of classical music, couture fashion, and feminine heels. A girl who breathes in culture like a caterpillar inhales hookah smoke. A girl who Alis volat propriis (flies with her own wings) but ultimately plummets to nosus decipio (Let’s just cheat) because her humanity held down her Heredity. A girl who thrives on music of every variety: as long as it can paint out her emotions in front of her. This is a poem of a girl who is so acerbically witty and harsh that she could unarm Napoleon but is so vehemently protecting that Mother Theresa herself would be awed. A girl with an attention span of a fish, short-term memory like sea foam, thoughts that outnumber armadas, and a bad habit of dehydration. This is a poem of a girl who talks but shouldn’t, speaks but doesn’t, and who is so badly burnt by the enticement of affection that her wallflower camouflage is now charred ashes around her stubby toes. A girl who has such infatuation that she could pin Lust against the wall and make Passion jealous. A girl who wears red lipstick because she knows it will keep a man’s gaze for 8.2 more seconds than with chapstick and the 50’s will never grow old. A girl too nervous and traditional to make the first move, but too strategic and over-analytical to lie back and forget. A girl who loathes the word mamihlapinatapai because it describes her every circumstance since the day she befriended the purple-brown boy who thought her personality tasted of Raspberry ice cream and to this day she still can’t pronounce it. This is a poem of a girl who needs a bed so crowded and protected with blankets and pillows that her monsters can’t penetrate her mazed-up mind. A girl who drinks tea with her lips, and philosophy with her soul. A girl who can’t spell the alphabet backwards but can make great mnemonic devices. A girl who can’t tie ends together because she doesn’t want to leave anything unsaid but whose tangents are kite-strings. A girl whose sentences are distracting fences in front of her literal eyes but doors for her mind’s eyes. A girl who has Synesthesia but keeps it quiet because of the condescending kids in kindergarten who called her a freak, and a liar. This is a poem of a girl who thinks about Death and whether he is a snatching thief or just the ferryman. A girl who dances with her eyes shut, her heart open and her toe-socks on. A girl who will clean her room at 2 am because she can’t handle the sight and the night is too lively for sleeping anyways. A girl who wears her heart not only on her sleeve, but on her chest, open as a blushing book playing poker with hockey players and still winning a game. A girl who’s emotions are kept in a Tupperware box and left in the refrigerator but if you shake it hard enough the lid just might pop open
Steve Page Oct 2018
The riled route master and the hacked off hackney carriage weren't bothered by the boris bike, they simply barreled along the bus lane oblivious to the wobble, blind to the blindsided and bent on beating the amber to red, til they were halted by the growth factor of a chelsea tractor straddling lanes and field testing the choice of right or left and failing the screen test set by the sat nav, thereby giving opportunity to the swarm of office staffers snatching their chance and chancing their luck, dancing past with their fat chance of swiping in before nine and avoiding the chagrin of the boss who's been the bane of their short sojourn through the city of lost dreams, chance encounters, thin fortune and rushed hours. This is London.
Route Master = a London bus
Hackney Carriage = a black cab
Boris Bike = rentabike
Chelsea tractor = an oversized suv preferred by families who can afford Kensington & Chelsea
Kissy Marie Oct 2014
When I feel the thunder crashing  
I imagine it's the thrashing
Of my sweet sadistic lover
Snatching me out of the covers

When I hear the storm winds howling
I imagine it's the growling
Of my lover in the night
His eyes filled with evil light

When I feel the rain drops falling
It makes my mind start recalling
Tears my lover brought to me
From pleasure and pain mixed expertly

When my lover leaves me bleeding
Fully sated but still needing
Another ***** romp with him
But next time I'm S and he's M
Tonight is probably the only time the thunder was NOT a lullaby, so I thought I'd try a naughty poem
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
The morning mist dissipated
as the ships keel ploughed a furrow
through the Great Green of the Aegean,
leaving far behind the magick isle.
Vigilantos stood at the prow,
marvelling at the accompanying dolphins,
curious and playful,
schooling with purpose to the ocean.
Ahead, waiting, a grand tour.
Of Sumer, Abyssinia and desert lands,
to glean hidden knowledge,
regain the mysteries of the ancients,
read the Necronomicon and old scripts
from a time when power crackled,
and the storms of the gods
belittled the existence of mankind.

The twilight Moon peeps
from behind the brazen grey cloud.
And she weaves hap-hazard
through the crushes of the crowd.
A high-born daughter of the desert,
a vision of beauty from the sand.
With silks and satin and perfume
richly obtained from foreign lands.
Through the colourful bazaar she threads
with occasional glances thrown at stalls,
priestess jewels sparkle in the night,
its her Name the sirocco calls.

Cobalt blue water, an illusion of light
where the sun slides through the meniscus,
and the harbour of Tyre was alive.
The bustling of boats around ships at anchor,
snatching glimpses of a turquoise sky
and the quay throbbing with the pulse of music.
It would be another 3 thousand years
before Rome was even a trading post on the Tiber,
let alone an empire conquering the east,
or building hippodromes and columned avenues.
Vigilantos drank in the atmosphere,
his magicians instincts bristling, noting all.
Meandering through the narrow streets,
loosely following direction, getting lost.
Seeking his retinue and camels, ready to start,
across the desert to Ninevah on the Tigris.
To speak to tribes, pray with the priests of Ur.
To find the secrets of mysteries, and treasure,
reaping the knowledge of the Old Gods awe,
amongst the shifting dunes of history.

Vivid colours of silks and dyes
adorn the tents of cloth and stick.
The summer sun beats down lazy,
heat as oppressive as mist is thick.
Her charms and delights are hidden,
with misery and pain, the last week spent.
The dark, the quiet, the inane chatter,
deep within the women's red tent.
Free from the curse, her moon-cycle complete,
she wanders with mood sombre and slow.
A powerful man from a western place
will arrive at the camp as the sun sinks low.
He had seen her in the main bazaar
and decided to stake his claim.
Whilst confined away, behind her back,
her father had bartered for riches and fame.

His travels around those beautiful lands
had yielded books of law and scripts.
He had heard the oral traditions of elders
and gazed in wonder at the Moon's eclipse.
Then he had seen the greatest treasure
wending her way through crowded markets.
With tact and guile he discovered her Name,
and vowed to grace her father's carpets.

The desert folk live a simple life
but far from simple are they.
Sharp of tongue and quick of wit,
erudite in a most unusual way.
The father was the elected leader,
King of the tribe that he now led.
Vigilantos had bargained hard
to purchase the girl for his marital bed.

The sun sinks, falling from the sky in the eve.
Spectacular reds and orange colliding with the dunes.
The azure twilight sky lit and sprinkled with stars,
and the tribal camp fills with laughter and tunes.

He walked with purpose toward the campfire,
his features silhouetted by flickering light.
The sudden hush of the assembled camp
echoed strange, deep into the desert night.
His eyes beheld her most beautiful form,
half in the shadow, half in the light.
For her families benefit he had traded,
agreed bargains, and come to claim his right.

“Princess of the desert, Daughter of the sand,
step forward gently and take me by the hand.
For my island home calls out loud to me,
so come, let us away across the sea”.

Head bowed in fake submission
she boldly makes her cold admission.

“I am a Woman of the free,
these sands are my home to me.
With all good grace; I could not face
life on an island in the sea”.

Black and red, darkness and rage
descend upon his fevered mind.
Humiliated, spurned by a maiden fair,
and pride will not be left behind.

“A curse. A curse. 'pon thy beautiful head,
prowl and creep as do the undead.
Evil deeds are now thy course,
henceforth our contract is now divorced”.

But something made Vigilantos start,
a pang of something from his dead heart.
With such feelings he could not contend,
so a caveat, for the curse to amend.

“Thy deeds and crimes maybe invested
'pon mortals only who invest the same such evil
'pon their fellow mortals”.

Leaving far behind the desert
he turns his face to the sky.
The ships keel ploughs a furrow
as the evening mist draws nigh.

And now she prowls the dark night,
her Name lost in the sands of time.
Seeking out the mortal sinners and
punishing their evil with her crimes.

... and thus it begins ...

© Pagan Paul (08/08/17)
Prequel to The Judderwitch poem (posted in April).
I fear this may create more questions than it answers.

My Judderwitch poems are now in a collection :)
CEFord Jan 2014
Whispers hello as the first streams of sunlight
inch their way in through their black chiffon veil,
gleaming on our garden of stale breath,
and down feathers.

Whispers goodnight as his proud freckles
become the constellations outside my window,
and the moon stretches her arms
for another night's work.

Whispers sorry after his words became feather-lances
jousting through my arguments until my armor
was askew and torn
at its paper seams.

Whispers tales of tomorrows and fortnights
to come under illusions of rich greens, blues, and yellows
he will finger paint on my forehead
like a warrior.

Whispers goodbyes, sweet and forlorn,
as he realizes promises and paints will not keep the morning
from snatching his prized possession from his cotton laced roost,
leaving him alone with just the rays of the sun
to admire his tail.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
Why I Always Carry Tissues

To My Children:

I'm laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.

There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.

When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.

Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.

It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.

That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,

But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.

These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Then looking ahead.

No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.

When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d'etre is unfulfilled.

These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.

That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.

The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n' fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best...

Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one's fears.

If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep
When tears fall...

1. Written in 2008, updated today 7/2013, adding a word here and there.
2. When I wrote this, there were no more babies in my life; now the next generation, a new set of boo-boos
3. Yes, I still, always have tissues on me someplace,
a habit started over thirty years ago,
when my children where toddlers.
4. The poem I love the best.
Fled foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering and milky smoke,
High as the Saddle-girth, covering away from our glances the tide;
And those that fled, and that followed, from the foam-pale distance broke;
The immortal desire of Immortals we saw in their faces, and sighed.

I mused on the chase with the Fenians, and Bran, Sceolan, Lomair,
And never a song sang Niamh, and over my finger-tips
Came now the sliding of tears and sweeping of mist-cold hair,
And now the warmth of sighs, and after the quiver of lips.

Were we days long or hours long in riding, when, rolled in a grisly peace,
An isle lay level before us, with dripping hazel and oak?
And we stood on a sea's edge we saw not; for whiter than new-washed fleece
Fled foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering and milky smoke.

And we rode on the plains of the sea's edge; the sea's edge barren and grey,
Grey sand on the green of the grasses and over the dripping trees,
Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten away,
Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of the seas.

But the trees grew taller and closer, immense in their wrinkling bark;
Dropping; a murmurous dropping; old silence and that one sound;
For no live creatures lived there, no weasels moved in the dark:
Long sighs arose in our spirits, beneath us bubbled the ground.

And the ears of the horse went sinking away in the hollow night,
For, as drift from a sailor slow drowning the gleams of the world and the sun,
Ceased on our hands and our faces, on hazel and oak leaf, the light,
And the stars were blotted above us, and the whole of the world was one.

Till the horse gave a whinny; for, cumbrous with stems of the hazel and oak,
A valley flowed down from his hoofs, and there in the long grass lay,
Under the starlight and shadow, a monstrous slumbering folk,
Their naked and gleaming bodies poured out and heaped in the way.

And by them were arrow and war-axe, arrow and shield and blade;
And dew-blanched horns, in whose hollow a child of three years old
Could sleep on a couch of rushes, and all inwrought and inlaid,
And more comely than man can make them with bronze and silver and gold.

And each of the huge white creatures was huger than fourscore men;
The tops of their ears were feathered, their hands were the claws of birds,
And, shaking the plumes of the grasses and the leaves of the mural glen,
The breathing came from those bodies, long warless, grown whiter than curds.

The wood was so Spacious above them, that He who has stars for His flocks
Could ****** the leaves with His fingers, nor go from His dew-cumbered skies;
So long were they sleeping, the owls had builded their nests in their locks,
Filling the fibrous dimness with long generations of eyes.

And over the limbs and the valley the slow owls wandered and came,
Now in a place of star-fire, and now in a shadow-place wide;
And the chief of the huge white creatures, his knees in the soft star-flame,
Lay loose in a place of shadow:  we drew the reins by his side.

Golden the nails of his bird-clawS, flung loosely along the dim ground;
In one was a branch soft-shining with bells more many than sighs
In midst of an old man's *****; owls ruffling and pacing around
Sidled their bodies against him, filling the shade with their eyes.

And my gaze was thronged with the sleepers; no, not since the world began,
In realms where the handsome were many, nor in glamours by demons flung,
Have faces alive with such beauty been known to the salt eye of man,
Yet weary with passions that faded when the sevenfold seas were young.

And I gazed on the bell-branch, sleep's forebear, far sung by the Sennachies.
I saw how those slumbererS, grown weary, there camping in grasses deep,
Of wars with the wide world and pacing the shores of the wandering seas,
Laid hands on the bell-branch and swayed it, and fed of unhuman sleep.

Snatching the horn of Niamh, I blew a long lingering note.
Came sound from those monstrous sleepers, a sound like the stirring of flies.
He, shaking the fold of his lips, and heaving the pillar of his throat,
Watched me with mournful wonder out of the wells of his eyes.

I cried, 'Come out of the shadow, king of the nails of gold!
And tell of your goodly household and the goodly works of your hands,
That we may muse in the starlight and talk of the battles of old;
Your questioner, Oisin, is worthy, he comes from the ****** lands.'

Half open his eyes were, and held me, dull with the smoke of their dreams;
His lips moved slowly in answer, no answer out of them came;
Then he swayed in his fingers the bell-branch, slow dropping a sound in faint streams
Softer than snow-flakes in April and piercing the marrow like flame.

Wrapt in the wave of that music, with weariness more than of earth,
The moil of my centuries filled me; and gone like a sea-covered stone
Were the memories of the whole of my sorrow and the memories of the whole of my mirth,
And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.

In the roots of the grasses, the sorrels, I laid my body as low;
And the pearl-pale Niamh lay by me, her brow on the midst of my breast;
And the horse was gone in the distance, and years after years 'gan flow;
Square leaves of the ivy moved over us, binding us down to our rest.

And, man of the many white croziers, a century there I forgot
How the fetlocks drip blocd in the battle, when the fallen on fallen lie rolled;
How the falconer follows the falcon in the weeds of the heron's plot,
And the name of the demon whose hammer made Conchubar's sword-blade of old.

And, man of the many white croziers, a century there I forgot
That the spear-shaft is made out of ashwood, the shield out of osier and hide;
How the hammers spring on the anvil, on the spearhead's burning spot;
How the slow, blue-eyed oxen of Finn low sadly at evening tide.

But in dreams, mild man of the croziers, driving the dust with their throngs,
Moved round me, of ****** or landsmen, all who are winter tales;
Came by me the kings of the Red Branch, with roaring of laughter and songs,
Or moved as they moved once, love-making or piercing the tempest with sails.

Came Blanid, Mac Nessa, tall Fergus who feastward of old time slunk,
Cook Barach, the traitor; and warward, the spittle on his beard never dry,
Dark Balor, as old as a forest, car-borne, his mighty head sunk
Helpless, men lifting the lids of his weary and death making eye.

And by me, in soft red raiment, the Fenians moved in loud streams,
And Grania, walking and smiling, sewed with her needle of bone.
So lived I and lived not, so wrought I and wrought not, with creatures of dreams,
In a long iron sleep, as a fish in the water goes dumb as a stone.

At times our slumber was lightened.  When the sun was on silver or gold;
When brushed with the wings of the owls, in the dimness they love going by;
When a glow-worm was green on a grass-leaf, lured from his lair in the mould;
Half wakening, we lifted our eyelids, and gazed on the grass with a sigh.

So watched I when, man of the croziers, at the heel of a century fell,
Weak, in the midst of the meadow, from his miles in the midst of the air,
A starling like them that forgathered 'neath a moon waking white as a shell
When the Fenians made foray at morning with Bran, Sceolan, Lomair.

I awoke:  the strange horse without summons out of the distance ran,
Thrusting his nose to my shoulder; he knew in his ***** deep
That once more moved in my ***** the ancient sadness of man,
And that I would leave the Immortals, their dimness, their dews dropping sleep.

O, had you seen beautiful Niamh grow white as the waters are white,
Lord of the croziers, you even had lifted your hands and wept:
But, the bird in my fingers, I mounted, remembering alone that delight
Of twilight and slumber were gone, and that hoofs impatiently stept.

I died, 'O Niamh! O white one! if only a twelve-houred day,
I must gaze on the beard of Finn, and move where the old men and young
In the Fenians' dwellings of wattle lean on the chessboards and play,
Ah, sweet to me now were even bald Conan's slanderous tongue!

'Like me were some galley forsaken far off in Meridian isle,
Remembering its long-oared companions, sails turning to threadbare rags;
No more to crawl on the seas with long oars mile after mile,
But to be amid shooting of flies and flowering of rushes and flags.'

Their motionless eyeballs of spirits grown mild with mysterious thought,
Watched her those seamless faces from the valley's glimmering girth;
As she murmured, 'O wandering Oisin, the strength of the bell-branch is naught,
For there moves alive in your fingers the fluttering sadness of earth.

'Then go through the lands in the saddle and see what the mortals do,
And softly come to your Niamh over the tops of the tide;
But weep for your Niamh, O Oisin, weep; for if only your shoe
Brush lightly as haymouse earth's pebbles, you will come no more to my side.

'O flaming lion of the world, O when will you turn to your rest?'
I saw from a distant saddle; from the earth she made her moan:
'I would die like a small withered leaf in the autumn, for breast unto breast
We shall mingle no more, nor our gazes empty their sweetness lone

'In the isles of the farthest seas where only the spirits come.
Were the winds less soft than the breath of a pigeon who sleeps on her nest,
Nor lost in the star-fires and odours the sound of the sea's vague drum?
O flaming lion of the world, O when will you turn to your rest?'

The wailing grew distant; I rode by the woods of the wrinkling bark,
Where ever is murmurous dropping, old silence and that one sound;
For no live creatures live there, no weasels move in the dark:
In a reverie forgetful of all things, over the bubbling' ground.

And I rode by the plains of the sea's edge, where all is barren and grey,
Grey sand on the green of the grasses and over the dripping trees,
Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten away',
Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of the seas.

And the winds made the sands on the sea's edge turning and turning go,
As my mind made the names of the Fenians.  Far from the hazel and oak,
I rode away on the surges, where, high aS the saddle-bow,
Fled foam underneath me, and round me, a wandering and milky smoke.

Long fled the foam-flakes around me, the winds fled out of the vast,
Snatching the bird in secret; nor knew I, embosomed apart,
When they froze the cloth on my body like armour riveted fast,
For Remembrance, lifting her leanness, keened in the gates of my heart.

Till, fattening the winds of the morning, an odour of new-mown hay
Came, and my forehead fell low, and my tears like berries fell down;
Later a sound came, half lost in the sound of a shore far away,
From the great grass-barnacle calling, and later the shore-weeds brown.

If I were as I once was, the strong hoofs crushing the sand and the shells,
Coming out of the sea as the dawn comes, a chaunt of love on my lips,
Not coughing, my head on my knees, and praying, and wroth with the bells,
I would leave no saint's head on his body from Rachlin to Bera of ships.

Making way from the kindling surges, I rode on a bridle-path
Much wondering to see upon all hands, of wattles and woodwork made,
Your bell-mounted churches, and guardless the sacred cairn and the mth,
And a small and a feeble populace stooping with mattock and *****,

Or weeding or ploughing with faces a-shining with much-toil wet;
While in this place and that place, with bodies unglorious, their chieftains stood,
Awaiting in patience the straw-death, croziered one, caught in your net:
Went the laughter of scorn from my mouth like the roaring of wind in a wood.

And before I went by them so huge and so speedy with eyes so bright,
Came after the hard gaze of youth, or an old man lifted his head:
And I rode and I rode, and I cried out, 'The Fenians hunt wolves in the night,
So sleep thee by daytime.' A voice cried, 'The Fenians a long time are dead.'

A whitebeard stood hushed on the pathway, the flesh of his face as dried grass,
And in folds round his eyes and his mouth, he sad as a child without milk-
And the dreams of the islands were gone, and I knew how men sorrow and pass,
And their hound, and their horse, and their love, and their eyes that glimmer like silk.

And wrapping my face in my hair, I murmured, 'In old age they ceased';
And my tears were larger than berries, and I murmured, 'Where white clouds lie spread
On Crevroe or broad Knockfefin, with many of old they feast
On the floors of the gods.' He cried, 'No, the gods a long time are dead.'

And lonely and longing for Niamh, I shivered and turned me about,
The heart in me longing to leap like a grasshopper into her heart;
I turned and rode to the westward, and followed the sea's old shout
Till I saw where Maeve lies sleeping till starlight and midnight part.

And there at the foot of the mountain, two carried a sack full of sand,
They bore it with staggering and sweating, but fell with their burden at length.
Leaning down from the gem-studded saddle, I flung it five yards with my hand,
With a sob for men waxing so weakly, a sob for the Fenians' old strength.

The rest you have heard of, O croziered man; how, when divided the girth,
I fell on the path, and the horse went away like a summer fly;
And my years three hundred fell on me, and I rose, and walked on the earth,
A creeping old man, full of sleep, with the spittle on his beard never dry'.

How the men of the sand-sack showed me a church with its belfry in air;
Sorry place, where for swing of the war-axe in my dim eyes the crozier gleams;
What place have Caoilte and Conan, and Bran, Sceolan, Lomair?
Speak, you too are old with your memories, an old man surrounded with dreams.

S.  Patrick. Where the flesh of the footsole clingeth on the burning stones is their place;
Where the demons whip them with wires on the burning stones of wide Hell,
Watching the blessed ones move far off, and the smile on God's face,
Between them a gateway of brass, and the howl of the angels who fell.

Oisin. Put the staff in my hands; for I go to the Fenians, O cleric, to chaunt
The war-songs that roused them of old; they will rise, making clouds with their Breath,
Innumerable, singing, exultant; the clay underneath them shall pant,
And demons be broken in pieces, and trampled beneath them in death.

And demons afraid in their darkness; deep horror of eyes and of wings,
Afraid, their ears on the earth laid, shall listen and rise up and weep;
Hearing the shaking of shields and the quiver of stretched bowstrings,
Hearing Hell loud with a murmur, as shouting and mocking we sweep.

We will tear out the flaming stones, and batter the gateway of brass
And enter, and none sayeth 'No' when there enters the strongly armed guest;
Make clean as a broom cleans, and march on as oxen move over young grass;
Then feast, making converse of wars, and of old wounds, and turn to our rest.

S.  Patrick. On the flaming stones, without refuge, the limbs of the Fenians are tost;
None war on the masters of Hell, who could break up the world in their rage;
But kneel and wear out the flags and pray for your soul that is lost
Through the demon love of its youth and its godless and passionate age.

Oisin. Ah me! to be Shaken with coughing and broken with old age and pain,
Without laughter, a show unto children, alone with remembrance and fear;
All emptied of purple hours as a beggar's cloak in the rain,
As a hay-**** out on the flood, or a wolf ****** under a weir.

It were sad to gaze on the blessed and no man I loved of old there;
I throw down the chain of small stones! when life in my body has ceased,
I will go to Caoilte, and Conan, and Bran, Sceolan, Lomair,
And dwell in the house of the Fenians, be they in flames or at feast.
Softly spoken Oct 2011
Im successful head on my shoulders straight
I have my full portion love family job and money on my plate
Im the type to smile every time you see me
But i keep running into angry birds on the street
Im happy can have any girl i want
Im flawless what you see is what you get no need to stunt
I can be whateva a ***** need and i guess they see
And thats y you angry birds keep pecking at me
Gossiping throwing dirt on my name
Saying im not **** added by wanna be truths yall claim
Snatching my nerves one by one
Boiling my blood some one give me a gun
Im bout to go on a hunt for these angry *** birds
Naw not the game im not throwing you ******* at pigs
I dont need you hoes to get to the next level ***** please
But im about to toss you hoes straight rag you in the streets
Im feeling bad for you birds so every now and then i throw yall bread
And in return you hoes ******* on my head
**** these angry birds
Tryna hatch hate on my life
Jealous cuz im a dove and they pigeons thats not right
For all my successful ladies who is a go getta for hers
When these ******* try to dog you, and pull you down just say i feel bad for these angry birds

avalon Dec 2017
can you feel yourself dying?  
do you feel the earth as it burns
as it's turning, twisting
and spiraling so violently
the friction sends sparks
into galaxies? can you taste
the life as it's leaving you?
as it's rippling out of your
fingers and snatching the breath
that's knocked out of you?
do you cringe as your edges
are singed by the fire
surrounding you? as the oceans
subside and the planet decides
that erosion's
just your
point of view.
telling where the wind comes from
  open a story.
telling where the wind goes
  end a story.
These eager pencils
come to a stop
.. only .. when the stars high over
come to a stop.
Out of cabalistic to-morrows
come cryptic babies calling life
a strong and a lovely thing.
I have seen neither these
nor the stars high over
come to a stop.
Neither these nor the sea horses
running with the clocks of the moon.
Nor even a shooting star
snatching a pencil of fire
writing a curve of gold and white.
Like you .. I counted the shooting stars of a winter
night and my head was dizzy with all
of them calling one by one:
        Look for us again.
It's too soon to live in memories
I try to convince myself
Years don't change everything
I try to convince myself
This is no prison I'm living in
I have the keys, the locks are not broken
I try to convince myself I have a reason
For not using them

Grab a pen and some paper
Some of these are important
I just know they are
These are the things that made me what I am
Aren't they?
The sum total of all my experiences, right?
I need to chronicle and catalog
Separate the wheat from the chaff
This will set me straight
Or maybe not...could be a waste of time

Time takes them away, one by one
Teases, bringing some back
Then snatching them away again
Despite my best efforts
To hoard them
Years don't change everything
The cruel workings of time
Are eternal

Of this I am convinced

I've sacrificed freedom
To live in a cage
To settle for memories
For fear that hurt would break in
And make itself comfortable
Quick to remind me of the memories
It helped make

I'm convinced I have no reason
To break these chains
An empty house, alone
Is better than such bad company
© 2010 by James Arthur Casey
Sam Miller Sep 2012
An all-consuming plague
Taking everything and hoarding it
Where it can never be found

Selfish narcissist
Self-entitled to everything
Stealing in the night

Not a person, a virus
Poison to thought
Monetary disease

No cure for this epidemic
Taking and wanting all the time
Can't risk spending for fear of losing

Snatching from the hands of the innocent
Grinning in selfish madness
Succumbing to greed
Mark Oct 2019
You can have it all, if you don't need nothing
Keep the good vibes rolling, if it helps with one's loving
It's like a whole EDM festival, coming from your mouth
Not like those turntable dudes, down in the deep south
I thought DJs had had their freestyle spinning last days
Like Catholic church priests and their unholy ******* ways

Licking soda-pops over a long hot summer holiday
Kissing a girl named, Katy Perry, the very next day
Licking it all up, before she shows her b-SiDE
Then screams to three, to come on back inside
Like snatching the America's Cup, with Ben Lexcen’s winning keel
While somewhere amongst the hills of Hollywood’s La La Land
Whole plates of food, just going to waste, inside, never never,  friggin Disneyland
While a starving homie, maybe, just ate his very last meal

They say, ‘I'm the new messiah’.Thanks, but, I don't even try
Thanks to so few, excluding the ones, who waved me on by
I'm sort of creating, a brand new hype and buzz
Full of pure clarity, with a dash of man-made fuzz
When the beat stops, from its fast-talking pace
We all like to flop and drop that ******* bass

Licking soda-pops over a long hot summer holiday
Kissing a girl named, Katy Perry, the very next day
Licking it all up, before she shows her b-SiDE
Then screams to three, to come on back inside
Like snatching the America's Cup, with Ben Lexcen’s winning keel
While somewhere amongst the hills of Hollywood’s La La Land
Whole plates of food, just going to waste, inside never never, friggin Disneyland
While a starving homie, maybe, just ate his very last meal

A shout out, to all my southern conquistadors and homeward bound homie’s
Ignore all the Los Angeles doomsayers and Hollywood snapchat phoney's
Elevator doors always be jammin' and then coming to a closure
We all like a moment, of shy mouth miming, with very little exposure
From a worldwide hit or an Aussie Whispering Jack golden classic
From the sound of a crackling frisbee, made from nothing,
but pure black plastic

Licking soda-pops over a long hot summer holiday
Kissing a girl named, Katy Perry, the very next day
Licking it all up, before she shows her b-SiDE
Then screams to three, to come on back inside
Like snatching the America's Cup, with Ben Lexcen’s winning keel
While somewhere amongst the hills of Hollywood’s La La Land
Whole plates of food, just going to waste, inside, never never, friggin Disneyland
While a starving homie, maybe, just ate his very last meal.
oh me oh my May 2014
i need someone to tell him i am a train wreck and he's headed straight for it and he's not stopping and he's destined to crash and burn hard.

i need someone to tell him he's going to get attached and his green eyes are gonna turn red and he's gonna hate me.

i need someone to stop me from ripping open his chest and snatching his heart heart and eating it whole and watch him bleed and not be sorry.

i need someone to stop me because he doesn't deserve it because i cant make myself look at those green eyes and take my hand out of his hair.

i just need someone.

he doesn't need me.
i am so sorry for the train wreck you will burn in.
Hero Jan 2015
I can't help but call out, look at the flame!
see it blush the highway bridges, see it burn my family name,
it churns like a half-sarcastic love song on repeat
it dances on the steel mill, makes the blackest smoke taste sweet
it stokes my little leafless heart, gnaws the edges of my sleeves.

because that hot bright tongue is mine, it's mine
a winking message, a cryptic sign,
the mad plumage fluttering above a gridlock hide
a hundred hands snatching up from the skyline

and even when it's lost in the daylight or the rain
I still find it, send it kisses, call it by the family name.
Charlotte May 2013
Creep through the roses
Who is there but me?
Everyone else is dead
Snatching at my roses
Rotten flesh, shells of flowers
Something isn't right here.
david badgerow Jan 2012
a high school football game.
the field is ablaze with juicy roses
and doves.
the athletes suddenly drop thier pencils,
their coughing hands made of melting wax.
all the trombones are falling apart, and
the flute players are losing their *******
under the bleachers, throwing away secrets.
heartbeats cracking broomsticks, the nuns
were always hitchhikers with resounding
gag reflexes.
i sail forward, snatching the time bomb
from the quarterback, snuffing out
a pall mall on his right eyelid.
the dead angel is summoned to slay
the horrible hippopotamus. she is ancient.
she has a mouth full of cavities and peace
in her veins.
the truth is a piercing thing, whose bitter tongue will decay me.
Enigmuse Apr 2014
I didn't know you were a piano player.

This fact only came up while my palms burned
with anticipation as I reached out into the stillness,
searching for your hands. I found them beneath sheets
and cold promises, where the fingers were dancing
and the nails were scratching and you were looking to have a good time.
You're good at playing the blues.
A man by the name of Skye told me you knew all about snatching secrets
from the moon, and as I felt the scars and scratches along your callous, quick fingers, I knew this was true.
Your eyes never looked down at what you played, which is probably how they ended up this way: scarred and burned and stained a dark red. I
never found out why you liked to play music so dark that it did
nothing but leave bruises, ones you tried to wash away with
old wash cloths and chardonnay. Or why your nickname was *****
even though your mother named you Vivian. Or why you sold me those
tickets to that band you dreamed of seeing. Or why your hands started
shaking whenever you were near me. Or why I'm in love with your fingers,
and all the notes they've played and touched and stole.
I don't mind the fact that their skin is burdened with slices of depressed,
quiet peace, or the way your eyes turn blue even though they're supposed
to be green.
I can only hope in the wake of all these sad revelations, that your fingers will remain on those black and white keys, and tomorrow you'll still be playing.
I've got a terrible fascination with hands
Md HUDA Jan 2013
Hey flossy! Don’t offer this smile anymore
Mysterious smile torments the heart
That smile raises up the thirst.
If you agree to surrender all your mysterious smiles to me  
In return I will return your love with the usury of love
And with time’s compound interest rate.

If you turn down to surrender your smile
Then know the consequences of it,
Taking incalculable stars as my co – operator
I will abduct the  celestial curve moon on the land.

Hey belle! Don’t turn your face away
Tell me,
You will be the reason of how many wars,
And the cause of scrimmage amongst the juveniles?

If you don’t pay attention to me today
Then know it, You spectacular lady,
In the theater of mysterious smile
I prosecute for the execution
Of your heart snatching smile….
Mind of mine, you alien child.
I spoon-fed you for many years.
I pretended it was a plane in some cases
and the things you spat out
I fed to you again.

Mind of mine, you shadow of a melody.
Homeless drifter on the A41
with a 5 stringed guitar and no common sense.
Begging for a shoelace to tie on
whilst you go hungry.

Mind of mine, you nervous gun clip.
You know you’re unloaded
so your barrel droops like a snowdrop.
No hippie can put a flower in you.
and your shakes are breaking my wrist.

Mind of mine, you scar butterfly-collector.
Snatching red admirals with a chameleon tongue
and when you stitch them in
their red eyes close on dusty wings.
I know you’re lying when you can’t feel a thing.

Mind of mine, You’re a ****** full of love
and a belly full of drugs.
Positive negative flip, as love is in electrics
and you’re still such a bad liar
to tell me it’s anything else.

Mind of mine,
I can be such a bad parent to you
and an even worse child.
you're not half bad
at your candlewick blossom snuffing -

got your braggart game up loud
in your repetitive silence
beaming at the doting strange phoenixes
darting in between your
bending fingers,

snatching up my flames
in their return to their
static progress on
life skills that are lingering
far too long
in the forging stage.

baby, baby
please -

tell me those aren't
your voices
slithering up the tall
columns of echoes,
wailing out
too pompous

nevermind -

my mind's pretending
to sleep somewhere marvellous
in this mind-field
the littlest
pink *******,

trying to act like
i don't suddenly feel
as if
the tomorrow
up next
will be bringing
a different star.

so i just sit here -

pointing my toes at occurrences
that i really wish had've gone down
a whole lot more

praying that
by some miracle,
tossing a bit of dust
from my careful bag

(paired with the experimental
levitational practices
i keep doing in my free time)

will somehow
make room
for all these
eggshells you won't stop
throwing onto the floor.

too many have found me
playing patty-cake
under that possessed streetlamp
down Hardy,
the one that always seems to flicker
when i walk by -

snatching back its potency
just long enough
to highlight the
unsolicited red apple ritual
happening in my

i've got a game to catch.

not trying to be the dawdling girl,
throwing all of her hopes
into the air,
willing the destined one
to be something that will
cradle us both.

you gotta be on this
wick snuffing trip
searching for something a little more than
a ****-tossing buddy.

better get a pack of matches
and try to beat me to it,
'cause i'm putting up my fire-red can

and the light's gonna follow me out.
© 2011 Elephants & Coyotes
guy scutellaro Jun 2018
above Maloney's bar where the loud rock music shakes the rats in the wall till 3 a.m. the vibrations travel through the concrete floor, up the bed posts, and into the mattress. it was like being front row center at woodstock. paul keater had seen jimi hendrix play purple haze to close woodstock.

slowly his eyes open. who the hell is he fooling. even without the loud rock music he would not be able to sleep, anyway. the wagon wheel bar sign outside his window blinks soft red neon into his room.

keater sits up, sighs, resigns himself to another sleepless night, and swings his legs off of the bed. he searches his mind for some distraction to pass away the night hours. he thinks about his x- wife. he remembers going to the phycologist to try and save his marriage.

"dump the *****," martlin said." paul keater laughs softly to himself. "I paid him eighty bucks and all he had to say was dump the *****." laughing to himself he reaches and switches on the lamp.

paul thinks about *******, surveys the foot high pile of magazines in the corner but instead spots his stack of baseball cards he had collected since when he was a boy. he walks over to the dresser. first, he puts on his giant baseball cap and then snatching the baseball cards, he plops down in the chair by the dresser.

the card on top is willie mays. he takes it in his hand. the card is not worn like some of the others. it looks brand new. although the cards are more than thirty years old he holds the deck up to his nose imagining he can smell the bubble gum that came with every pack of cards.

and he can. and he can hear the roar of the crowd. his team the giants is down three to two. the bases are loaded when willie mays comes to bat. the pitcher goes into the wind up. mays swings. it's a grand slam!

it was paul's tenth birthday.  his dad had taken him to his first baseball game and his father bought him the willie mays card from a dealer. eagerly, he searches through the deck for the willie mays card. he finds it.

oblivious to the loud rock music filtering through his room, paul holds the card to his nose.

fondly, he remembers.

excerpt from a novel. doesn't quite work as a short story.
Maggie Emmett Jul 2014
for Tor Ulven

If you never existed
you wouldn’t be here
reading this poem
it would make no difference
to your life.

When you cease to exist
it will be like you never
heard this poem
it would make no difference
to your death.

Now, while you’re reading
it happens
it snatches a few seconds -
a tiny grasping, clawing animal
furry with letters
sleek with syllables
blocking the way
standing between you
and the next minute.
You can never get it back.
Title poem of a collection of poetry published by Wakefield Press called New Poets 14
Geno Cattouse Sep 2012
Old women sit around in smokey rooms
Pulling on Stinking cigars. Lights turned low
The red  ends glow like big bloodshot eyes.
They wink in and out.
Murmuring chants and singing in low oblique tones.

Your soul is in question your will directed.

Have a cure  with your man's cheating ways
You been having a bad streak of luck. One thing then the next.
Obeah on you. Go see lady cross town. Bring money.Obeah

You strongly believe someone  Put Hudu on You. You been sick
for some time now and the pills just wont do.Obeah
Somebody put bad eye on you too. Obeah

If you believe then all things are possible Not true? Obeah Chicken blood
and the root to suit your condition. Now sit still and listen to her( premonition)

Let the spirit have his way.Draw the cancer from your bones
But you have to give yourself to the spirits of the dead. Obeah

The Zombie walks around at night snatching souls from  the sleeper.Leaving the empty husk as witness.
Sleep light my friend and keep. Keep your poultice near.Do not abandon fear.Obeah.
Meagan Moore Jan 2014
In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds

Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual

My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary

Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments

I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path

The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux

As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate

Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift

Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary

Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode

And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
SassyJ Mar 2016
A ***** drills inside my core
It nags, graps, pans, the hands
They knot in spins and twists

My crux left at the river side
Breathing,gasping fast, faster
Body out in the open rawness

Persisting resistance of the force
An outward shield winning
Winged left,right, up, down

Another day, a greater pace
A passive taste, ranting in haste
In bricks *****, all I taste is hate

All walking in dead silence
Heads shouting with dreams
A roll of sweet and sour sate

Echoes of taxes and budgets
How will they evolve us?
Snatching more from pockets

The rockets burst to mock us
Pulling our all to fund them
Nuclear bombs creating tombs

Distribution of lies and wars
Missiles disposing as lyrics
An objectification of reason

Figure brushes on magazines
Incisions of bits and **** hoots
To boost of the hot posed ***

No truth is scaffolded as real
A psychological brainwash
Pollutes and limits indefinately
Human interactions can leave one vulnerable and emotionally drained. How much are we socially indoctrinated?
The revolving dreams of the social structure and institution!!!
Madeleine B Feb 2016
Her laughter pumps the gas, dumps the clutch shakes and rattles from each intersection
Her wet feet leave monster tracks long damp claws arching across the cement
Her hair grows brambles collecting thorns and twigs with the best of bushes
Her senses, corvid, snatching up dropped coins, pencils, paperclips
Her tongue unfettered, butterfly breath reels with snips of story and songs
Her eyes hold drops of honey, sticky sweet lashes follow the sun
sunflower cheeks blush cardamom on yellow velvet
glow butterfaced with dandelion kisses

Rough, regular under hand, stubbornly slate, unchanged unmoved.
if her soul is a garden there is a cinderblock there
holding down the sunflowers,
along with the grass at her core, it grows roots,
     but no moss.
Me Jul 2013
with my back still split open
and a head full of paper planes i sit

and dream of foreign lands and days that would
give rise to different things than i already know

pale fire lurks
in corners of my brain
to be extinguished
for it is not mine:
this light!

so i will leave this page
as my hand reaches up
to grab the coffee cup
and an unholy smile
crosses my face

to sneak back to its place
of origin

to crawl back
yes; to leave
cross references behind

and find its own soil.
*I am soooo booooreeeed and should be doing something completely different!!!
PS: I stole the pale fire from somebody else, too!
SelinaSharday Jun 2018
Flowing up to the surface
Submerged under the waters..
Chocking gasping for a bit of air..
swollowing.. suffocating.. On Life..
Just can't even imagine the reasons behind the tragedies...
Of what evils lurks in earthly places..
With the ability to rearrange and change peoples faces.
After all the hearing and the witnessing.
The feelings and the knowings.
All the seeing of evils news....
I didnt realize I was chocking emotions deeply bruise.
Anxiety snatching the ability to breath where its comfortable..
Breath normally..
Panic sneaks its way in..makes me uncomfortable in my skin.
Pulse rushing pulsating.
All of a sudden the sheer emotion of losing.
Can't see another day lighting the way..
Soul feels the falling when you realize
there's so much suffering..
Arms gone limp all passed out..From the exhaustion.
This is when God holds yah in His arms.
Calming down irregular heart beats.
God breaths His air into you. His breath is your air..
as he breath Life back into you.
Resuscitate He is the air you breath.
Without Him you can't breath there's no air without Him.
He pulls you up to this worlds surface..
This worldly ocean called life.
Where day by day moments felt like drowning.
He gives you inspiration and sets within you a song.
Tells you to keep holding on..
The ocean is still there
but for now..I have been brought up to the surface.
hear it on soundcloud copy n paste link below
S.A.M @h.e.r 2018
resurface again
RCraig David Apr 2013
Bump,thump,bump,thump.... the bass cases shake and quake  
Secreting heat, my skin blushes, that rush of a new secret crush.
She passes and her scent renders all around helpless.
The DJ's plush talons tow and myre you soul's wires.  
Seeping through, the beak crushing your conscience,  
falling, sleep down, the sound grounds you.  
Sowing the seeds of desire on the stone below.  
Called by the thumping, bumping beat,  
You jump from your seat into a market of meat, a sea of shifting feet.  
10,000 lights spin like sugar bright.  
Blood fuels your feet,  
feats of flight,  
blurs of sight.  
Spinning like cotton candy with all your might.  
Body overheating, heart overbeating, grains of lust over seeding.  
Your scars begin to heal as glassy eyes not blue appeal to your "at first sight" senses.  
Senses slow there motion to primal, tingling too much,  
not too much to touch, no sting as such.  
Such a blissful kiss t'would be from she before thee.  
Snip the wire.  
Feed the desire.  
The need grows to fan passion fire.  
The potent scent of dripping skin steams up like the devotional incline of nine combined love potions.  
Love, as real love, survives as only a notion in this moving motion of lust's contrived plot...  
But to feel alive, even for a moment,  
love's emotion fails... drawing bust to the ever opulent opponent of lust;  
a proponent to disguise the potent demise of the heart's conscious component.  
Gas and smoke blows.  
Beats high and low.  
The dancing mass of suppressed woes ebbs and flows,  
capturing the seconds, snatching your essence, rapturing your ethics.  
Feeding the peak you seek, heart weak, roaring soul silenced to squeak.  
Waning away your stay with the sweating sea of swing and sway leaves you adrift.  
The waves of the DJ begin to hammer you into enamerment  
Did this quaking wake the sober state of your forsakenness?  
That complaicent stained vacant place aching to be filled.  
A painful, dizzying blood rush floods your mind and muck the feeling first struck secret love crush  
Were the judgment-blurring thoughts occurring so alluring? They fought off pure thoughts sought before she heart-stopped me.  
In light of a moment caught, wrought with knots of naughty thoughts.  
Light and sound and the thumping, bumping ground drown your bounds. 
No more, no more. 
"Now I remember" internally sounds, profound rebounds. 
Lore from before when the last passing blue-eyed leggy lass tore the door off your soul's core.  
No more, no more.  
The crush becomes dust. You become stone.  
Cut to the bone. No seed will be sewn.
You face the floor and breathe. alone.
 "Cameo Theater South Beach"   
R. Craig David-Copyright 1995
About a instant crush I had on a girl I saw dancing at a packed Miami nightclub
rip my hair and skin
scalp me down to my river mind,
innards of rot and process

take your hollow **** of words
bury them in my very own
valley of salt and waste

let's say,
"words are words,"
with purpose and shallow bravery

mean this or that
and that is that
of course!

this is this and the other thing
what a lovely ring

sure to rhyme
break the lines
here and there

a bold poet
with a neautered tongue and pen
a cold box, where chaotic sloppy life
should tumble forth with joyful hot moans,
explosions of spit fury finger breaking body snatching war hunger defeat suffocating three ton wool blanket thrown over our mouthes stifling the bitter gut gargling screams of drone death baby mother buried way down under by the son father stalking blind with tears and rage and poverty
skin not black but brown, religious garb for the crown
hypocrisy will be sure to follow him about

Yet, here we are, a small empty hall, short not grand
Yet, even here an echo back of our dim shallow fancies
words that skip on the surface of meaning and power

mothers grieve shouting at the earth, holding their
******* to the moon, while fathers eat the dry bleached
sand we've left behind in valleys of salt and waste
When I was a child, the children went out for Halloween.  As we headed out the door, my father just had to  be seen.
There came a sound from the window upstairs, it was my father with the microphone.  I want to thank God; he was on his own.
He said, "Now Hear This!  I'm going to send my children out to night.  Do not ****** their bags, and do not fight."
As we went to collect our candy, I got a lot in my bag.  Only to see my large feet neighbor snatching my candy, making my father mad.
He escorted me across the field, where my neighbor lived.  He was not going to leave her house, until she was in a position to give.
The girl's father apologized to me and my father, on that Halloween night.  Her father made her give me all of her candy she stole, from everyone in sight that night.
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing
Ayeshah Feb 2010
Molesting Innocent's
advantage of young un-suspected victims,
****** away hope,
Beating out trust as
tell you it's all for your own good.
The System
Verbally sales you,
making you believe thing's aren't
really what they seem.
Hey pretty girl,
want to come home with me,
stranger's using Candy,
Creeping in the middle of the night
stealing away dreams,
Snatching babies outta arms
For not being what "they"
want you to be.
Jumping through hoops
to prove your worthy.
The System cover up lies,
Your Shame
It's not "their fault for you
becoming pregnant at 10,12 & 13.
Abortion isn't in my beliefs,
Forcing us,  Breaking us, Making us do what "They want!
Telling Lies while Judges become your executioners
Fostering empathy's,
Making you live in misery
Parents- Grandparent's
Crying Screaming,
Dreaming of they days you'll be back.
Depressions, PTSD, Bipolar
Explosive disorders
Meaning a person gets angry fast
with no reason or for the littlest of things....,
from Misuse,
Misuse of my or even your body,
******, Molesting, Physical, Mental,
The System
took me from a Exceptional-Good home,
Placing me
with Monster;
Who called themselves: wholesome,
loving- Good- God fearing Church goers;
Foster Parents.
A Preacher  
phrasing the almighty book,
every Sunday
While every night
He'd say I was better then his wife,
my eye's cried,
Hoarsely I beg him to stop.
Case-Worker & The Systems
cover up.
From home to home
Group home to group
I'd run as fast as I can,
To  my
own family even thou
We were  broker then sin
at least I was so safe there.
Repeat & repeat these step every chance
I'd get & still they'd  Placed me in home's
I got old enough to make it on my own.
Even then The System wouldn't let me be,
See I knew "their" ***** deed,
All the well kept secrets....
unfortunately for me,
16 going on 17 mother already of 2 while
expecting another lil girl,
The System tryna step in once again,
Robbing me of my Children,
words: labeling me,
I'm tooo crazy to love or ever be a mother.
I'm not doing what "They " want....
I had it,
Life was it for me,
I wanted to commit Suicide
I just couldn't thou & Lucky for me
I Finally found away out at 18.
Got my kids- Sued & Beat
The System!
Always Me Ayeshah
Copyright © Ayeshah K.C.L.N
1977-Pesent Day(s)
All right reserved

— The End —