Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Karijinbba Nov 2018
Unfathomable
You think?
Just a poet hidden in a rhyme?

No Poet nor Poetess can
describe me re-invent create me
disintegrate or compare me
nor understand me
I am you I am him
I am even all of us
yet very unique as each one
of us is
only one of me on earth
interconnected to everything and everyone by nature
like we all really are!

I do sparkle in my birth chart
with an April's diamond
I am a mystic daisy
Aries is my Constelation
I was born to lead and the opportunity blossomed obscured by great pain and untimely loss.

only my old true love decided to get to know me behind my back using his strange methods as oposed to giving me a chance one on one face to face to
get to know me
impossible to know me through the slanderous affiliations of selfish jealous people who don't have my best interest!
if bad men and women who might envy me or feel rejected by me must help you decide where your heart is about me
you'll never know me at all!
you will be lost in the maze of your own ignorance and lose a chance to know me as a great lover great parent great wife greatest friend that you could ever have.
This isn't any wild thought of mine here. NO. It's my life how it has unfolded how I experienced  great fortune great love great loss rejection admiration
and how I had to heal all alone
because friends came not to me in this life time at all.
Most masculine gender saught only to use me and I got tired of them playing their nasty impersonal text photo **** games requested leading nowhere
Most married women envied me and were sickly unecessarily jealous of my unmarried non challant status and sincere platonic friendly disposition.

My dogs cats crows and raccoons
remained my better friends then any humans could ever be.

My few diamonds are forever though their sparkle never lied steal cheat nor deceive or commit treason,
OR DO THEY?
I tried singles adds for friendship but t.v's episodes of
"Mission Impossible" was
an easier task then finding even a friend much less a husband a best lover a good father
for my kids!
I tried chat lines most men seemed to be functioning through their ****** primarily and heartlessly offering to pay soliciting full trust so long as it was all between two strangers no strings attached, right unto instantly intimate chaotic
dangerous *** games
which I was never into any of it.

So I put my Kama-Zutra brain I inherited from my Mom and Dad inside a tini match box all to sleep.
A husband of my choice was forfeited
and a second one or third of my choice seldom materialized.
so I didn't settled never sold out.

My true love's diamond heart promised stayed in his coat pocket waiting for my
" jealous tears" now scintilates in another woman's finger.

I couldn't like her as a greedy drug user law liar manipulator much less be jealous of her answering your phone.
Much less be jealous of the *******'s calling photo card you showed me so I cry of jealousy and anger to earn your huge diamond ring!
You could have tried telling me
"I love you" then marry me,
filling my woumb with your beloved seed, and at last
stand by me;
  then I would be jealous only when and if, a real good reason to be jealous, existed!

Wasn't I ballanced in my emotions? beautiful in and out being self assured!?
Couldn't you reward that in me instead?
A beige yarn still wraps around my left ring finger today.
I guess in the end even my sparkling diamond betrayed me.

an ugly insecure jealous greedy woman won it.
what's left for me are my pets my grandkids and my 41 undeserved unprovoqued enemies to busy myself with praying for!
and to finish my books depicting my hell, my almost paradise
a new heaven on earth
painfully forfeited.
I never sold myself to men never sold out, no. I don't regret it

but I regret not playing one man's game to earn my man back at any cost because in the end I still
very much remain loving one man no matter what he put me through
his kind of love was all worth it .
~~~~~
Welcome to planet Earth
jump into life!
~~~~
By: Karijinibba/ASG
All rights reserved.
Let's ransom positive energy from one another by understanding each other so we wont miss out on a perfect man and woman made for each other. I believe in rewarding the ability to ballance non destructive emotions instead of promoting unhealthy ones as means for a man to feel loved by a woman
or vise-verse.
Dr Sam Burton Sep 2014
Whales have no wings to fly
But they have eyes to cry

Whales are so big but kind
They're not easy to find

Whales are definitely so nice
**** them not to eat with rice.


Today is Saturday, Sept. 28, the 269th day of 2014 with 94 to follow.

The moon is waxing. Morning stars are Jupiter, Uranus and Venus. Evening stars are Mars, Mercury, Neptune and Saturn.


In 1825, in England, George Stephenson operated the first locomotive to pull a passenger train.



A thought for the day:



No place epitomizes the American experience and the American spirit more than New York City. -- Michael Bloomberg.



QUOTES FOR THE DAY:




He who is void of virtuous attachments in private life is, or very soon will be, void of all regard for his country. There is seldom an instance of a man guilty of betraying his country, who had not before lost the feeling of moral obligations in his private connections.

------------------------

How strangely will the Tools of a Tyrant pervert the plain Meaning of Words!



Samuel Adams



In university they don't tell you that the greater part of the law is learning to tolerate fools.




Doris Lessing




“The character inherent in the American people has done all that has been accomplished; and it would have done somewhat more, if the government had not sometimes got in its way.”



Henry David Thoreau



"Everything you can imagine is real."



Pablo Picasso



“Ugly. Is irrelevant. It is an immeasurable insult to a woman, and then supposedly the worst crime you can commit as a woman. But ugly, as beautiful, is an illusion.”



Margaret Cho




POETRY




TO THE THAWING WIND



Robert Frost





Come with rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do tonight,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.


About this poem
"To the Thawing Wind" was first published in Frost's collection "A Boy's Will" (Holt, 1915).

About Robert Frost
Robert Frost was born on March 26, 1874, in San Francisco. He was the recipient of four Pulitzer Prizes during his lifetime and read at President John F. Kennedy's inauguration. Frost died in Boston on Jan. 29, 1963.

*
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.



This poem is in the public domain.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate





A TIP FOR WOMEN




Choosing Eyeliner



Make sure the color of your eyeliner complements your eyes. Dark brown eyes benefit from plum shades. If you have lighter eyes, try navy and charcoal. Brown eyeliner works well no matter what color your eyes are!




JOKES



WHALES



A little girl was talking to her teacher about whales.

The teacher said it was physically impossible for a whale to swallow a human because even though it was a very large mammal its throat was very small.

The little girl stated that Jonah was swallowed by a whale.

Irritated, the teacher reiterated that a whale could not swallow a human; it was physically impossible.

The little girl: said, "When I get to heaven I will ask Jonah".

The teacher: asked, " What if Jonah went to hell?"

The little girl: replied, "Then you ask him".





JURY SELECTION

The tiresome jury selection process continued, each side hotly contesting and dismissing potential jurors. Don O'Brian was called for his question session.

"Property holder?"

"Yes, I am, Your Honor."

"Married or single?"

"Married for twenty years, Your Honor."

"Formed or expressed an opinion?"

"Not in twenty years, Your Honor."





Questionable Predictions



Nostradamus recently turned 500. Here are some other predictions from lesser lights:

- Law will be simplified (over the next century). Lawyers will have diminished, and their fees will have been vastly curtailed. --Junius Henri Browne 1893

- By 1960, work will be limited to three hours a day. --John Langdon-Davies

- Hurrah, Boys, we've caught them napping. We'll finish them up and go home to our station. --George A. Custer, 1876, prior to the Battle of Little Big Horn

- Get rid of the pointed-ears guy. --NBC executive, regarding Mr. Spock of STAR TREK, 1966

- Telephones (will) bring peace on earth, eliminate Southern accents, and save the farm by making farmers less lonely. --printed in THE WALL STREET JOURNAL, Century-old Pronouncements, 1995





Stupid True Headlines



- Something Went Wrong in Jet Crash, Expert Says

- Police Begin Campaign to Run Down Jaywalkers

- Safety Experts Say School Bus Passengers Should Be Belted

- Drunk Gets Nine Months in Violin Case

- Survivor of Siamese Twins Joins Parents

- Farmer Bill Dies in House

- Iraqi Head Seeks Arms

- Is There a Ring of Debris around Uranus?

- Stud Tires Out

- Prostitutes Appeal to Pope

- Panda Mating Fails; Veterinarian Takes Over

- Soviet ****** Lands Short of Goal Again

- British Left Waffles on Falkland Islands

- Lung Cancer in Women Mushrooms

- Eye Drops off Shelf

- Teacher Strikes Idle Kids

- Include your Children When Baking Cookies

- Squad Helps Dog Bite Victim

- Shot Off Woman's Leg Helps Nicklaus to 66

- Enraged Cow Injures Farmer with Axe

- Plane Too Close to Ground, Crash Probe Told

- Miners Refuse to Work after Death

- Juvenile Court to Try Shooting Defendant

- Stolen Painting Found by Tree

- Two Soviet Ships Collide, One Dies

- Two Sisters Reunited after 18 Years in Checkout Counter

- Killer Sentenced to Die for Second Time in 10 Years



- Never Withhold ****** Infection from Loved One

- Drunken Drivers Paid $1000 in '84

- War Dims Hope for Peace

- If Strike isn't Settled Quickly, It May Last a While

- Cold Wave Linked to Temperatures

- Enfields Couple Slain; Police Suspect Homicide

- Red Tape Holds Up New Bridge

- Deer **** 17,000

- Typhoon Rips Through Cemetery; Hundreds Dead

- Man Struck by Lightning Faces Battery Charge

- New Study of Obesity Looks for Larger Test Group

- Astronaut Takes Blame for Gas in Spacecraft

- Kids Make Nutritious Snacks

- Chef Throws His Heart into Helping Feed Needy

- Arson Suspect is Held in Massachusetts Fire

- British Union Finds Dwarfs in Short Supply

- Ban On Soliciting Dead in Trotwood

- Lansing Residents Can Drop Off Trees

- Local High School Dropouts Cut in Half

- New Vaccine May Contain Rabies

- Man Minus Ear Waives Hearing

- Deaf College Opens Doors to Hearing

- Air Head Fired

- Steals Clock, Faces Time

- Prosecutor Releases Probe into Undersheriff

- Old School Pillars are Replaced by Alumni

- Bank Drive-in Window Blocked by Board

- Hospitals are Sued by 7 Foot Doctors

- Some Pieces of Rock Hudson Sold at Auction

- *** Education Delayed, Teachers Request Training





HAVE A FABULOUS SUNDAY!
Logan Robertson Aug 2018
Stuffed seals.
Sits shelf,
soaking sunshine,
standing sentry,
soliciting smiles.
Shoppers smitten,
strike smiles,
spending silver.
Storied seals,
send shoppers shrilling.
Somewhere,
seamstresses
stitch supplementary shipments,
shaking store,
sustaining sales.
Sales staff splendidly stock shelf.
Seamlessly.
Such salvation, seals seeks.
Successfully, seashells.

Logan Robertson

8/1/2018
Rambus Oct 2016
Off to Hell I go,
With hat in hand,

I ring Dark Lord's doorbell,
"Brother, can you spare a dime?"

"Go back to Earth!"
He yells.

But I look around this burning realm,
and see no necessity to need,

I turn my eye back to him,
"But sir," say I,

"This place is better than that
from whence I come."

With flame from mouth, he retorts
"This is the land of eternal suffering,

of physical torment for all of time!
Are not you convinced to remain on Earth?"

But I am not.
K Balachandran Mar 2017
You won't recognize them I bet,
your secrets, even in broad day light,
if they walk towards you smiling,
wearing dark glasses to hide their eyes
in a humid day.They now wear clothes
of different styles to take you for a ride,
even cross dress and change the accents,
they play games with your hazy mind
--the secrets you once buried deep under.

They stand peeping behind blinded windows
prowl as shadows soliciting behind half open doors,.

Time flies in a hurry like migratory birds left behind,
you have to strain your ears too much
to hear even the faint foot falls of the past!

Old memories have changed their manners
they try to distract one with invented details
Like the muffled voices in an attic dark,
on a fateful day so long, your old secrets
speak an archaic tongue, that needs to be interpreted.

One has to be artful as the turbaned village elders
who would for your astonishment interpret
the vocabulary of lizard calls, key to nature's intents.

Or the trained eye of an elder who in flashes
of meteor falls, reads the secret messages of universe.
To get a true sense of your own secret
you have to tread the places they hide.

Make them shed their crusted hides
by which they conceal their true color,
which one has been waiting to see,
with a palpitating heart, walking back
to where one walked once, long forgotten.
That is why elders on days of yore
would exhort, embarrassingly repeat too,
not to have any hidden secrets that hurt
even if breathtakingly beautiful like a courtesan.

In some moment one won't  expect
dreadful they could turn and become witches,
with fiery eyes, dreadlocks, and long nails.
kenye Jan 2014
You're just the
diamond in the rough
streets  Chi-burbia

The girl next-door archetype

I'm just the
scumbag
psychopath
soliciting
snapchats

Darling,
Don't you wanna
get disrespected?

I know this wine
is loosening my lips

How about you?

Are you all wet yet?
Do you want me
to come in?
Last Saturday was a blur.
K Balachandran Jan 2016
One of his sick molars
was jarring, crying foul,
the root canal treatment
she did, the first, on him
made it quiet,it touched
exactly the love nerve.

Love sprouted,got rooted between
the curvy dentist and him
in exactly five sittings;
the soil was fertile.
The  romantic dentist seized
his pining heart too quick,
the causes and effects of
that pain, she whispered, was similar
to what she felt , when he whimpered
leaning his head on her full *******.

No reason he had, not to surmise
she didn't do everything she should,
to make his ailing tooth perfect.
Coochiecooing to her, he even
called her" the tooth fairy's baby girl"
overwhelmed she gifted him a smooch.

Each  sitting fallowed
soliciting  that rare,tender dental care,
on her cozy swiveling chair,
brought them closer to bouts of  necking
and things more adventurous,
(may the medical ethics, pardon the pair!)

Vigorous  narratives she breathlessly
reeled off,  on the state of his each tooth
brought her more closer to the chair
than what professionally was expected,
her perfumed warm presence
brought aches, not necessarily dental.

A stinging pain on a root repaired
at a time his 'root canal sweet heart' was away
compels him to explore for a new chair.
The horror of horrors, it was revealed
here, a piece of broken iron implement
his sweet heart, has left within the root;
a  cover up as she couldn't retrieve it
with her skills inept,
it did aggravate, caused the pain!
Isn't the  betrayal of the kids,
in the name of tooth fairy,non existent  
far less heinous, than a cheating like this!

could any one blame him for this,
to escape a bad tooth future,  he did
the best one could; the comely tooth fairy
that found the fault and mended it
shows him his place in the
swivel chair of her heart these days!
"Poetry is a form of story telling, and we are born to tell stories"
Tara Skurtu(Poet,Translator, Fulbright lecturer)
(1/25/2016  Huffington Post)
And many stories in poetry reflect true life..
JLB Jan 2012
Power pulsating between my legs
Irrational intrigue  between my ears
Alacrity asunder between my ribs
-Heretical human blender-
Serving up cleverly crafted cocktails
I am
Spouting sureness from between my lips
I am
Stirring in sweet sultriness
Soliciting sour sabotage
Submerging you in salty squeamishness
-Colloquial courtesan, curtly castrating consumers-
Inebriating you equally with inevitable irrationality
Welcome to my "Reader’s Digest"
Prepared especially for you with my psychologically indigestible
Dorothy A Jan 2016
Rob's father came up to him on his eighteenth birthday, and tossed a *** of cash at him. "Time to be a man", he said in his usual gruff manner, "Get yourself a hot one".  His grinning face seemed more like a sneer, but Rob wasn't all that surprised. Throughout his adult life, he was thankful and glad that his mother kept him fairly grounded, did the best that she could, molded him into the man that he was, and he marveled at how she put up with such an *******.

Her name was Kat, but there were no introductions, not while he was soliciting her for ***. She was a few years older than he, but Rob never asked for any details.  He just wanted to get on with it, for he felt not only awkwardly nervous and ill-prepared, but halfhearted in his approach to buy some time, to hook up with a stranger in the shadows of the street lamps.  

Sure, if his old man wanted to give him some money—free cash—why the hell not? Instead of finding a "hot one", Rob was face-to-face with a burned-out and vulnerable, young woman who tried to hide behind her ****, seductive exterior. She was equally as halfhearted as he was about getting it on, for business-as usual seemed to weigh her down like a heavy chain wrapped about her ankles

So Rob opted out of this whole thing. He asked if he could buy her a cup of coffee. Why not? It was a chilly night, and they wanted to warm up—in  a legitimate way.

They found a small, late-night diner. It wasn't long before Kat admitted she made a huge mistake, and would do anything to get another start. Her regret was leaving Nebraska, leaving her hometown—her mom, her little sister and brother left behind. Her father was the dearest man she ever knew, but he died when she was eleven-years-old. If only he could see her now. She would be so ashamed to face him, and glad he wasn't around to witness this sordid path she regretfully chose.

Once, Nebraska seemed like an insignificant blot on the map of the world, but now it was inviting to her. She longed to make amends to her family and to get back to the basics.  She wasn't sure what she would do with her life, but what she had right now wasn't what dreams were all about. It was a world of unscrupulous pimps and men who lurked around, wanting their fill, their lusts exposed discretely, yet so ****** upon her to be met.

She had enough. Rob was the first guy that came along in a long time that really cared to listen to her, though he seemed more a boy than a man. Yet she's been with his kind before. She has seen all kinds—white and blue collar, old and young, married and single, the well-experienced and the sexually inept, the *** addicts and first-timers, the boring, the daring, the *****—yet safe ones—as well the creepy kind that a street-smart lady needed to have eyes in the back of her head for.  

When they went to the bus station, together, Rob admitted, "I got to tell you, straight. I'm still thinking you could be scamming me for drug money...and I'm maybe a complete *****... but I want to take this chance." Kat smiled, a tender sort of a smile, and gave him a soft peck on the cheek, along with a big bear hug. "You're an angel", she declared. She really was beautiful, with big, lovely eyes surrounded by big, fake lashes.  Seen through eyes of his inexperience—his innocence—she really felt beautiful, something she hasn't felt in a long while.

Kat wanted to pay Rob back for giving her the needed, extra money to buy her ticket. She offered to do that in the best way she knew how and made him an offer. Having a night of free *** wasn't what Rob ever wanted. No, there were no strings attached. So she jotted down her mother's address in Nebraska, and told him to be in touch. "I want to prove to you that I'm turning my life around. I'm going to do it, too. I promise", she said, sincerely. She had no trouble looking him in the eye, tears beginning to well up, and she began to choke up while saying, ”I just can't thank you enough".

Whether he did the right thing or not, Rob would wonder. He would never forget her—even if he wanted to forget. Only a brief couple of hours with her, but she made an impact in his mind, like a branding iron that would sear the hell out of his brain. Later, he lied to his dad, and pretended to be thrilled that he got the chance to have such an awesome night—just rocking! It was the best birthday present so far!  For a moment, he thought of telling him the truth, but he pictured his dad saying, "You *****! You wasted your chance and my money!"

Rob decided that he wasn't going to write her. He just didn't want to know, instead wanting to assume she made it out okay. He decided to keep the paper with her address, anyway. It took him several months, after mulling it over in his mind, to actually write her a brief note to ask how she was managing. Did she really go back home? Was she doing alright? Did she put her ****** life behind her?

It was only a week when he received a letter back from Nebraska. Rob kept that letter to himself, never telling a soul about Kat. She was back with an old boyfriend from high school, staying with her mom and working part-time as a cashier in a supermarket. She was so eager to write him back, thrilled that he finally contacted her, and wondered why on earth it took him so long.  Rob believed her, like he first did about her story, and it was a relief to hear from her.  He was glad he took the chance. It seemed to pay off.

He heard nothing back from her until over a year later. This time she sent a picture in her letter. Kat and her boyfriend broke up, for the second time, but she was now married to her good friend's cousin, Nolan. She was glad it didn't work out with the first guy, because now she was pretty happy and couldn't imagine her life any other way. Rob smiled as he saw the picture of the couple, and she was holding her little girl in her arms. He name was Willow, a cute, little girl with strawberry blonde hair.

Thanks, again, Rob! It is all because of you! You’re a sweetheart. My hero!!!

He didn't want to take the credit. He was no hero. It was bound to happen, with or without him.  Rob was quite sure now that he would not write her another letter, but did pick up a card to congratulate her, to acknowledge he got the good news and was glad for her.

He still had that picture of her, and the last news he found out about Kat is that she moved to Colorado with her husband, and now had a son, Nolan Rob. Her husband got a better paying job, and she felt at home near the mountains. A picture of the kids came with it, and her two smiling children conveyed the innocence that she once had and cherished.

Wanted you to see my boy. His middle name, Rob, is after you! I figured you'd know this, but I want to tell you, anyway! :D Much love from us to you, Robbie!

Time has passed, and during that back-and-forth.  Rob's parents split up, sold the house, and he had graduated from college and was on his own. Contact with Kat waned down to nothing at all, and it probably was just as well. Were things still going good in her life? Rob still wondered and hoped so.

Now he was married, with a nice house and boy and girl of his own, thinking of Kat, now and then. He envisioned her doing well, a far cry from the young woman in a scene that replayed in his head, a night when he helped an unhappy and desperate lady get a chance to find her life, again. If ever his day ******, such thoughts could pick him back up.

He'd never cease to wonder about her, but what he did for Kat belonged in the past.  If it wasn't happily-ever-after for her, he'd rather not know.  He did his part, was glad that he had enough maturity and integrity to do the right thing, but no way was he a knight in shining armor.  Still, he was a hero in her eyes, a reluctant hero of sorts. He could live with that.
Sjr1000 Dec 2014
He exchanged his
routines
for the
long dusty road,
he exchanged his
jeans
for a long white jacket
he called it the "white robe."
His hat said "Home"

He took off on the
road only travelers
go.

He had a pretty girl
he was was going to see,
then he knew
he would have to leave.

He stopped saying much,
mainly "thank you"
and "please".

He had exchanged
his mind set
for a new set,
his confusion for clarity
his narrative for poetry,
many said
it had led him astray.

He exchanged his
fullness for emptiness
and
began to take it all in,
the old dusty road became
the only way he knew at all.

He would stand in perfect silence
and
hear it all.
He would stand in perfect stillness
and
travel it all.

He exchanged his awake routines
for dreams.

He traveled here and there,
where ever
that dusty old road
would take him,
some places made sense,
some were flashes
of total innocence.

He had exchanged
his expectations
for creations.

He could love you on the road,
be with you
but with you
he would never go home.

Rumor has it
it was his fatal flaw.

He had exchanged
success and failure
for
experience,
he avoided many a cliff
many a fall
in having it all.

You won't find him
hitchhiking
panhandling
soliciting or pandering
selling drugs
or
in bed with your mother.

You'll find him in the whispers
you hear
in the rainbow aura
around street lamps
on night time
deserted streets,
the meteor at midnight
the green flash at sunset.

He had exchanged
staying for going
and
he was on his way
with dust devils
blowing
behind him.
judy smith Mar 2016
Detective stories have been making a splash on European screens for the past decade. Some attract top-notch directors, actors and script writers. They are far superior to anything that appears over here -- whether on TV or from Hollywood. Part of the impetus has come from the remarkable Italian series Montelbano, the name of a Sicilian commissario in Ragusa (Vigata)who was first featured in the skillfully crafted novellas of Andrea Camilleri.

Italians remain in the forefront of the genre as Montelbano was followed by similar high class productions set in Bologna, Ferrara, Turino, Milano, Palermo and Roma. A few are placed in evocative historical context. The French follow close behind with a rich variety of series ranging from a revived Maigret circa 2004(Bruno Cremer) and Frank Riva (Alain Delon) to the gritty Blood On The Docks (Le Havre) and the refined dramatizations of other Simenon tales. Others have jumped in: Austria, Germany (several) and all the Scandinavians. The former, Anatomy of Evil, offers us a dark yet riveting set of mysteries featuring a taciturn middle-aged police psychiatrist. Germany'sgem, Homicide Unit -- Istanbul, has a cast of talented Turkish Germans who speak German in a vividly portrayed contemporary Istanbul. Shows from the last mentioned region tend to be dreary and the characters uni-dimensional, so will receive short shrift in these comments.

Most striking to an American viewer are the strange mores and customs of the local protagonists compared to their counterparts over here. So are the physical traits as well as the social contexts. Here are a few immediately noteworthy examples. Tattoos and ****** hardware are strangely absent -- even among the bad guys. Green or orange hair is equally out of sight. The former, I guess, are disfiguring. The latter types are too crude for the sophisticated plots. European salons also seem unable to produce that commonplace style of artificial blond hair parted by a conspicuous streak of dark brown roots so favored by news anchors, talk show howlers and other female luminaries. Jeans, of course, are universal -- and usually filled in comely fashion. It's what people do in them (or out of them) that stands out.

First, almost no workout routines -- or animated talk about them. Nautilus? Nordic Track? Yoga pants? From roughly 50 programs, I can recall only one, in fact -- a rather humorous scene in an Istanbul health club that doubles as a drug depot. There is a bit of jogging, just a bit -- none in Italy. The Italians do do some swimming (Montalbano) and are pictured hauling cases of wine up steep cellar stairs with uncanny frequency. Kale appears nowhere on the menu; and vegan or gluten are words unspoken. Speaking of food, almost all of these characters actually sit down to eat lunch, albeit the main protagonist tends to lose an appetite when on the heels of a particularly elusive villain. Oblique references to cholesterol levels occur on but two occasions. Those omnipresent little containers of yoghurt are considered unworthy of camera time.

A few other features of contemporary American life are missing from the dialogue. I cannot recall the word "consultant' being uttered once. In the face of this amazing reality, one can only wonder how ****-kid 21 year old graduates from elite European universities manage to get that first critical foothold on the ladder of financial excess. Something else is lacking in the organizational culture of police departments, high-powered real estate operations, environmental NGOs or law firms: formal evaluations. In those retro environments, it all turns on long-standing personal ties, budgetary appropriations and actual accomplishment -- not graded memo writing skills. Moreover, the abrupt firing of professionals is a surprising rarity. No wonder Europe is lagging so far behind in the league table of billionaires produced annually and on-the-job suicides

Then, there is that staple of all American conversation -- real estate prices. They crop up very rarely -- and then only when retirement is the subject. Admittedly, that is a pretty boring subject for a tense crime drama -- however compelling it is for academics, investors, lawyers and doctors over here. Still, it fits a pattern.

None of the main characters devotes time to soliciting offers from other institutions -- be they universities, elite police units in a different city, insurance companies, banks, or architectural firms. They are peculiarly rooted where they are. In the U.S., professionals are constantly on the look-out for some prospective employer who will make them an attractive offer. That offer is then taken to their current institution along with the demand that it be matched or they'll be packing their bags. Most of the time, it makes little difference if that "offer" is from College Station, Texas or La Jolla, California. That doesn't occur in the programs that I've viewed. No one is driven to abandon colleagues, friends, a comfortable home and favorite restaurants for the hope of upward mobility. What a touching, if archaic way of viewing life.

The pedigree of actors help make all this credible. For example, the classiest female leads are a "Turk" (Idil Uner) who in real life studied voice in Berlin for 17 years and a transplanted Russo-Italian (Natasha Stephanenko) whose father was a nuclear physicist at a secret facility in the Urals. Each has a parallel non-acting career in the arts. It shows.

After viewing the first dozen or so mysteries of diverse nationality, an American viewer begins to feel an unease creeping up on him. Something is amiss; something awry; something missing. Where are those little bottles of natural water that are ubiquitous in the U.S? The ones with the ****** tip. Meetings of all sorts are held without their comforting presence. Receptionists -- glamorous or unglamorous alike -- make do without them. Heat tormented Sicilians seem immune to the temptation. Cyclists don't stick them in handlebar holders. Even stray teenagers and university students are lacking their company. Uneasiness gives way to a sensation of dread. For European civilization looks to be on the brink of extinction due to mass dehydration.

That's a pity. Any society where cityscapes are not cluttered with SUVs deserves to survive as a reserve of sanity on that score at least. It also allows for car chases through the crooked, cobbled streets of old towns unobstructed by herds of Yukons and Outbacks on the prowl for a double parking space. Bonus: Montelbano's unwashed Fiat has been missing a right front hubcap for 4 years (just like my car). To meet Hollywood standards for car chases he'd have to borrow Ingrid's red Maserati.

Social ******* reveals a number of even more bizarre phenomena. In conversation, above all. Volume is several decibels below what it is on American TV shows and in our society. It is not necessary to grab the remote to drop sound levels down into the 20s in order to avoid irreparable hearing damage. Nor is one afflicted by those piercing, high-pitched voices that can cut through 3 inches of solid steel. All manner of intelligible conversations are held in restaurants, cafes and other public places. Most incomprehensible are the moments of silence. Some last for up to a minute while the mind contemplates an intellectual puzzle or complex emotions. Such extreme behavior does crop up occasionally in shows or films over here -- but invariably followed by a diagnosis of concealed autism which provides the dramatic theme for the rest of the episode.

Tragedy is more common, and takes more subtle forms in these European dramatizations. Certainly, America has long since departed from the standard formula of happy endings. Over there, tragic endings are not only varied -- they include forms of tragedy that do not end in death or violence. The Sicilian series stands out in this respect.

As to violence, there is a fair amount as only could be expected in detective series. Not everyone can be killed decorously by slow arsenic poisoning. So there is some blood and gore. But there is no visual lingering on either the acts themselves or their grisly aftermaths. People bleed -- but without geysers of blood or minutes fixed on its portentous dripping. Violence is part of life -- not to be denied, not to be magnified as an object of occult fascination. The same with ****** abuse and *******.

Finally, it surprises an American to see how little the Europeans portrayed in these stories care about us. We tend to assume that the entire world is obsessed by the United States. True, our pop culture is everywhere. Relatives from 'over there' do make an occasional appearance -- especially in Italian shows. However, unlike their leaders who give the impression that they can't take an unscheduled leak without first checking with the White House or National Security Council in Washington, these characters manage quite nicely to handle their lives in their own way on their own terms.

Anyone who lives on the Continent or spends a lot of time there off the tourist circuit knows all this. The image presented by TV dramas may have the effect of exaggerating the differences with the U.S. That is not their intention, though. Moreover, isn't the purpose of art to force us to see things that otherwise may not be obvious?Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Chad Young Sep 2020
Are there any words which capture wisdom?
Grief of Prophets.
Are there any words which speak enlightenment's prose?
Silence.
Are there any words which tell of an artist's hopelessness?
Time: the comparison between two differing things.

Only age can gain age's beauty.
Only in time can tell the artist's proficiency.
Wishing to write a poem.
Milind Phanse Jul 2013
Words, once obedient servants
Now claim suzerainty over ideas.
The age of meaningful verse has yielded
To gobbledygook.

Poetry, a grey mist half-understood
Through which I stumble blindly,
A mirage I chase through the sands...

The wells of creativity run dry.
Neither outpourings of emotion nor tender murmurs;
Mere craftsmanship remains.
Lines dolled up in ****** baubles
Literary ******, soliciting passing readers,
Fireflies, impotent
In the face of the darkness within.

The autumn harvest of verbosity is ripe
For the scythe of the Grim Reaper
Neha Chaudhary Dec 2015
Our love flows in the moon,
Entangled in its craters and mountains,
serene, pure with soft whisperings.
My soliciting heart seeks you.

And you make it drink the elixir of love.
Far away the ocean sounds and resounds,
Like the echoes of your name in my heart.
I love you and now I write on my heart.

I end each sentence with your breaths,
A perpetual poem, it is indeed.
Come here and I'll love you till the end of time,
We will be drowsy and drunk on passion.

You are the one who can make this day sublime,
So will you please be mine?

© Neha Chaudhary, 3 months ago
Holy Clown Jul 2013
Verily the exordium told anent a beauty engirdled in her fedora
soliciting those whoever descried her into her mere servile admirer
eight trenchant tinctures upon her body invigorate like a cadenza
I dare not to contradict the verity that I am beguiled afore her

whilst the snain distilled faintly enwreathed her in unctuous silk
concordantly she devote herself earnestly to the impeccable rain
that emanate her fragile poetry with prestidigitation in a whisk
forsooth she is but the vernacular sobriquet to the soul of the rain

recall me otherwhile during the rainstorm champagne did coerce
and the sunset's glass of wine exude her ingratiating persona
like a myriad of aphrodisiac summarized in a single verse
when harmony and lyrics danced in the crepuscular crescendo

all of that needed to be enunciated is it is you
do not harshly let me be thy unrequited dilettante
K Balachandran Dec 2013
The night is young,
dark, lascivious and willing
expectations and I
sit hand in hand with her
keeping the tempting
sleep at bay, for long.
Your part of the bed
is still warm, I imagine,
                         anyway
I kept your dinner
packed in the fridge,
warm it up and eat
if you are too late.
I won't be able to take
any call from infinity
if I am being fornicated by
my concubine
an old dream of passion
that keeps on soliciting,
but don't know when
would it knock on my door.
I dream a pendulum swinging between effulgence and darkness
K Balachandran Nov 2011
Totem pole
in new role;
before the mall
soliciting all.
Jon G M Feb 2015
Beautiful woman snaking downtown Sixth St.
You the one with the carwash hem
With slit cuts up to the "yikes" territory
Revealing a body
As if soliciting ideas
That everything is waiting for you
Fritz O'Skennick Sep 2015
She said our *** life was mundane
and had become routine
so we should spice it up a bit
indulge in the obscene
So I figured what the Hell?
Lets give it a go,
it should be fun to mix it up,
rekindle passion's flow.

Monday we tried dressing up,
I donned a Batman suit
and she Catwoman to my Bat,
we'd thought we'd have a hoot.
I leapt from wardrobe to the light
and swung to hear the crack,
the ceiling caved around us both
and I threw out my back.

Tuesday we tried role-play,
I met her in a bar,
the gangster and the ******
we messed round in the car.
A tap upon the window's glass,
a frowning, outraged cop
who booked us for soliciting
because we wouldn't stop.

Wednesday I surprised her
by leaping in the room
naked as my ***** sprang
'She'll like this' I assume
'GERONIMO!!!' I called out loud
and then began to choke,
her mum and gran were sitting there,
her gran then had a stroke.

Thursday we got *****,
I chained her to the bed,
aroused to see her naked form
and naughty words she said.
a banging on the door revealed
her angry, ranting dad
who called to speak of yesterday
but saw her then went mad.

Friday, naked she sat on
my back atop a saddle
she spanked my **** coz in each hand,
she swung a ping-pong paddle
She rode me round til I was sore,
through all the rooms and halls,
til I collapsed when one mis-swing
had caught me in the *****.

Saturday we calmed it down,
massage with scented oils
to help relieve this week of hell
and all it's *** game toils,
til I felt something part my ****,
was not a nice surprise
"Vibrating ***** 5000"
brought tears to my eyes.
I bit down on the pillow hard,
not much that I could say,
I clawed the plaster from the walls,
a bid to get away.

By Sunday, I had had enough,
and told her 'Please, no more...
I miss mundane, I like routine,
just like it was before...
No more costumes, chains or spanks,
or objects in my ****,
no more surprises you have planned,
or schemes you must surpass.'
'Fine' she said 'I'll call my friend
and cancel our three-way'
I looked at her through narrowed eyes,
my jaw dropped in dismay.
'Don't be hasty by my words'
I grinned and calmly tried
'Good, coz Bernard's on his way'
she said and so I cried...

...And cried... And cried...
If you'd like to watch a live rendition of this, please head to http://youtu.be/HmS2-eE7SGc
Anton Michael Feb 2011
Raised and bound into an indomitable religion,
it is sad to be you; narrow-minded, selfless pigeon.
So sanctimonious, looking down your nose at me;
so prudish, thinking you are better than me.
You suspect me of soliciting with Satan, Bel and Legion
just because I do not share your vision
-yet, still, you yearn to ask me: ''how does it feel to be free?''
well, sever your wings, burn your halo and you tell me.
Andrew Jiang Oct 2011
--For my Mother.

Insert another Day in the slot machine
Betting on happiness
Waiting for the stars to align
the wild lights flashing
Toss aside the mathematical improbability
You know the possibility:
Quarters dancing in the metal pan
Soliciting shrills of joy

Such a simple game
between you and the button
trapped in this 11 by 11 casino
All you can do is wishing

Cigarette smoke making you teary-eyed
Stench of alcohol making you nauseous

You get up to leave
But the machine is screaming:
“What's one more day?
When you are betting on happiness?
Don't you hear the laughters?
Don't you see the lights flashing?
Tomorrow is the day,
that I can't promise.
But sit down one more time
All you can do is wishing”

Wishing, pushing
Hoping , waiting
Dreaming, waking
Crying, leaving.
Evie Hammond Aug 2015
Because while the truncheon may be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power.

Words offer the means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth.

And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn't there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression.

And where once you had the freedom to object, to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission.

How did this happen? Who's to blame? Well certainly there are those more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable, but again truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror.

I know why you did it. I know you were afraid. Who wouldn't be? War, terror, disease. There were a myriad of problems which conspired to corrupt your reason and rob you of your common sense.

Alan Moore, V for Vendetta
From V for Vendetta. A remarkable tale filled with beautiful words.
Nathan Vienneau Aug 2013
Soft soled shoes skipping silently along sun scorched sidewalks of Sacramento
Singing sad songs of sinners sinning
  Slinking into shadows of sky scrapers before the sun has soundly set
    Scowling at the sound of sick screaming children suffocating from the smog covered streets
  Spectators sighing, seeking shelter from scoundrels scavenging cents for smack
******* clad ***** soliciting STDs to self loathing suckers
  Smouldering remains, secreting Satan's scent on 2nd
    Sunken sailors slitting throats with sharpened sabres.
Kimoy McKoy Jun 2012
will you be my notebook?
let me write on your body
the poetry of my soul,
the sensual musings of my mind…
the paper, your skin
the ink, our combined sweat
my tongue, the instrument used to pen
my words, soft kisses creating
stanzas, fingertips soliciting sighs, growls...
you like that line, caro?
i thought you would.

will you be my patient?
let me heal your heart
with mine, your body
with my touch...
i can see here
that your heart was once broken
your soul ravaged
by sweetly singing sirens
promising life-long happiness
and an end to loneliness
but who turned out to be
man-eating liars who desecrated you
and fragmented you
and hurt you
and broke you...
but with my tears, i will show you
you are needed,
you are loved.
with my kiss, i open
the door to your cage
with my lips, i break
the chains binding your heart
and with my breath, i revive
your soul, making you whole again.

will you be my eternity?
let me look forward to spending my life
with you,
graduating university
with you,
marrying
you,
honeymooning in italy
with you,
having my twins
with you,
working
with you,
waking up every morning
with you,
doing the simple things in life
with you,
growing old
with you,
dying
with you...
let me love you
all the days of my life
with my heart, body, mind, soul
with my poetry, hands, lips, breath
with the essence of who i am...

will you let me love you?
will you let me heal you?
will you let me keep you?
will you let me?
will you?
JaxSpade Jan 2019
The snow fell at my door

A cold friend
Made me shiver

Underneath snowflakes

Freezing summer

I held some
In my hands

A snowman
In the garden

A cold friend
The wind blew in

Knocking at my door

But I'm not going to
Let him in

Because I'm inside
Warm
Hank Roberts Jun 2012
You know
At this point I'm compelled
to join
in this dance, this masquerade. I
have an
assortment of hats, green, black, blue ,
stripped, ribbon,
turquoise, I can hide behind. No ones seen
the face
that holds it all. They've only seen the color of my mask
on that
day when the world was at turmoil, no
mask to
wear. Emerge the healer the soother
for mines
run out please. Have it anyway you like and enjoy but
be weary
of the no soliciting sign at my door.  We don't need
the world
to end because the appropriate mask wasn't marked
With flowers.
See beyond the masks and see that they're all me past present and future.
I shy away from sentences.
In the spaces where words should be,but aren't I can maintain my anonymity,and shore up my unrepentance.
  When I speak in more than snippets, it becomes plain.
I am as broken as my preferred pattern of speaking, of writing.
If you look close enough, you can see it.
It isn't as clever as I wish it was.
And sure, its effective enough at soliciting a fleeting feeling.
But what good does it do?
I like to pretend that I want to be known.
Really, I am hiding just out of sight.
Around the next corner on that daily walk where we sometimes collide.
  In circles of other people you know.
You've seen my face, you know my name,
youd even say you know me.
But if you were asked who I am, you'd hesitate,
with a catch in your throat, and a half reassuring-half derogatory smile.
" well, you're.. You" you'd say.  
And no matter how many times you're asked, you'd repeat it.
For days,months, years.
I've watched it happen already.
I'm not sure if I haven't taken the trouble to really introduce myself,
Or if you haven't taken the trouble to realize that I am not just
Some whimsical syllable
Plastered on my shoulders
From birth to now.
And now, we don't have time to be sure.
Jeremy Bean Aug 2013
A brand new lock
in my hand the key
No longer home
just leave me be
The lights are off
this abode looks empty

Am I a prisoner or am I free?

Picked up the welcome mat
barred the doors
got a guard dog waiting
on the living room floor
No soliciting sign
for those peddling ******

opportunity wont be knocking
for you anymore.
Vicki Acquah Jun 2016
Unfinished


These streets mistreat
one hundred degrees in the heat
rode past said a prayer
lying on the pavement
was the new wretched
of the earth, so caste down
nothing left but death.

All them with nowhere to be.
Not allowed at bus-stops
or on park bench.
Emergency room huh no care zone
not even Obama care.

No walking on pavement
while impoverished.
no urgent pooping or walking
on grass.  No soliciting tissue
to wipe their derriere – No water
no roof- no soil...
100 degrees on the cement.

Most alone -Few with someone
Lying on bare ground –
Mate stretched out
on her back-
She in an odious state
White woman, with black man
He tenderly rubbing her like a favorite pet.

Let’s not speak of the stench, that foul air that attacks
nostrils and eyes. Not even soap.
Could quell the smell. People cross to the other-side.
dare not bear witness to the offensive odors.

No air, nor breeze gives relief, not one clean breath or inhalation,
Hot pavement and stale air make you heave on these
Streets. Mistreatment of those detested, barely they breathe.
as they reached their safe haven, in front of that building.
A shelter that’s reached capacity, no entrance.

God forbidden streets, continue to mistreat, no loitering.
Passer byes making the sign of the cross, as they cross the street.
Uttering “but for the grace of God there go I”
Seems like Mockery and blaspheme.
Do those outstretched not also deserve God’s grace?

The righteous strut past hurriedly, without concern of
Karma.
Feeling better than the least of them.
Wonder why their being punished.
Mental illness, grandchildren abandoned to the system.
War veterans, Prison release,
Outlived their children.
Bloated Bellies eat…
Fancy scraps from high places –
nowhere to alleviate.
Good deeds written off on restaurant tax forms…
but can’t use their facilities.
Devour and swallow without tasting,
Chewing without teeth.

The righteous strut past hurriedly, without concern of
Karma.
Christina Cox Dec 2015
I make love to Sadness and wake up in her arms.
I make out with Anger while hitting the bases.
I flirt with brothers Guilt and Shame with no care.
The guarded Fear holds me in his arms.
I date Boredom and pay for the popcorn.
On vacation, Pain comes back, “welcome home” says the sign.
Walking through the mall, I hide from Joy.
The loving Care knocks on the door that says, No Soliciting
The stalker Forgiveness earns himself a restraining order.
The beautiful Love gives me flowers that when I touch, die.
saryachan Apr 2016
Sweet Morpheus greeted me
On the grand patch of risen grass.

I lie down for a nap
Feeling vitality seeping through the dew
Which kisses the blades
Every morning and night.

The cirrocumulus and their kind
Casually flocking in the sky
I see the shapes in their crevices-
Reminiscent of something playful.

I put my ear against the earth
Not really listening,
Flecks of soil graze my face
Like a massive comb
Grooming softly
With tickling sensation.

Suddenly,
A crackle heard from the distance.

A dynamite? A firework?
A flash of lightening aimed specific?
I do not know.

I do not know.

I throw my hands towards the clouds
Soliciting them to take me away,
Lift me up to join their somnambulism
Above the ground
Detached
Like sleep paralysis.

From up here,
Everything seems nice
Because it is not vivid
Nor intimate enough
For concrete judgement.
This makes it easy to romanticise.

Reality is surreal
Surreal is happening,
Set me down in my nest on a plane of human existence
I’ll sleep through the evening
Through the noon
And the screaming
I’ll imagine
It’s something I don’t have the power
To stop.

I’ll pretend
It’s the music
That powers the rain.

I’ll escape with the stratus
Dreaming
I was in a position
To make a difference.
https://pourallyourheartout.wordpress.com/2016/03/18/nube-cloud-trans-ilkaandescente/
Kane Jan 2015
Something dark and foreboding,
remembrance of the past.
Soliciting seamless aggression,
seemingly at last.

When vagueness eludes,
nothing seems to return.
Memories seem to delude
another chance to learn

What seemed a waterfall
is under mechanical power.
Ideas used to impress themselves,
waterfall’s a shower.

If the river is dried now,
I hope it’ll flood soon.
Sick of monotonous effort,
mind seems out of tune

A killer’s look,
and empty stare.
Convictions not so humble,
question what is fair.
Lunar Luvnotes Mar 2016
I'm with a customer when I feel your heart seize in my own body, this sympathetic pain always all I have when our signal gets shotty. That's most the time now. As much as I miss you and I love you, I figure if I matter, you'd stop running. Connection can't be carried by one only, thats an unhealthy anomaly. I sense you get solemn when I'm no longer calling. It makes me want to reach out and soothe but God booms no everytime, says quit playing mommy, he's clearly done playing daddy. If you will stand as friends, you shalt not be both legs. He said he was so busy it's not for you to go to him. It might feel good to be in contact but cheap moments are tricks robbing the big picture. If you're two to exist thats on him. He is big on "action" so allow him to imprint upon the universe his stance if and when he's ever ready, do not take that opportunity from him or anything you mend is only temporary, for your God wants for you a man who understands the sacredness of intention. The past must pass you by and leave you alone for what's to come. You deserve to be someone's priority, never second to their ego. If it's not this man why get caught up and waste your mojo. If he loves you so much he'll follow and find the time to pick up the phone device and call you. Why should it always be you smoothing it over, making sure he knows "I love you". It is not right, there is no time for waiting idle for progression that is stalling. You deserve partnership of back and forth, not wallowing. It is not up to you to pick him up out every hole. Maybe sometimes as that back and forth but where's he been when you are spent? He's off wandering. Looking for new back and forths to make him feel rich. That's always the plan, it just never goes accordingly. There is not enough connection to fill the pit he keeps digging. Just because he might know now you're worth his time, doesn't ever make soliciting love right. God says let him go, and if he cares he'll fly back. And if he never does, I'm so glad to know where I stand. On this branch. In the morning mist. Being grand, receiving my plan. I'm over the self punishing. I'm over supplying the only constancy. I miss the old days when I was worth the world and all the words you'd never found a home for til our eyes got reaquainted. You are the biggest blessing of my life but I follow God, not humans. He wants me happy. Says if I am strong my strength will funnel into the next connection that is borne. Will it be with someone new oneday or ours. All I know is we are worn and our torch submerged in the tears of our storm. If we are to be reborn I am so happy. But I will not keep dancing on doubt just so it flashes me money. Doubt is never to touch me. It makes me feel cheap and I like to dance classy. If you wanna talk ask me. I will not crawl. If you say you're busy get back to me. If you miss me, tell me. If you're gonna say goodbye, write words I understand cuz I'm worth that, I will not pull out the medical dictionary I dont own to decipher poetic geometry. You know I **** at math, that is a headache and a half adding up what's this and that mean.  The only reason i know what your saying besides every other word is hashtags, how tragically sad our last gasps of connection are becoming. When you write for me in the face of uncertainty you never branch my way, its always in code as if writing for yourself only. When you are happy with me though, its always crystal clear. What have we become?! This is US! Talk to me, tell me how you actually feel. Otherwise I'll see you next life. I hope you're loving yourself as much as I love you. It's not a job for the faint of heart. I would know, cuz loving me is a comparable chore, a dutiful art. But I find a way everyday. Everyday. Everyday. I love you so much for teaching me everything there was to know about my goodness. Before I found mine you were the billboard blasting my praises. If we are to go separate ways, I will be ok. For I know I gave you the same. I gave you confidence, hope and perfect love. At least for a time we had eachother's backs and loved eachother harder than anyone else had been capable of. That is what soulmates do, it has been my honor to serve you. I release you now, hoping you find your way back home  to oneness to sing his song. Maybe I'll see you oneday in the branches of sobriety, faith and love, by my side or in the distance flying with some other ***** with better luck. It'd not be that she's worth more, cuz I know I've got a good heart.
For Snow Leopard. Coincidentally posted at 11:11 number of angels. I send the angels but I've heard they're often lost on you in the storm. This is my last attempt human to human. I'll keep praying for u tho
Aaron Rosenberg Jan 2015
Lifetime warranty spiked above the headboard –
Pounded, driven in.
A ****** memento for spellbound comfort.
For beleaguered convenience, every vindication.

From the reliquary a
Prefect draws Scrabble squares:
Transgressions divined in crossword.
Taking them on, like Him, and
Glaring, feeding them back to you, a
Beguiling grin:
Absolving all.

Not quite the mother, at least
Present to explain the
Pain she bears for you.

Not Santa, not Tooth Fairy,
Unworthy of the wall.

The Easter Bunny,
Harebrained scheme,
Foot hacked clean at absurdity’s altar, keeps
         Suffering
                     and suffering
                                  and suffering.

But you do clutch, and do not falter.

******, magical pretense,
Lurid, laudable as a
Hotdog on a stick, and just as
Tasteless.

Snake oil, tendrils crossing paths in a
Greasy Baptismal pool,
Soliciting the stranglehold.

No grace; just a
Wolf and a
Sheep.
Guess which you are.
Zainab Dec 2018
I can't feel that bliss,
of peace
As the day goes by,
hope departs
Myself breaks apart
Melancholy is an intimate friend
Shattered heart,
which none can mend

Aggravating desolation
Absolute imperfection
Soliciting for serenity
Are these sorrows here for eternity?

Solitude expounds me
Infinite glooms surround me
Desires for splendid happiness
Grim reality manifests utter darkness

— The End —