"solitaire" poems
an incredible incite (the ruthless volatility of words)
~for L.B.~
the only place of solitaire solitude in the city accompanies me
like a faithful country dog that doesn’t know better to be afraid,
of moving cars, sleepless night terrors and unscripted “dreams”
where image and words say come “follow me” with ruthlessness and no cloying come hither looks and
see and take and recall with perfect midnight blue sky clarity for
the incredible incite of credible insight
surfacing unexpectedly in a intemperate pool of slushy snow,
that will be an ice storm of painful confrontations with naked
inner truths standing outside in sunny sub zero playground
there is great risk. volatility gone wild. when the speed
governor is removed and you live at 100 mph on local streets,
when the merest slight of an accidental incidental touch
transforms into an incite incident and hell is the threat
that you will not die today and your own words will ruthless
pull from the nerve places where sensible and sensual cannot
coexist and this write this script is a poetical insight inside, an
incredible incite and what your spilling is spaghetti sauce blood
when you left your brain on broil, instead of the faking daily of
slow simmering ineffectual intellectual words that just don’t
cut the crap. your addiction complete, you cannot live without
the incredible incite, the ruthless volatility of words,
otherwise why rough write what you see
in the blind
beyond the blind
1/6/18 5:03am
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 5:17 AM UTC
By Janis Ian
I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful
At seventeen I learned the truth...
And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone
Who called to say "come dance with me"
And murmured vague obscenities
It isn't all it seems at seventeen...
A brown eyed girl in hand me downs
Whose name I never could pronounce
Said: "Pity please the ones who serve
They only get what they deserve"
The rich relationed hometown queen
Marries into what she needs
With a guarantee of company
And haven for the elderly...
So remember those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
In debitures of quality and dubious integrity
Their small-town eyes will gape at you
In dull surprise when payment due
Exceeds accounts received at seventeen...
To those of us who knew the pain
Of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called
When choosing sides for basketball
It was long ago and far away
the world was younger than today
when dreams were all they gave for free
to ugly duckling girls like me...
We all play the game, and when we dare
We cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
That call and say: "Come on, dance with me"
And murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me, at seventeen...
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 3:34 PM UTC
~
June 2023
HP Poet: Patty Mager
Country: USA
Question 1: Welcome to the HP Spotlight, Patty. Please tell us about your background?
Patty M: "I was born an only child in a 3 generation household. I loved books, and playing imaginary games, and chasing my mom with really long nightcrawlers, my Grandpa raised in a washtub. I was a banker, and a financial banker for many years. I quit to do hospice for my Dad when he was to go into hospice. My husband had heart problems and my little Mom eventually got Cancer. So I nursed and loved them all. My Dad for a year, the others over an 8-year period. I saw the transition of each and the way each handled their ending, and I was there for them all. I consider that a special blessing."
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Patty M: "I always wrote, but I found a poetry site 20 years ago, and began to write seriously. I've been published in many anthologies both in the US and abroad. I was nominated for the coveted Pushcart Prize twice and I once had a three-page spread in our local newspaper. I came to HP in 2014 and I love this special place with amazingly wonderful poets who have become really great friends."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Patty M: "Sometimes poems seem to write themselves, almost like automatic writing."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Patty M: "Poetry is spiritual, and a lifesaving rope that carries me through both good and the horrible times of my life."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Patty M: "My favorite Poets are: Sylvia Plath, Neruda, Billy Collins, Maya Angelou, Poe, Ginsberg, Anne Sexton, and Longfellow."
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Patty M: "I love to cook, do crossword puzzles, read, and play card games like canasta, and spider solitaire. Being with family is my heaven."
Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for allowing me to interview you, dear Patty! I learned a great deal about you!”
Patty M: "Thank again Carlo. Thanks so much for all your help and kindness."
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Patty a little bit better. I indeed did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)
We will post Spotlight #5 in July!
~
Jun 1, 2023
Jun 1, 2023 at 5:56 PM UTC
I am literate in daydreams
and letting my imagination rule my head
I am literate in music
where rationale can be abandoned.
I am literate in procrastination,
pushing away my mind-defying.
I am literate in heartbreak
which has been already over-endured.
I am literate in lazy weekends
spent with my sister and a remote.
I am literate in creating;
not masterpieces, but heart and soul pieces.
I am literate in ramen noodle and green tea afternoons
in sweatpants and sneakers with no makeup on.
I am literate in moment-capturing
and finding the right words to explain.
I am literate in thunderstorms
and dancing in between water droplets.
I am literate in heart confessions
over acoustic guitars and games of solitaire.
I am literate in wanting
and taking away from what I already have.
I am literate in wanderlust
and a wholehearted need to escape.
I am literate in color-coordination and clothing arranging
and bringing out all my best.
I am literate in kissing with desperation
and wanting to have it be effortless.
I am literate in wasting my time
in my head, in my heart, and in the clouds.
I am literate in everything mentioned
and so much that I can’t even say.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
Black queen on the red king,
the seven on the black
eight, eight goes on the nine, bring
the nine on over, place
jack on the queen. There is space
now for that black king who,
six or so cards back,
was buried in the pack.
Five on six, where's seven?
Under the ten. The ace
must be under the two.
Four, nine on ten, three, through.
It's after eleven.
5.4k
It's summertime. The saxophone jazz
sounds are pirouettetting the waves
to find their own balance. It's a mauve
inner dance in almost everything around.
More exactly, the melodious movable
sounds become soundable movement
needing a reverberation time to dissipate
the energy. The movement releases its own
purity to become simple fecundity. The pulsed
sound waves are also old memories lost in the
natural green. The saxophone looks much
more like a Tahitian prince dancing his love
on the sand. The singing mauve sea waves
have a sadness taste at sunset. The last one
is a watery mermaid and he embraces her
while searching the high. The sounds need
touch and life. They need to dematerialize
and to disappear into the universe. The
saxophone remains a solitaire keeping
safe his evanescent hermetic equilibrium.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
A gray hippo lived in the zoo
It was so stressful it turned him blue
The Giraffes laughed at his skin so blue
That only made him bluer times two
Now the Lion was wise but a little slow
That's why he wound up as the star of the show
He and Hippo were playing a game of solitaire
While the Lion played fleas were biting him everywhere
Hippo ate chocolate cake
That the tourist threw over the gate
Wise old Lion said ,
"You better watch your weight
Your getting a little thick in the hip ."
"Humph !" , said Hippo ,
"Why do you think they call us
Hip-po-pot-a-mus ."
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
On A Diet
The country is on a diet,
drinking coke with no sugar,
eating burgers with no bun,
running on the treadmill;
it's powdered protein for lunch.
It's straight tequila in the evening,
a light head and guilty fries at night.
The country is on a diet,
doing yoga over yoghurt pots,
training their minds with sudoku and solitaire,
rubbing salt and condition into their hair.
It's 6 a.m. gym sessions,
it's squats on the living room floor,
the country is on a diet, my friends,
and so we have no time for truth, or war.
The country is on a diet,
avocado in the breadcrumb,
aspirin in the salt-shaker,
food numb on the tongue
and those slim-shakes always failed to deliver.
Thigh gaps and mind-the-gaps,
all these signposts for a cleaner living,
no dust on the shelf,
no bags 'neath your eyes to hide
the lack of sleep
and your ailing mental health.
The country is on a diet,
drinking tea with no milk,
eating carrot sticks with best-value dip,
running on the treadmill,
we never get too far.
It's straight tequila in the evening,
it's "anything goes" in the dark.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
My mother's playing cards with my aunt,
Spite and Malice, the family pastime, the game
my grandmother taught all her daughters.
Midsummer: too hot to go out.
Today, my aunt's ahead; she's getting the good cards.
My mother's dragging, having trouble with her concentration.
She can't get used to her own bed this summer.
She had no trouble last summer,
getting used to the floor. She learned to sleep there
to be near my father.
He was dying; he got a special bed.
My aunt doesn't give an inch, doesn't make
allowance for my mother's weariness.
It's how they were raised: you show respect by fighting.
To let up insults the opponent.
Each player has one pile to the left, five cards in the hand.
It's good to stay inside on days like this,
to stay where it's cool.
And this is better than other games, better than solitaire.
My grandmother thought ahead; she prepared her daughters.
They have cards; they have each other.
They don't need any more companionship.
All afternoon the game goes on but the sun doesn't move.
It just keeps beating down, turning the grass yellow.
That's how it must seem to my mother.
And then, suddenly, something is over.
My aunt's been at it longer; maybe that's why she's playing better.
Her cards evaporate: that's what you want, that's the object: in the end,
the one who has nothing wins.
3.8k
Harken My Daughters
by Solitaire Archer
Harken My Daughters I bid listen to me
And as I say these Words So Mote it be
Teach her from now till time is forgot
Teach her broom and teach her ***
Teach now no reason to hide
Teach her scents and times and tides
Teach her hues and Teach her to bide
Teach her Moons and teach her flowers
Teach her herbs and to keepsafe Our bower
Teach her Air and Water and Fire
Teach her Oak and Teach her lyre
No buildings of Stone No meter high Towers
Let her Dance in the Snow and Dance in the Showers
Hark to me my Daughters dear Teach her so she has naught to fear
Show her Signs and cards and runes
Teach to her to call down the Moon
Teach her Sight and Teach her Bane
Teach her to invoke my Name
in my Place too- call down the Power
In our Circles or in our Bowers
As I have taught now you must too
Pass it forward your line ensue
Daughter to daughter your line in Light
for this moment forward as far as Sight
Witch follows Witch for eternitys Flight
Daughter to Daugther gives Power and Might
Harken My Daughters Listen me
Child go live it
So Mote It Be
These are my words, This is my way.
Doyenne Solita Arcanna ShadoeWalker @2012
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
i detoxed myself under this pale sun
(you stood by and watched the
unfolding saga all the while
questioning the meaning of zen)
the original concept was lost
somewhere along the way
when i dropped the ball
on the forty yard line
(can you recover your own fumbles?)
every time i stand by,
the waiting is eternal
and i become engrossed
in the uselessness of my position,
pondering
(my love for this is a game of solitaire)
i am the ultimate in
irrational action,
a demagogue of dark
pathways and religious
zealotry, trapped beneath
glass floors watching,
trying desperately to
cannibalize my fingers.
i have smoked your toenails
and wandered away listless
at comments unbecoming
and salivated on the fires
set to displace my vessels
(i have seen you ignoring me)
in the coming months i will
rend my eyes and pierce
my skull artificially
so you will be able
to see into my soul and
destroy me more efficiently
(you will know me by the number of the dead)
i will search deep and
long inside this shadow's
shell, extracting this cancer
so i can cook up my
shortcomings and inject
them into a Ken doll
because then at least
i will be pretty.
i will feed my
chilled oatmeal to a
Cantonese family
that will honor me
as the ***** poo-flinger
i am for you.
i will cease to exist
on a plane with your
type, sinking lower
on scale like a rock in
the Mississippi River.
Mom, when i stop
growing up, i will
be the ****** loser
everyone always
thought i would
(aren't you proud?)
(isn't he cute?)
i cannot imagine
surviving your intern camp
after the tattooing of arms,
we will eat the testicles of the
fallen gods and dispense
great suffering on the weak
because of our enlightened
prospects and redemptions
(what do you know about pain?)
i will place my severed head
in a place of prominence, likely
in your bed, right before
i cease to breathe
my eyelids weaken....
flicker, flutter....
i grow tired with the
advent of your indecision,
the totality of abandonment
the lenses fog, fade...
flicker, flutter...
i have run out of things to sacrifice
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
Was waiting to be solitaire,
Would cease every possible chance.
Like my mind wished, I'd be
But heart still yearning for company.
Of that of a beast,or a beauty.
Who'd take me farthest on this land,
On the sacred shoulders of my country.
The hills,winds and barren land,
They all giving me one big hand.
Thumping across the roads,
I could hear the Banjo chords.
The beast I'd ride on,
Or the beauty who'd ride on me,
Was still a nostalgic dream.
Sink me in,deep in you
Be the beauty or the beast.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC
Rain-diamonds, this winter morning, embellish the tangle of unpruned pear-tree twigs; each solitaire, placed, it appearrs, with considered judgement, bears the light beneath the rifted clouds -- the indivisible shared out in endless abundance.
2.7k
solitaire at seven--
i placed chestnuts on the cards
to cheat and win.
you told me what DNA was
after teaching me the game
.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
resting upon a wet diamonte cloth a dew encrusted diamante goblet of sparkling bubbling classic champagne floating a jewelled ice berg the solitaire diamond encrusted the ring of Celtic gold thrice captured
indulged then held fast in your naked sleeping beauty - with visions of our night shared in driven imaginative love
the coloured reality of a nights unreality - soon both awake we will discover more
now we slip between reverie and gentle touch - this is our love in loves haecceity
within a darkened airy Bedouin tents comfort then thrice by the lonely beauty of the green oasis waves of guarding desert dunes beyond a mirage of dry high peaks here I await her dreaming heart
.
Aug 16, 2010
Aug 16, 2010 at 1:19 AM UTC
Remember when you told me you forgot your middle name.
And that you didn't remember if you even had one.
That your parents weren't particularly religious; that they forgot God.
And that you've been forgetful lately.
You couldn't
remember
the last time you picked flowers.
Or a president.
Or shot a gun.
Or put a flower in a gun.
And that Vietnam was like Iraq.
And France would bring WWIII.
"What's my middle name?"
You asked.
"Where's the Middle East?"
"Didn't the nukes dropped in the Nevada desert sand create glass?"
"How many windows does this room have? Can you see?"
"The eyes are the windows to the soul."
My eyes feel old
Is what my grandmother would say
when she was tired.
She would play solitaire.
After each game she would
shuffle the deck three ways.
I would always mix them up
scattered on the tabletop.
That's what I remember
from the sixties.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
up the down staircase
running in circles chasing my tail
rerunning another episode of groundhog day
trying to skim on the water without a sail
constantly getting in my own way
reaching for the stars without any arms
singing the blues to a house of the dead
searching for the clock in a room full of alarms
should be slamming the door closed instead
out of breath climbing the staircase with no end
when the only way that it goes is down
keeping my eyes closed trying to pretend
wearing the mask and the tears of a clown
the odds of completion like Custer's last stand
trying to understand the reason of risk and reward
counting the good things with only one hand
playing solitaire with a deck missing one card
Gomer LePoet ....
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 11:23 PM UTC
Apon tha roll O' tha pagan's dream
As it leaps an' boun's apon tha mental stream
Flowing doon intae tha cordons o' solitaire
Near tha brigs O' tha banks O' Bonnie Ayr.
Tha whispering Hazel catches huld tha tune
Echoing tha mysteries a' tha wae tae Troon
As a glimmer O' lichtning crosses tha Sky
He, tha ancient an' grand Wizard stoans apon Carrick high.
Configurations an' transformations by god
Far ayond tha concepts o' tha blunnering sod
Catch hold Lad tha spirit as it flees past ye
Heading oot taewards Arran across tha sea.
Does no tha Seagull scream tae enchant tha ******
an' the win' blaws like some evil melody played by a Demon
An' dinnie wait tae lang tae grasp tha chain
O' life's faithful given, tha Barley, Wheat an' Grain.
But come see tha Mither apon her Earth filled seat
As tae tha wonnerous farmer She bows tae Greet
That apon tha Seasons O' echoed fate they may come tae restore
Tha True religion O' this land, O' this flaming shore.
Nue listen an' be quite till pass a' hoors break
an' bin' ye thagither tha dreams an' thouchts that ye take
an' cast it a' apon tha Fires O' Beltanes torch
Tae watch as tha flames reach higher an' higher, tha heevens tae scorch.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 1:45 PM UTC
scrabble tile - no vowels
exact change only
spider solitaire - tetris
distraction
furtive glances
quiet moments alone
lie to friends
weep with no tears
lonliness
gritted teeth with cavities
must mend myself
procrastinate
cars go fast
constant peripheral hearing
night sweats
vivid imagery, pretty colours, sublimity
consideration, politeness, restraint
roman numerals, 24 hour clock
crumpled notes, lacing on a glass
temporary sensations
four walls, three sides, two's company
shocking weather we are having isn't it?
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
*Life is worthwhile when you see the sunrise
Listening to the chirpy birds making merry
Glinting dewdrops are nature’s solitaire
Pirouetting on the edges with nimble feet
Sun rays kissing life into all the half sleepy heart
Waking up to the fresh aroma of pristine dawn
Walking on bare grass to get a strong foothold
Feeling one with nature embracing me tight
It’s a symphony of the grandest orchestra
Starting our day with a pledge in our heart
In making this day all the more worthwhile*
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
Il n'est pas donné à chacun de prendre un bain de multitude : jouir de la foule est un art ; et celui-là seul peut faire, aux dépens du genre humain, une ribote de vitalité, à qui une fée a insufflé dans son berceau le goût du travestissement et du masque, la haine du domicile et la passion du voyage.
Multitude, solitude : termes égaux et convertibles pour le poète actif et fécond. Qui ne sait pas peupler sa solitude, ne sait pas non plus être seul dans une foule affairée.
Le poète jouit de cet incomparable privilège, qu'il peut à sa guise être lui-même et autrui. Comme ces âmes errantes qui cherchent un corps, il entre, quand il veut, dans le personnage de chacun. Pour lui seul, tout est vacant ; et si de certaines places paraissent lui êtres fermées, c'est qu'à ses yeux elles ne valent pas la peine d'être visitées.
Le promeneur solitaire et pensif tire une singulière ivresse de cette universelle communion. Celui-là qui épouse facilement la foule connaît des jouissances fiévreuses, dont seront éternellement privés l'égoïste, fermé comme un coffre, et le paresseux, interné comme un mollusque. Il adopte comme siennes toutes les professions, toutes les joies et toutes les misères que la circonstance lui présente.
Ce que les hommes nomment amour est bien petit, bien restreint et bien faible, comparé à cette ineffable orgie, à cette sainte prostitution de l'âme qui se donne tout entière, poésie et charité, à l'imprévu qui se montre, à l'inconnu qui passe.
Il est bon d'apprendre quelquefois aux heureux de ce monde, ne fût-ce que pour humilier un instant leur sot orgueil, qu'il est des bonheurs supérieurs au leur, plus vastes et plus raffinés. Les fondateurs de colonies, les pasteurs de peuples, les prêtres missionnaires exilés au bout du monde, connaissent sans doute quelque chose de ces mystérieuses ivresses ; et, au sein de la vaste famille que leur génie s'est faite, ils doivent rire quelquefois de ceux qui les plaignent pour leur fortune si agitée et pour leur vie si chaste.
2.3k
We found something worse than hate and love,
something that spawns when a heart is lost
and we thought it didn't exist, but it does
and we got hit with it's sun like the moss of a tree.
So now every time I fall for another one
it feels more like the ending of summer
and less like my favorite season.
Our mouths are loaded pistols
with golden bullet words that have no real direction,
spraying upwards towards a cloudless night sky,
but they never quite hit the stars.
I picked you out like a flower in a field
where the rain clouds stay,
where the ruiners of all good things play,
with temporary wars between you and I.
I moved your eyes like a chess piece
to wherever I walked in the room
so I checked into checkmate
so you could destroy me.
I thought you would have moved your rook
to E6, ending in a stalemate and us in love forever...
But you said "I'm so sorry" right before knocking my king over.
I hate your checkered past. I'm going to play solitaire.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
One rock that bounces off the river
Another rock that drowns and scars the bed
What distinguishes the two is fate's solitaire
One day I will skip like a stone
But today I lie sunken at the bottom
Amidst the many mermaids in the photic zone
Stifled by the pressure of the water
Fettered by the weight of failure and anxiety
Overhead a storm rages, unsettling the ocean
I will outlive this habitat that will die slowly
I will see the ecosystem turn into a corpse
Anemone, scampi, and sharks; no trace of it all
I hope to skip like a stone, but, at what cost
Jul 25, 2022
Jul 25, 2022 at 3:11 PM UTC
When the times are striking you
All the right seems to be wrong
Nothing said is never listened
And loneliness is your only friend
Solitaire is the only game you play
You feel you can not go on anymore
Never give up, no never give up
Black clouds seem to hover over your head
You want the ground to swallow you up
Your heart is always being broken, time after time
And you are fed up picking up the pieces
Your shadow seems to be the only one to turn to
Forgotten smiles bring you scolding tears
Never give up, please never give up
There is the sun in the shadows of the sky
There is life even living in a poluted sea
There are reasons for life to face again
There is beautiful poetry yet to be discovered
There are flowers growing even in charred soil
There is hope in the hand of a true friend
Never give up, we must never give up
Dec 24, 2009
Dec 24, 2009 at 6:04 AM UTC
often always
I am the
lone
Cameraman
New Year,
I only see the fireworks
through
a screen
in the misty weather
I remember
catching shots
through the window
of the car
... and waiting
and often Dan and I
share shots
and cameras
and Lightroom programmes
...and Bueno Bars
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC