"stacks" poems
Even sunflowers need the rain to grow
Like recycling scar tissue you refuse to show
Like holding the words to a cookbook containing the recipe for disaster
Like the blood of an open wound placed by the whip of an unruly master
Even sunflowers need the rain to grow
Like when you finally learn the meaning of you reap what you sow
Like a magnificent sand castle washed away by the sea
All the sand becomes one and denies the right to be free
Even sunflowers need the rain to grow
Like the sting from the phrase I told you so
Like a deer caught in headlights frozen dead in it's tracks
Like gazing the stars if we could just climb the smoke stacks
Even sunflowers need the rain to grow
Like excluding truth from what you think you know
Like playing life in a game of poker, and the *** is everything but cheap
Karma has the high hand, face up, read'em and weep
Even sunflowers need the rain to grow
Like running through red lights because all you want is to go
Like a jack of all trades who can't fix his own heart
Like the tortoise that took off before the race even start
Even sunflowers need the rain to grow
Like a hundred oars and no arms to row
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 8:31 AM UTC
Polite
Typical
Smiley
Daughter
Pointlessly
Trusting
School
District
Professor
Turns-blind-eye
Struggling
Drastically
Packets
Turn-to
Stacks
Deficient
Panic Attacks
Turn-to
Self
Destruction
Pulling
Teeth
Sick
Design
Plans
To
Stop
Discussing
Peace
To-her
Silence
Disturbs
People
Talked
She
Distracted
Passed
The
Snacks-to
Dinners
Pulled
The
Same
Dimensions
Pre-K
Then
Smaller
Didn't
Pause
Third-Grade
So
Dead
Parents
Though
She
Drowned
Piled
Thoughts
Suffocated-her
Dexterity
Patient
There
Suffering
Depression
Problems
To-many-to
Score
Dispute
Progress
That
Shockingly
Developed
Potentially
Taken-away-the
Suffering
Dramatically
Poor
Tiny
Sweet
Doll
Part
Traumatized
Sleep
Deprived
Phobic
though
Sixth grade
Doesn't
Play
Though
Six-Years-of
Death
Until... The little girl, learned she had,
Post
Traumatic
Stress
Disorder
and, school treating her badly is only one of her three traumatizing events.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
Isn’t physically quick or agile.
Disappears in libraries.
Has been known to dissolve into the physical pages of books.
Is good at tucking herself into the stacks and retreating to reading nooks.
Blends in at coffee shops where her voice can be drowned out by the grinding and the steaming.
Can become indistinguishable in the dark of theatres, in the quiet shuffle of art galleries, the finger-snapping of poetry readings, the hum and jostle of the Tube.
Is indistinct. Adept at hiding in plain sight.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
Their boat turned in towards us
ready to board our vessel
to take us to their island,
a fastness, craggy, bleak, treeless.
To winter peat fires, gales, darkness,
weird northern tales of gods and trolls,
black nights seared by bright light curtains,
a violent Viking heritage.
A place where cold sea and ocean
overturn the crippled sea stacks,
our lives in the boarding party's
hands and our skilful Shetland pilot.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
Dope, money, and hoes [x9]
[Verse 1: Da$h]
Ain't write it, thought of this when I was drunk driving
Like I had a license, been swerving through the intersect
Just to make the ******* wet, breakfast: yac and cigarettes
Feds about the only threat, spit nasty like my throat is strep
She working at the pyramid, shake her **** for some bucks from Tut
Pharaoh to the marrow, Cleopatra roll my dutch
Dour blunts they double stuffed, got a ***** stupid chopped
Used to squad these faggots' wives, the ******* that I used to pop
Wear the **** I used to cop, respect your elders lil *****
Ain't even of age to drink, I get your ** to buy me liquor
'Linquent **** I live for it, they tryin but might die for it
These drugs got my brain, money got my mind finding fun in crime
******* love my rhymes, to be honest I love their mouth at campuses
Looking for talents just like I'm a college scout
Ask her what she shout, I’m ashin' her on the ******* couch
[Verse 2: Da$h]
Dope, money, and hoes, getting dope money from shows
She sniff her coke then she blow, **** it, I don’t judge it though
Sugar free, no love for sure, just put 'em on Sepulveda
Benefits and bank rolls, all a ***** really want from her
And when she bring it back, call my brother hit the trap
Invested in a couple packs, will probably see a couple stacks from what he talkin
Money hulking like Bruce Banner
Panarama day dreaming, While she downin' my ***** on camera
Life's in action, piping, smashing whatever you call it
Smoke a 'Port and I'm off but they ******* think I lost it
And my dog facing blunts while I feed my pups bath salts
Infiltrate my castle, take your face like it's a mask boss
Pass raw flesh and bone, money long like small intestines
Homes I'm taking breakfast, long as getting checks involved H´z *****
Cause if you ain't know, AraabMuzik
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
The blue necklace...
The sun
is laughing and shining
Oh God,
Why are you so powerless ?
I implant the fish in the sea
The whales implant the trees in the oceans
My golden earrings were lost
His eyes were not blue
My blue necklace is beautiful
My mother's eyes are more beautiful
for knowing Gandhi as a good leader
And ****** as a bad one
and I'm just scared of fame
The poet stacks on the words
in such a way
that even he himself
doesn't know what is he saying
The society is always colorful
But my eyes are black and white
I was praying for the death of
my mom,
my sister
or me ''Jasmine''
Mom!
Are The Clouds whiter up there in the sky?!
گردنبند آبی
خورشید
می خندد و می درخشد
...خدایا
تو چرا هیچ قدرتی نداری!؟
من ماهی ها را در دریا می کارم
نهنگ ها در اقیانوس درخت می کارند
گوشواره های طلایی من گم شد
چشمان او آبی نبود
گردنبند آبی من زیباست
چشم های مادر من زیبا تر است
که گاندی را
رهبری خوب می دانند
و هیتلر را بد
و من فقط از شهرت می ترسم
شاعر
آنقدر کلمات را
روی هم می چیند
که حتی خودش هم نمی داند چی می گوید
جامعه همیشه رنگارنگ است
و چشم های من سیاه و سفید
دعا می کردم
کاش مادرم مرده بود
یا خواهرم
خودم
''یاسمن''
!مامان
اون بالا
تو آسمون
ابرها سفید تراند!؟
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 10:05 AM UTC
The twilight of the day draws near,
The blazing sun is laid to rest,
And dimming skies let stars appear
That twinkle in the bloodstained west.
The once warm air turns cold and still,
Long drawn out shadows gently fade,
While birdsong that before was shrill
Falls silent in a soft cascade.
The rooftops change from red to black,
So too the rising spiralled wisps
Of smoke churned up from chimney stacks
And stoves of wood burnt cinder crisp.
And everywhere nights velvet brush
Begins to daub the landscape whole,
Descending with a quiet hush
That calms the nerves and soothes the soul.
Until the end when all too soon
The final vestiges of day
Are bade farewell by the new moon
Who cannot help but smile away.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit-
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images,
I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of
your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam-
ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives
in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you,
Garcнa Lorca, what were you doing down by the
watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old
grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator
and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed
the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my
Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of
cans following you, and followed in my imagination
by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in
our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every
frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors
close in an hour. Which way does your beard point
tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets?
The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses,
we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent
cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-
teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit
poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank
and stood watching the boat disappear on the black
waters of Lethe?
Berkeley 1955
8.4k
I have a working life Monday to Friday.
When the weekend comes I’m going to do it my way.
I get focus as put on NBA 2K.
I’m going to start my career today.
On this game my player will reach fame.
Wishing I was him...a star.
Not sure when in reality I will do the same.
Imagine me with fresh kicks, fresh clothes, and a chain.
Carry more paper bills than I do change.
I’ll switch the game and not complain
Time to relax and kick my feet back.
Turn on GTA try to raise up them stacks.
Run up the streets and prepare to attack.
This is my therapy I don’t need no feedback.
I mostly like open world games...
At the moment I play The Division 2.
When my best friend is home.
We look for enemies we have to shoot.
Finding items for protection even boots.
I guess what attracts me is the high tech gadgets.
I need them on those high level.
Very intense action my lady comes I ignore her distraction.
I take my headset off and have her repeat what she was asking.
I may be a Gamer but My Lady still come first.
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 9:32 AM UTC
Independent is the word they all use,
They tack it on me,
Let it hang a crooked ribbon.
Seeing all the things I already knew
Transcripted on the blanks of stacks of white and black,
Reverberating off chapped pink lips,
Takes me aback, shoves me into the corners of myself,
Tastes new like bird meat ****** off the bone tastes new.
I want to cut it up into little squares and abandon it in tupperware.
At least for a few days.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 12:58 AM UTC
i would prefer to sit
home alone
and read
the fountainhead
the catcher in rye
the metamorphosis
the stranger
i get drunk off plays on words
i get high off clever plots
what keeps me up at
night isn't money
or relationships
it's the fact that
there are so many
lovely books
that have yet to be
in my hands
it's overwhelming
i do not dream
of stacks of currency
or a lover by my side
i dream of paper
covered in ink
and the satisfying
feeling of turning pages
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
Moments like these racing through me:
Looking out the bus window,
stacks of lights
in square, blinded blocks of cement.
Golden trees
turning brown and barren.
But moments like these,
I'm miles away, I'm someplace else.
Moments like these passing me by:
As I wonder through streets,
alleyways wafting in dark sewerage;
Seafood bistros glaring at me.
My hips sway, my feet sink
into exotic sand, sunshine warm.
Floating effortlessly along the dead concrete,
opening my tiny door; this nutshell abode.
And I can’t breathe here
without moments like these.
They are the broken pieces
of my longing heart.
Slowly keeping me together
in these moments’ reality.
Moments like these, slipping, speeding away:
Like endless traffic in angry madness,
in cities that awaken in darkening hours.
The tranquil silence in my heart
guides me to your faces.
One by one I dream for each;
For all the things we want, the good things we need;
For happiness, love, success.
Each thought embedded, embroidered
into moments like these:
Sitting on a bed, millions of miles away,
a cold, rainy day –
A heart beating for moments not these.
(c) Mel D. Ltd. 2010
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC
We enter the church and immediately
have to push through two dozen sobbing Italian women
dabbing dry eyes; their tissues only show
black and multi-colored smears. Amid the echoing
“Oh my Goawd”s, they lean down and kiss my sister’s cheeks,
but even in my best black cap sleeves, I am the taboo
to my cousin Janet, a woman as barren as the stone lot
in between her husband’s restaurant and Deihl’s Autoshop.
We find an empty pew, and watch as the men
stride down the aisle, contestants
in a cultural Miss America pageant where the wrong answer
gets you whacked. Their heavy brows
sink in condolence as they hand over stacks of bills,
every hundred becoming a pity penny
for all the moments Janet lost in her luxury-life
made shiny by diamonds and cars and fur coats
which can’t be cashed in for a second chance at a family.
The men have paid for the food, the china, the band
in the corner meant to fill the space of sadness—
a reminder that we live a lavish life.
My sister shifts in her seat and as a man walks
by she touches his jacket, and gasps.
He’s a god.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
Snow. . . covering each and every branch of every tree
the ground now slumbers with blankets of snow on top of her
Winter now dances through the bitter cold air
with a crown of snowflakes in her hair
and with a robe of grey to match the dull sky
her fair white hands reach out to touch the dazzling snowflakes
which fly through the air
and land upon her hair
snowdrops hidden under their blanket of snow and ice
and all the world is sleeping
all except Mother Nature, the Snow Queen, and Winter
who stay awake to give some light to those who are still awake
dogwood blossoms haven't even opened their buds to greet the bitter air
and the bleeding hearts have never yet greeted Spring
for it is still Winter
and all the birds have flown south while Winter's birds
have flown north to greet the cold
while other birds stay here year round
without leaving whether it's hot or cold or just right
icey covered creeks are frozen cold from Winter's
cold blast
and everything is a white paradise
Wind is blowing every night
to signal it is cold
while I shiver and fall back to sleep under my own warm comforter
and the Moon's shadows dance into my room through my bedroom window
and Stars twinkle in Night's black gown streaked with midnight-blue
such picturesque beauty that only poets can pen
with their quills and feather pens dipped in black ink
stacks of papers describing millions of different themes. . .
God, Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn, Flowers, Night, Midnight,
and many other different themes which poets love
~Marian~
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
The end of Second Summer's day
When rain and snow have ceased to be
Will see the end of our delay
And mark the death of our decree.
*Elsewhere the despondent souls
Of smoke-stacks rise up from the coals...*
As plastic melts beneath the glare
And long the Dream was dashed ashore,
Then will smog-clouds light the air
And cast the fires across the moor.
*... Then, far beyond, the wand'ring mirth
Will strike the land, and scorch the Earth...*
Until the sky is raised in flame
We'll walk the trail of frail regrets,
And once the world glows hot with shame
Shame will then our end beget.
*... And so our doing will blaze the sky
By MMXXVII*.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 5:32 PM UTC
The left of center
are in north bound throes of a dupe
and can't begin to forecast this wonder of polluted marvel,
in the morrow
my optics discharged in a catastrophic traversal
While whimsy and accidental feels like I've taken pills
a power rain this sobbing has spilled
No longer to be contained based on sheer will
Attacked by neurotic transcending
While sifting through files and photo stacks
Came across multiples of your smiling face
From when I shot you, a couple hundred miles back
No one would dare debase the abundance of your emitted grace
Bloodshot mist eyed and blind from tears
control lost during transport steer
Drips off my cheek pouring down my chest
Could make great sense to don a life vest
Filling up floorboards like a spraying firehose
Shattering cascades diamondize the windows
A single glance at an image turns farmland into rural seaquake
If they interview my lifeless corpse what a headline this will make,
turning tragedy into a foolish mistake
people will curse and laugh
Paved over roads now films unseen
when dusk fuse night from the weep my eyes dispensed
Elements effected by incidents
Rising waves climb over to decimate interstate 65
All over a tiny tear drop and her sweet smiling photograph
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
Cigarette smoke
Wheels no spokes
Board rollin down alleys
Late night skate
Let me escape
The life I never planned
Never on time
You best lower your expectations
Snortin molly in the bathroom
Chuggin ***** in the hall
I could be anywhere at all
But I’d still crawl
back to the clutches of dependence
I forfeited life's race in the first lap
Yet I'm still trapped
Coughing up blood
I strive for nothing
I don't want to feel
I long to be free
From society
Our culture has maxed out
So now everyone wants to shout
for help because what the world wants
Is unrealistic
We try to overdose
And become comatose
To drop all worries of material success
Those
Stacks on stacks on stacks
Racks on racks on racks
We forget
its just paper
Not what defines us
The rest is up to the people
To rise about the atmosphere
Of atoms and mold supportive molecules from the elements we're presented
Not corrected like a sent typo
To your mom
Or boss
Control
Is unattainable
Fathom the slack of a slacker
Loosen your ropes
And walk the plank
With no hopes of disaster nor triumph
Determined
To just be
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up
from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley.
They came with carts laden with lumber stacks -
with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools.
They gathered with the homesteaders bond.
to co-build their neighbor's' dreams.
Sweet music of community echoed off the hills.
Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation,
saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton.
The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls
that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain.
A smithy leaned over his fire and forge -
chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges.
Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter
with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called.
In two short passings of the sun the deed was done
and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red
was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light.
Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table
to share a hearty meal adorned by the music
of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter.
Then one by one they steered their wagons home
gazing back at what their labors had wrought -
knowing to the depth of their communal souls
that we are more together than we are apart
Listen up, America! This is the music of community.
We are more together than we are apart.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
I feel as if my head is sliding off my neck like ice cream melting down the cone. I am a witch melting, shrinking smaller as my spine stacks horizontally like shiplap. My body has been refurbished into a pinball machine. Something so tiny as a silver ball destroys so much. It bullets through my body, shooting off like Cuban missiles. I feel the turmoil and chaos seeping through the gutters of this old home of bones. It's like spilled oil sludging through my blood vessels or rats scattering through a sewer, nibbling and feasting away on these muscles of mine until they are frayed like gnawed-on cable wires. At odd hours of the night when time is propelled by the safe travels of breath (that weave in and out like Victorians at a ball) from sleepy children who have yet been touched by monsters or nymphs, whereas each of my breaths steer Odysseus's weather-beaten boat through ten years of treachery. My heavy, melting head slowly sloping like clay off a bust makes its home on my dingy pillow as I lay on a prison bed with cold shackles around my ankles that make my bones shatter into a mosaic as if that could shrink my ankles so I can slip out. I feel like a chained hawk at these hours of the night when I just want to fly until I screech to a halt and flail over the cliff that waterfalls into the ends of the universe. I'd be reluctant at first, perhaps, but what other escape does one have other than to make an autopsist's Y-incision on one's body, then slip out like a hermit crab freeing himself from his heavy shell? Embarking onto a new dimension where there's hope for a radical swap of atoms that don't shape a crippled, deteriorating human is the only choice when you want to live a life other than what you were cursed with. May we then find peace and live as naked souls bearing no heavy shells.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 4:53 AM UTC
There are differences
in the weight of our bones
in the curve of our jaw lines
in the pattern of the skin’s stretch marks.
Rule: Everyone will laugh at your differences.
There are differences in how badly your gums bleed
and how they ricochet teeth ‘round the mouth.
between swallowing your tongue
and choking on it.
Rule: Differences are descendants of pain.
There are differences
in the heart’s traffic patterns
the way all your blood looks at a stand still
and how the flow can be a pile up
on Fridays at 5.
Rule: Differences can only be explained through **** metaphors.
There are differences
your hair stacks in one way, and gravity says you go you left
And that’s that.
Your feet and legs will be too scared to disobey
So they don’t.
Rule: Do not mistake differences for instinct.
There are differences
between a shoulder
and a knife.
One is a knife and
the other is a stab wound.
Rule: I didn’t say the differences would be labeled.
There are differences
between a feeling
feeling the feeling
and the feeling of feeling a feeling
And every single one that you have is wrong.
Rule: You should be ashamed of all your differences.
There are differences
that you think are unique and cute
But differences will make you
different
And everyone on the earth or in the ground is
different.
So everyone on the earth or in the ground is not
different.
Rule: Differences make no difference.
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 6:36 AM UTC
Sun swollen
reddening as it sank
that brutal ****** disc
scored by church steeples
and chimney stacks
almost lost in the drifting haze
of sulphurous yellow
and char-black smoke.
Duck boards dip
into the sodden earth
as men ***** along in conga lines
holding tight the pack of the man
in front, lest they should slip
lose quick their footing
be ****** down and smothered
by mud.
The walls of the tunnels
are packed earth
rich with blood and bone
bits and pieces of human
anatomy dangle and hang
as if posed by an artist
with a strange and cruel eye
for detail.
The scrabble for fox holes
and rough scraped ditches,
anywhere, below the line of fire.
The ting and whiz-bang
of a night of action
The whistle, the dash
and the forward push
counted more in men
than metres.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
Toking on a cloud with ******* Jesus and his family
Lame folks ask me how,
its cause I ******* smoke
religiously
No God I smoke religious tree,
I get ****** in the name of heresy
You angry penguin ****** preach acceptance
So praise the Lord and ******* shame on me
My guise is Satan *****
and my swag is undisguisible
heartless and no conscience,
sicksicksix most recognizable
-that statement may surprise a little but since we all surmise a little
Why deny me as the devil when
When I clearly play a golden fiddle. . .
From Hell I made a deal
and there is no repeal
nothing you see is real,
I will invade and pervade your mind
So wait in anticipation,
life's a figment of your own imagination
I'll watch you dissipate into oblivion
Pound for pound,
I'm a cenobite at heart,
I just haven't a heart to be found
It's not hard for me
its profound,
the sound of suffering
your soul is ours now
and I will tear it apart
Here's a toast to our orchestral
Symphony of the flesh
My swag's so ******* flawless
100 carrot diamonds,
******* love me cause I'm gorgeous
can't stag no more, fat stacks galore
embrace the force it opens doors
Is there a source, but of course -
it just lies dormant/
What's a ***** to a floor except a doormat
And you know that I'm no diplomat
It's just a fact I ******* hate those stinky ratchets
And I sharply lack tact
tell that ***** her ***** smells like Magikarp
Body language, that of Snorlax
someone once asked
why don't have an open mind
brains would spill out
if my ******* snapback
weren't so tight
Its the season to seize C's
and hallucinations be dazzlin em
don't believe your eyes son,
its only a phantasm but
Words are like playdough,
fun to play with not to eat
So clap your ******* trap and get lost to the beat
I can't be defeat
So suckle my teet
My verses are perverse
I'm high as **** words: failing
Get low
ill as **** so ******* sick,
blowed half past belligerent,
tweaking off my nasal drips,
There's serenity in debauchery -
***** I ******* bask in it
have a taste
basketcase,
I drink red bull it gives me ******* wings
"Memento quod sumus lascivio venatus"
Remember that you are playing the Game
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
The Catholic church
endorsed the world today
for a dollar ninety nine.
-Announcement-
Every iPhone owner!
sinner, saint or stoner!
Come now have your sins forgiven!
forgiven if you spill your guts,
if you just confess,
then watch technology do the rest.
Absolution for you and me!
Send your sins across the sea!
your sins will fly up through the sky
encrypted on waves to reach the almighty,
the Vatican! the Pope!
A man of God appointed by the church
yet is he any different than you and me?
We know he sins the same as us,
the book of Romans says its so,*
and do you really think his tall hat
and flowing dress can make him
any more chosen than us?
Can he really hold back lust?
Will he not eventually turn to dust
Just like the rest of us?
is he really any different than us?
How ironic he receives a royalty from
a symbol of the fallen world,
The Apple
computer company,
payment for our absolution…
...So the world fell
by the fruit of a tree
and now expects to be
redeemed the same way.
The truth is not in a man.
the truth is not in the Apple.
The truth is not in the white smoke rising
from the stacks on Sistine Chapel.
The truth cannot be dried up.
The truth cannot be cured.
the truth is not the Pope's to smoke,
To believe it is absurd.
If you want to know the truth,
the truth is in the blood.
The blood covers everything.
Including what is written here.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 5:54 AM UTC
The man in galoshes with the world on his back,
strolls along the broken track.
Weather beaten,
Fighting the rain.
It's lashing him.
He's tied to the kerb.
Anchored only by the weighty boots on his feet.
He's out there fair weather or foul.
Desperate to keep his public happy,
With a timely siren,
the arrival of an infants birth.
He is the performer up the garden path.
At least the rain's outside again.
So is he poor sod.
The postman, nearly demi-god,
or nearly dead.
He's tramping through the rain and the snow.
He had to let you know,
you know.
The latest news and hot reviews,
a little bit of useless information.
There's nothing better than a letter,
unless it's from the revenue.
Our fair weather friend he has so many uses.
A warrior, he fights wild dogs.
He's churning up the grass,
his only means of escape.
He's wearing an orange hat,
it's curled up at the edges.
He uses it to fight the rain.
The orange hat so luminous,
he's looking rather fruity.
He's forlorn and in pieces,
because he's getting washed away,
He has one every morning in his place,
each and every day.
Stacks and stacks of bits of paper,
Life and death wrapped up in his sack.
(C) Livvi
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
The gates of Hell opened wide.
Six million souls stepped inside.
Beaten. Shot. Starved to death.
The words of God still on their breath.
Screams of anguish.Cries of pain.
Abhorrent laughter of the insane.
Mother's beg.Their babies moan.
They smell charred flesh and smoldering bone.
Cords of bodies in a row.
Frozen corps in the snow.
Gas clouds creep across the floors.
Hinges creek on oven doors.
Idle boxcars sit on tracks.
Inside lie bodies, in gruesome stacks.
The S.S. soldiers earn there pay.
They stoke the furnaces nite and day.
To the insidious cruelity
Of a madmans hate.
Six million Jews met there fate.
Remember them! Remember well!
Those souls who entered
The gates of Hell.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 9:09 AM UTC