"sneaking" poems
Mark A. Williams
SEPTEMBER 14, 1962 – JULY 23, 2018
___________________________________________________________
Wow Mark,
Was so, so saddened to hear this news. I haven't seen you in over ten years, but as kids, we had some amazing adventures, didn't we? Partying, camping and swimming at the Hudson lime pits. Mowing down on Pizza and pitchers of Pepsi (and as we grew up, BEER!) at Pizza Hut. (We knew the numbers to ALL the songs on that jukebox by heart!) Hanging out and looking at the stars through Budvido's telescope, listening to Doctor Demento. Laughing hysterically as we ran through Monty Python skits as everyone looked on in total puzzlement because THEY wouldn't discover them until YEARS later!
Building underground forts in the North Woods. You, Budvido, Zeke and I playing pinball at 7-11 for hours and hours. Watching Bands, chasing girls and playing Foosball or Pool at the Touch of Class Teen Club. You gave me my first Imported beer . . . a Lowenbrau. I will always owe my passion for those German beers to you and it was fitting that Budvido bestowed you with that moniker.
All through Jr. High, sharing a seat on the school bus. You, Matt, Tom, Buddy and I cruising around late night on our bikes for hours. Hanging around in the Jasmine Lakes sign with hijacked beer or getting free bags of Burgers from Burger Queen when they closed at night! Jousting with shopping carts on our bikes in the Winn-Dixie parking lot. Sitting up all night in Jimi's room after climbing in through the window or going on endless space cruises with him and Raymond in the Toyota.
(RIP Jimi Carlsen)
Sneaking into the nudest Colony and skinny dipping! Always cracking up at the school lunch table. Swimming in my pool and terrorizing my sister and her friends. (Allegedly) Trashing that crook Fast Eddie's produce stand after he refused to pay us for a full day of picking watermelons!
Good times, indeed . . . Some of my most precious memories.
I can only pray that you know that I wouldn't trade my youth or you in it for anything in the world and you will be sadly missed, Lowenbrau, my old friend.
I hope that where you are, your beers are ice cold and that you and Jimi aren't having to glue the Hookah back together.
Jeff Gaines
July 28, 2018
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
*quiet dawn's dim light
serenity at its best
sneaking up on you*
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
the Internet
is how we met
it begins all the same
the devil in me is to blame.
again,
I have sinned
but where will it all end?
rhetorical
it may seem
historical
but like a dream
starting out fresh and new
with a flirty how do you do
and **** talk to ensue
but now with another who.
I think I am clever
dancing forever
but the devil
is not careful
with my artist's soul
swallowing me whole
not special or unique
one of many you seek
sneaking in my heart
to tear apart
when will I learn
that hell will burn
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
Dipped in milk
Or eaten plain
Chocolate like silk
Cookies&Cream;
Peanut butter
****** Butter
Oreo's
Who to blame
Sneaking in the night
Only for a bite
Sweet and touchy
Creamy and crunchy
Let the sugar rush come
Oh, now hand me a tum
Upset tummy
My nose is runny
What's this i hear?
I can't take sweets as I please?
Oh, come on...
You can't blame the cookies!
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 3:33 PM UTC
There are traitors in the castle
Hypocrites and liars
Spreading rumors, keeping secrets
Lighting silent fires
Pacing in the bedrooms
Quiet in the halls
Sneaking after midnight
Conspiring behind walls
Pretending to be royalty
Called themselves "king and queen"
Throwing out words like garbage
Not saying what they mean
Not taking time to think
Just playing a silly game
Betraying flesh and blood
not feeling any shame
Full of carelessness and greediness
But acting so sincere
Watching with fake smiles and laughter
Ignoring every tear
Throwing "traitors" in the dungeon
While deceiving on the thrown
Punishing those "committing crimes"
Not looking at their own
There were traitors in the castle
Hypocrites and liars
Bargaining with enemies
Igniting silent fires
Now there is no castle
No whispers in the halls
Nothing hiding behind doors
All that's standing are the walls
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
There’s I place I go to
When you cross my mind
It’s almost as if your still there
By my side
Whispering in my ear
Caressing my palm
We called it the bridge to nowhere
I remember meeting you there
Sitting near the end
Staring out towards the water
You approaching me
I remember looking up
At your perfect tanned face
Your messy dark hair
Your mesmerizing gold eyes
Casually wearing your football jersey.
I remember your simple hello
Your nervous chuckle
Your silly smile.
I remember smiling back
And inviting you to sit.
Our first meeting on the bridge to nowhere
I remember sneaking out after dark
To meet you there
Just to lay on the bare wooden boards
Staring at the moon
I remember the smell of flowers that spring
branches blooming nearby
The smell of smoke and spices
Forever embedded in your clothes.
I remember your singing
Sweet nothings
in Spanish
Softly in my ear
Entwined together on the bridge to nowhere
I remember your high school graduation
Your mother so proud
Your sister excited
Your father crying
I remember your first game in college
Your running onto the field
Pride and joy in your eyes
Though you didn’t play
Because of that sprained wrist
I remember your sweaty embrace
And your ramblings
of the game
Reviewing every play
Your eyes shimmering with excitement
Racing to the bridge to nowhere
I remember that call
Which changed my life
My heart stopped
I couldn’t think
I remember rushing
to the hospital
Crying with your little sister
Collapsed on the floor
I remember your bloodied face
Wrapped in linen
Tubes bursting from your chest
I wanted to race to the bridge to nowhere
I remember spending my nights
Curled by your side
Willing you to stay
Strong
I remember that endless tone
That said you were gone
I cried at the bridge to nowhere
I remember curling up in your hoodie
Smelling you
Pretending it was you
Your arms surrounding me
I remember lying by the stone
That recalled your name
Talking to you
Burning letters by the small candle
I remember cleaning out your room
With your mother and sister
Finding that little box by your bed
Your final gift to me
I opened it at the bridge to nowhere
I still go there sometimes
With a letter filled
With promises to you
And a flame by which to send it.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 2:55 PM UTC
Oh, how I always wanted to live in an 8-bit world
Side-scrolling action
Duck hunts galore
As much currency as a first-world country
It’s hard not to love it
From Pokémon to Kid Icarus
The nostalgia nearly takes my breath away
I won’t let problems stack up like Tetris
I’m not being chased by ghosts crying,
“Wacka, wacka, wacka, wacka, wacka”
This isn’t a video game, it’s real life
When you die you don’t respawn like nothing ever happened
No, this is it. One life.
I’m placing blocks in Minecraft
Pwning n00bz in Call of Duty
Gaining headshots on Grunts like Master Chief
Gathering rings in Sonic the Hedgehog
Sneaking around like Ezio Auditore da Firenze
And delivering newspapers like Paperboy
While escaping the mysterious Slenderman
I’m living in this virtual world without danger
I don’t want to make it on these streets like Frogger
I don’t have big shoes to fill like the plumber or the blue blur
This ain’t no sandbox or first-person shooter, it’s reality
So, live it to the fullest, don’t rage quit
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC
You and I
have a story
behind closed doors,
sneaking at night,
stealing kisses,
secretly holding hands.
But you and I
both know
this story
shall never be told
not even to a single soul.
Sep 2, 2019
Sep 2, 2019 at 7:52 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel numb
It's a strange, kind of sad feeling.
I can feel it in my heart.
And I know it's strange to say that I can feel my numbness,
but isn't it also strange to feel the itch of a phantom limb,
or the sorrow that comes with the excitement of something new,
only to realize it won't last forever.
It's really hard for me to control it,
I don't know why I can't.
If I could just rip the pain,
or lack thereof out of my chest I would.
In a heart beat,
no pun intended.
No one told me this could happen,
I thought there was simply happy and sad,
I didn't know there was anything that could fall in between.
All I want to do is to feel everything,
I want to love everyone.
I want to care about everything,
but it's so hard when this numbness keep sneaking back into my veins,
pulsing through my body once again.
Telling me to sleep it off,
or to stay home,
because it's easier to avoid than confront.
That's why I try so hard in conversations,
because trying is all I can do when it comes through.
This doesn't happen everyday,
it sometimes doesn't even happen every week,
but it's still tough.
Some days I am bursting at the seams with my love for the world.
Some days I care so much,
and I try so hard.
Then some days I cry,
for stupid reasons.
Because it's healthy,
because I need to.
Because sometimes the weight of the world is pressing against every bone in my body,
and I need to release it.
But some days I don't feel anything at all,
and it's a scary and foreign feeling.
Because I'm bursting at the seams,
and I only have so much thread to patch the holes,
in this worn, and stretched body.
So please just let me feel for a few more minutes,
I'd rather that than continue in this abyss of numbness.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
I am in a constant battle for control.
I am hard to deal with
because my therapist says
OCD will not rest
OCD does not care what time it is
OCD does not care where you are
OCD does not care who is watching.
Usually when I obsess over things
I see my life falling to shambles
I see people not loving me anymore
I see germs sneaking into my skin.
When my uncle, my aunt, and my friend all died
in a matter of three months,
i performed rituals every hour on the hour
sometimes even more.
My therapist says this will not go away.
My therapist says to come see her so we can try to cope with this.
My therapist does not understand that WE are not coping.
I am coping
not her
not anyone else
me.
My therapist is a sick person
she is still recovering from alcoholism
so how can she help me
if all she sees is a bottle of bourbon when she looks at me.
I am not a bottle of bourbon
I am a bottle of OCD and depression and anxiety
I am a bottle of drugs and alcohol and death
I am a bottle being smashed over your head
I am not coping
I am drowning
And people have stopped loving me
And my life is falling into shambles
And I think I may be getting sick
so what the **** are these rituals even doing for me
anyway.
I have stopped taking medication because
wanting to die has become habitual
and I fear that will become a ritual too.
If I die
all people will talk about is how much they loved me
even if they didn't.
If I die,
there will be no room to have my life fall to pieces
because I will be in peace.
If I die,
I cannot get sick because the soil
will be taking care of my body but
who will perform my rituals
once I'm gone?
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
In the morning I heard the Koel’s melodious call
It is a sure sign of Sneaking autumn’s fall
What a striking difference between winter and spring
It is undoubtedly season’s eternal king
I love nature’s green saree
She smiles with an uncontrollable spree
Her saree is full of beautiful flowers
there are very many different colours
Nature’s Bindi is the glorious sun
Her hair pin is the shining moon
She cools herself with her natural fan
Her stay here might be of a little span
She sits with an yellow sarree in the palanquin
The bride groom looks at her as if she were a queen
Her beauty and shyness is her divine pride
She is a newly married mesmerizing bride
the villages are replete with ripe corn
All the birds enjoy this beautiful morn
Mar 25, 2011
Mar 25, 2011 at 6:05 AM UTC
The vicar's knickers look so fine
As they hang upon the line.
Flapping wildly in the breeze,
They're as sassy as you please.
They used to be a shade of grey,
But on the line, in the light of day,
They sparkle white as they hang about.
Even Mr. Clean would scream and shout.
People in the street stop and stare
As they admire the vicar's underwear.
Hanging there for all to see,
They seem to cry, "Look at me!"
The gathering crowd gives a sigh
When the vicar's knickers seem to fly
As they dance and twist upon the line,
Looking white and clean, and oh so fine.
Inside the house the vicar pleads,
"Dear wife, some underwear I need.
Without my knickers I cannot say
My sermon in the church today."
The vicar's wife has had enough
Of viewing her husband in the buff,
As he searches for another pair
Of sparkling, clean, white underwear.
"I know where to find a pair!
They're on the line, those underwear,"
Says the vicar's wife with a grin.
"I'll just go out and fetch them in."
The poor man waits and says a prayer
And hopes she finds those underwear.
He really wants to finish dressing
And go to church and say the blessing.
She snatches them from off the line
Where they've hung and looked so fine.
The crowd watches her take them down,
Those knickers, the whitest in all the town.
They'll have to come another day
To gawk and watch those knickers play.
The vicar needs that elusive pair
Of sparkling, clean, white underwear.
The vicar's just as pleased as punch
Because he had a sneaking hunch
He'd never see that last clean pair,
And he'd have nothing else to wear.
Now he's dressed and ready for the day,
And he can go to church and kneel and pray
Because he's wearing a lovely pair
Of sparkling, clean, white underwear.
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC
New words in old styles
Tracked on a canvas of brick
By a precocious kid
Sneaking on the lines;
The little *****
My morning art show
Laid out in illiterate words,
Scribbled by artists
Who failed art at school,
Then shat on by birds.
An exhibition of names
Written worryingly wrong,
Evident to the system
That failed before they
Even joined the throng.
We pause at one piece
Daubed in indelible paint,
White streaked on black,
A chaotic sprawl of letters,
**** al saintz".
I've been there before;
A nice school I thought,
Catholic of course;
I doubt the child gave
The saints a spare thought.
And what about Al?
Does he care at all?
Does he pause here,
On his way to work,
And dream their downfall.
It drives me up the wall
To see tracks filled with art,
But are they to blame?
We let them loose
And they play their part.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
Mom said it's not a jungle gym,
It's not a jungle gym.
It's not a jungle gym.
It's not a jungle gym.
But it was a GIANT ELEPHANT!
And chains are for clanging
And metal is for banging
And roped off areas are for sneaking
Under
It’s not a jungle gym
It’s not a jungle gym
It’s not a jungle gym
I didn’t understand why mom wasn’t excited
She just stood next to me staring up at the Elephant
It’s not a jungle gym
I let go of her hand
It’s not a jungle gym
I ducked under the rope,
It's not a jungle gym
I almost didn’t need to duck
Then I touched the metal elephant,
To test if he was real.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
I see the changes
At times they are clear
Other times, they seem to pass right by me...
I am growing...
Maturing...
Changing...
I am becoming a stereotype
Just not the one I thought I'd be...
Breaking rules,
Sneaking out,
Telling lies,
Cheating...
The list seems to continuously grow longer
Is that bad?
Or good?
I don't even know anymore
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
Wisdom teeth- you're out.
Sneaking four, about to commit a heist- no doubt!
Fuzzy and tingly- then darkness consumed the high.
Awoke, the sting of absence felt.
I've taken my drugs- cried and iced.
I caught ya. Wisdom teeth.
I will plead for sleep.
Gone now, but if I ever lose my molars?
How wicked would that be?
My wisdoms couldn't aid me!
I'll accept the philosophy of Candide.
For "all is for the best" arguably,
In "the best of all possibly worlds" supposedly.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
The castle in the smoke
sneaking
like a reptile foraging
in the city
tirelessly
the blue-colored flame
awaiting the servants
the colors of sounds
staining
all over shadiness
the scarecrow with a hat
stumbling through
the dark
the wand of a magician
melts away
the ancient bed
and the love
locked in the sarcophagus.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
Today I had a bout of acute-you shyness
one where I try to pretend I don't notice
but have you noticed how difficult it is
when outside idles but inside there's a race
to views like you leaning side to side
on the motorcycle ride slot machine
driving my eyes to sly around your slides
taking them wide as when I was eighteen
I'd look for curves at Southend pier's end
give out stares and start to take in scenes
of free amusement at the Fun Bump arcade
around and around the circuit you rode
I was lapping up your every move
sneaking a view through the coin drop
peeping behind the pinball of Dr Who
prying open the photo booth curtain gap
faux testing the mallet with your strength
playing air hockey with my thoughts
were your short chic bangs a wig?
they sit so still I long for the straights
then swing to one side with a leg
tight vibrant jeans in hairpin bends
ironing out where the centre line is damp
polishing the dashing leather saddle
vibrating with wrist twist contempt
loveliness revving up to red line
exploding in my face with daring
this bike crash heart of mine
please forgive not stopping staring
a race course habit never outgrown
I go too fast and of course I fall
in love as bad as deeply madly
but the fact that it's with you.. well
I have to forgive myself this malady
I'm a side-road heading for a spin
on ways to tell you you're beautiful
dangerously close I risk self harm
imagining that colour of pink and pale
the flush u-turn will be a charm
If I can get you climbing off
hot and flustered
I’ll have done my pit stop job
at once a chance encounter
and a fateful winning score
to let you know you've entered
into being my prize draw
I'll walk away but don't be sore
it's up to you to take it further
but just know one thing more
that if you call me to confirm
and tell me that I’m worth it
I would turn around so fast
the world would gearshift
and wait
but not in neutral
for us
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
On the land molded by footsteps and ruled by obnoxiously bleached clowns,
Visited by swarms of neighborhood guttersnipes and the opulent from uptown.
Allured by the traditional Irish circus music and the grinding of rusted gears,
To arrive at dawn and to leave only when the night sky is tired of fireworks and flares.
Skittish and gleaming eyes would roll on the floor, struck by daze and lost in wonderment,
At the marvel of giant steel rides and god forsaken and socially foretoken genetic mutants.
The word of a woman with two faces and the boy with a tail would make any catholic priest run.
Amusing the rational ones, alongside the man with elastic skin and the girl with the forked tongue.
The opera lady with outlandish proportions and tumorous lips sings to break a piece of cheap glassware.
Little do people know,that the magician’s red gloves are actually stained with blood of rabbit that disappeared.
Their noses get caught in the medley of fragrances from the exotic perfumes shop,
Blended with the saccharine tang from the stall that sells candy floss and soda pops.
Indulging over the overly priced confectioneries at the stall of the baker with the forbidding grin.
Try it a hundred times,try it a thousand,you’ll never get the fifth one right in the game of rings.
People will come out screaming from the haunted house,only to laugh about it later,
Little do they know,that skeletons that drove them pale and white couldn't get any realer.
They’ll jostle and struggle to make their way through the crowd to various rides and attractions.
Hustling to navigate through the maze the carnival is, encountered by countless illusions.
And once your body wears out and senses give in,that’s when you've truly entered the carnival state of mind.
Your ears stinging ,nose stifled,tongue baffled, eyes exhausted,and your sense of judgment blinded.
That’s when my masked act begins,the most profitable act at the carnival,
Diving into the heart of the crowd,to draw an act of brilliance lasting an ephemeral.
Slithering across the crowd in a different disguise every hour,concealed by stealth.
Sneaking into every nook and corner and slipping my furtive hands into your pockets for a little bit of wealth.
Only to dine with the clowns and the carnival family at the haunted house at the end of the day.
And of course, rabbits for dinner,if the baker may
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC
wake me up with your sweet touch
eyes glistening in the crack of sunlight sneaking in between the curtains
watching us in envy of what we have
dancing on your skin as if to take part
in the love we share
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
Do you remember when we snuck out?
I guess it was only me sneaking
But I did for you
We sat by the water
And bathed in the sun
The smell of grass and autumn filled my nose
And thoughts of you filled my heart
I looked at you and you smiled
That is what happiness looks like you later said
I was so content that day
Blissful even
Everything was in place
How did we get so far from that day
Do you even remember that?
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
I saw her
I saw her smile
Focus out through the sparkle
Reflecting from her danglers
And the ones in the atmosphere.
Turquoise sequinned with beige
Crackers, all around her
Our first new year
Where she took me by
My hand, entangling fingers
Lacing, when she thought she'd
Lost me,skipping between
White walls and brown floors
Finding a way out
Through the maze.
Low hung ceiling lamps.
Dragging me back through my memory doors
Remains the same
White walls and brown floors
While I wait outside.
Inside you're having your chemo.
Crackers
Inside my heart
Slithering through my mouth
I see her in between
Those flinging and swinging
Prayer flags, I recollect
Hanging them in the backyard
Of our home, you
Bargained them out
A flea market, before
That year's Diwali
You had inside of you
A life that would bless us
In three months.
A tangerine Georgette Saree
And rhyming with it,
Rani colored bangles
Sneaking up on the roof.
Crackers
White walls, wooden floors
You lie quiet, unmoved.
A skyrocket ups in a distance
As I light you up in flames.
Crackers
You'd always come back
Focusing, defocusing
My memories' pitaara
Sparkling, dangling
Skipping and lacing
Through all those crackers
Lighting me up
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC
Normally
Cookies
Are seen as sweet
As something
For a child to enjoy
Or at least that's the stereotype
And normally
Wine
Is seen as bitter
And something
For grown ups to enjoy
Or at least that's the stereotype
But
Children are now drinking wine
And
Adults are eating cookies
Adults look the other way about the children
With wine
And children look the other way about parents
Eating cookies they can't have
Why have things turned around?
Why have things changed?
Maybe because the children saw adults
Using wine
To dull pain
And so they tried it
Even though the aftermath
Was also painful
It was less painful than the rest of the world
And maybe because parents realized that if they put *** in their cookies
The children would stop stealing
And sneaking them
But both have backfired
Because now the children have more problems than before
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 7:53 PM UTC
I remember staring at the ceiling
listening to Schindler's list in the dark.
We were two orphans
sleeping with our poor lost mother
who couldn't pull herself together
for her two orphan children.
The only lullaby she knew
was her own depression.
I remember how the music scared me
worse than nightmares
and I lay close to you imagining
the great train
carting off lost mothers
and orphan sisters.
Our poor mother turn child
sneaking into bed with her orphan daughters
to escape the wisps of nightmares.
The music,
filled with so much sorrow and pain
was too much for ones so young.
I'm so sorry sister,
We really should never have listened.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:17 PM UTC