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Paul Butters Nov 2018
Remoaners to the left, Brextremists to the right,
Theresa “Maggie” May has an uphill fight.
I can’t see her lasting many more days,
Unless she changes her stubborn ways.

Theresa is an immovable object.
Her hubby must be totally henpecked.
Trying to please just everyone,
Annoying all is what she’s done.

Right now she is UK Prime Minister,
But her own back benchers are getting sinister.
Some say she’s sold us down the river,
A thing for which they can’t forgive her.

Others claim she’s gone too far,
As we should stay just where we are.
Some see Europe as our friend,
But others say the UK we must defend.

Ireland is a sticking point
A thing that’s gonna rock the joint.
They don’t know where to put the border,
Without causing grief and disorder.

What an impasse, feels like stalemate,
Are we heading to be a slave state?
Who knows what’s going to happen next?
No wonder we are all perplexed.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\11\2018.
Topical... I took the word "Brextremist" from Labout MP Angela Eagle who used it in the commons this week.
Anya Jan 2
My mind offers a compromise
Which is instantly refuted
Shot down
I’m absolutely amazed by the sheer
Number of superficial constraints placed
Upon me, my superstitions, my desires, my obligations
Each one currently impossibly to fulfill
Each side impossible to sait

And so,
A stalemate
Sitting here, doing nothing
Unmoving, but
Thoughts whirling about
Fidget spinners, or
Bablades repeatedly clashing
Repeatedly smashing
Till it’s just me and the broken debre

All you see
Is a girl
Too lazy to move
Andrew Rueter Jun 2017
You make me feel so stupid
When we play chess
The way you en passant all nonchalant
You chase me into castle
From there I watch you intently
The way the Russians watched Bobby Fischer
In his hotel room
But while I wait for a move to develop
I become the Boredest Spazsky
My mind in a stalemate
As I try to crush your Sicilian defenses
As much as I harangue
You leave me in zugzwang
Which confuses my feeble mind
For I may be a pawn
But I'm the king pawn
Which means the board usually revolves around me
But your queen takes that instantly
And I'm left in a fool's checkmate

I wish you could see things from my side of the board
You'd see how desperately I wanted the king
All the complex and unique obstacles in the way
But instead you just sit there
And laugh at me losing all my pieces trying to reach you
Rob Rutledge Jul 2014
We worried so much about sticking our head above the parapet,
We forgot the stagnant water underfoot.
We forgot the stages of stalemate
The terror of trench foot.
Cathyy Feb 2016
To that time we played blackjack
I was impressed by your ability to shuffle all the cards just like that,
&then; you showed me a magic trick with pistachio shells
Oh what a friendship it is when someone buys you peanuts and opens all the shells

Yeah confession;
You're in my sci fi screenplay
I think I wrote about you in the most innocent way
And theres a song that,
I currently have on replay...
And a smile that can't help but shine when I see your face
What a moment it is when you're sitting there on the bus and you just want to photograph it

Life's a chess game, and now its your move..
I'm standing on the front line,
I'm giving my horsey to you (haha)
Oh this life's a chess game,
One wrong move and I'll lose....
But here right now we're at a stalemate
All my pieces were going but the piece that remains, patiently waits
For you..
Oh with you I never want the game to end so soon

And I know that we can't fall in love
Cause we've got different ones for us
But what a friendship it is when none of that matters no more..
You're the chess opponent I've been waiting for,
You are.
Really like this one, its one of my best from this year in my opinion! Really personal references..
Semihten5 Nov 2018
have you ever haul
you knows the waters
I got hit land
I don't join in the hunt
you will not find in stalemate
always at the back of the shadows

(Half Poem Tecnichal)
Eleni Apr 2018
Noughts and crosses
Pains and loses

Heartbreak on repeat
The boring same beat

A game of stalemate
A life wrapped in fate

And it's not over
Three in a line
And it's not over
I guess I'll be fine.

Circles and lies
Fail to dry my eyes

Can I not cry?
You could not even say goodbye.

Not much to win
For, these weak bones are thin

My thoughts are not real
Your mind will not care how I feel.

And it's never over
Three or six in a line
And it's never over
My soul did once shine.

Leave this life
You created in your mind.
For you and I
Have had our time.

Noughts and crosses
Uncontrollable forces

A wild, empty city
Busy faces with no pity.
aye-way Aug 2018
we entered the empty hall.
we were a little too late.
the lights fell onto us.
we both froze over in a stalemate.

a sad love song played over
the wicked cupid used us as pawns
for i'd have never given you my hand
had i'd known you'd soon be gone

but you smiled at me so kindly
i had never seen a smile so bright
i smiled back politely
naive me thought the timing was just right.

our bodies pressed perfectly together
we both swayed to the beat of our hearts
our eyes kissed, our heels clicked.
heaven knew we played our parts

but the little lights began to dim,
and the love song, soon after, died.
we were two slow dancers
thus too slow, from time, to hide.
- goodbye my love.
(c) ayesha. h [2o18]
Marcus Well Mar 2018
(think Mexican Hat Dance:)

How tall? How tall? How tall?
Will Donald Trump build the wall?
The wall! The wall! The wall!
Will Mexico pay for it at all?
How high? How high? How high?
How high will they have to jump
To clear the wall and prove to us all
That they’ve pacified Donald Trump
(bump, bump)
To clear the wall and prove to us all
That they’ve pacified Donald Trump?

When you’re talking about immigration,
Whether merit based or chain migration,
According to Trump proclamation,
“Illegals, jump over the wall”!!

How tall? How tall? How tall?
Can Donald Trump build the wall
When not a single Democrat
Is willing to fund it at all?
How long? How long? How long?
How long do we have to wait
To end this shutdown?
When they sit their butts down
To end this gridlock stalemate!!
Consider the workers who are not getting paid;
That is the part we most hate!!

To achieve our homeland protection,
Not just winning the 2020 election,
The Pelosi and Schumer connection
Should grant funding to give Trump OUR wall!!
Give Pelosi and Schumer
A kick in the bloomers
If they continue to stall!!

Written 1/15/19 by Marcus Well
(day 25 of the US Government Partial Shutdown)

(Who the hell is Marcus Well?  Those that know, please don’t tell)
Elect me, Select Me
Support Me, Report Me
Democracy Needs Me
You all need Me

I am your Savior
I will fight for you
If there is no War
I shall start one for you

I am your Savior
I am your Warrior
Accept this Truth
Ultimate Truth

Beware if you Cheat Me
If you fail to Elect Me
I will break into the System
I will ruin it to Ashes

I follow this golden Rule
Either Win or Stalemate
I can initiate Religious Riots
I can give birth to Civil War

Therefore Elect Me, Select Me
Support Me, Report Me
Democracy Needs Me
You All Need Me

You all have no other Choice
So Never Ever search for it
I am your only Choice
So Stay Cool and Rejoice
Democracy has its own problem
Eleanor Sinclair Aug 2018
A letter to a love that is not my own:

In the darkest nights I only saw your face. When I closed my eyes the images of you came flooding in and even though I tried to drown them with my tears they refused to go away. You could have been messaging me or ignoring me. It wouldn't have mattered, because I would miss you just the same. Miss everything about you. Like the times we'd walk past each other in close quarters and we'd barely touch, but we'd both look at each other and I would always apologize, because that's just who I am. Those moments were electric. Sometimes those would be the only words exchanged between us. Every second without you is a second wasted. Melodramatic? Maybe. But in my heart, deep down... No matter how long I have tried to deny it I know that I have strong feelings for you. Even if you don't care for me the same way, I will always feel this way towards you.
I'm the gambler. I give everything I have- play the cards when the odds are 1,000 to 1 or 1 to 1,000, I put my heart on the line and honestly, I would give you anything. I would do anything for you just to see you smile at me. I don't mean smile with your bright white teeth I mean really smile. The kind of smile that makes even your eyes seem alive. I saw that look from you once. Some time ago you looked at me and I knew. I knew that you would hold your breath around me like I do for you now. I would willingly hand you my soul, my heart, every last part of me and even if you crushed it all in your firm hands I wouldn't cry. I would just pick up the pieces and put them right back into your hands again because that way at least I would feel like I am with you. Do you ever notice the silence between us? Not the silence when you read my messages and don't respond, but the silence when we are in the same room? I hang onto every waking moment of that hoping that you will break the stalemate so that I don't have to. For you to end the solitude between us. 'Ya know,  I envy that glass of water that gets to kiss your sleepy lips each morning and that luminescent moon that you spill your heart out to each night, because I want that kind of closeness to you.
When you pray to God do I ever come up? Do you ever ask Him about me? Do you ever pray? Do I even cross your mind at all? I want a love so deep the ocean would be jealous, not a one way mirror where all I see is the reflection of a pathetic me who is mourning over the loss of a love that was never intended to be my own. I have contemplated telling you how I feel. Hell, I've even written it all down word for word ready to click that send button, but I'm not ready for it yet. I'm taking a risk writing this up as it is. If I had to tell you in person oh man trust me my voice would shake, crack, and I would stumble over words. I would feel as though 32 bits of glass had become my teeth and that they would break each and every time I tried to speak only so that I would choose my words even more carefully, but I would do it, because why spend your entire life wondering what could have been.
I can't call this love. It may be or may not be. Everyone has their own definition of it. Some think that love is two people spending their lives together watching sunrises or the star painted skies at night, others think it is waking up at 2 PM next to that special someone after a heck of night laughing at how both of your heads are pounding and how your ears are still ringing from the music. I've never been sure of what my definition of love is or how to even begin to rationalize such a strong feeling, but now I know.
My definition of love, is you.

Wisely, briefly, and truly,
Eleanor Sinclair
Ethan Leo Mar 25
There is peacefulness in every random blank stare,
A sense of freedom, letting all things go bare,
There is calmness in the silence of the deep dark night,
Still like water thats unfazed by any might

There is serenity in the thoughts of nothing, how odd it may be,
Thoughts of nothing, yet changing phantasmagorically,
There is joy in the walks knowing not where the journey ends,
Thinking of nothing, taking each step without making amends,

There is fulfilment in the emptiness our mind succumb,
A feeling of achievement, no matter how dull, no matter how dumb,
There is glory in laying still and staying put,
Like a great centennial tree, ever so hard to uproot,

There is happiness in the stalemate of thoughts rushing through our mind,
A certain surge of enthusiasm for our daily grind,
There is beauty in nothingness, any mere man will confess,
There is beauty in nothingness, even the dead can attest
Leo Dubson Sep 17
Every dreary day's the same.
Every important detail is halted
in a stalemate over a somewhen
that feels much like eternity.

I remember it all by heart,
my laughable fortress of apathy:
the texture of the chair,
the length of the motion
between my hand and my addiction
in the form of keyboard and mouse,
the brightness of fake mechanical dreams,
and the mess of real ones.

Then the line between evening and night blurs
or sometimes night and day,
and comes the tedious unrewarding process
of laying in bed, and listening
to all the little pains
of human body and mind:
little scratches, aches,
and too many thoughts.

Thoughts about
all the little things
that make me insufferably like myself:
my ego, wishing only to cage the world.
and make it dance like a fool,
conversing with despair,
an extravagant fellow
who sees no world
outside of mechanical fools
staged on a collapsing surface.

There are also social thoughts
about the game theory, hormones, and stress
of playing in human society.
People connected by fragile threads.
Loneliness is a paradox,
as it tends to grow with density.
It’s always hard to find
the ideal strategy.

I also remember well
the feeling of waking up.
I would have never known
how passionately one could hate
a series of fragmented sound bites saying:
"The time is 7:30 am. The time is-", I know.
Of course, you can’t know that I know,
or rather you just can’t know,
but it feels like you should by now, y’know??

After a period of time
equal parts instant and unending
I find myself strapped
to yet another, less comfortable chair.
There are a few dozen others
sitting in equally uncomfortable chairs
in equally inexpressive fashion.

At an opposite angle,
stands a bigger one
relaying piles of data
to be computed and organized
and tediously rehearsed,
by us, smaller calculators in training.
The most exciting
and unfun part
of our structural data training
are the tests
to check each one’s margin of error
and kindly give particularly special care
to the ones on the lower end
of achievement.

Sometimes one of the bigger ones
asks me if I’m fine
what a stupidly kind but pointless question.
Because, of course,
there’s only one correct answer
So I make a clueless face
and give the same one every time
I want to be a good calculator, after all.

But it’s far too obvious
to even bother saying
that nothing is ever fine
maybe that’s why no one does say it
and when I remember
the depth of my unfineness
my center of gravity sinks
deep into the earth
and all that’s left is the feeling
of my soul digesting itself,
and in those lucid moments
when the game of reality ceases
and nothing can be good or bad
and life becomes
too sad a story to handle
I can’t help but smile.
Bruce Adams Jul 20
She collected lolly sticks,
        The ones with jokes on them:
        Why did the chicken cross the road?-type stuff,
Which she stained brown and used as floorboards
in her magnum opus.

The Tudor house was the best one.
It had servants’ quarters
And a kitchen with little hessian potato sacks made
of something or other she salvaged from
somewhere or other;
And the floorboards looked so real:
        painted lolly sticks
        but almost evoking the smell of varnish,
        layers of polish on a floor trodden by centuries
        in perfect miniature;

This was the last of the three
                                                or four
                                                        doll­s’ houses she built;
The devil’s work for her idle widow’s hands.
She built this one while you were entering into your final
that doomed dance that sits so permanently
on your conscience now
like a sack of compost
full of water.
        (I choose this metaphor only because
        I found this in my garden yesterday
        and it was ******* heavy.)
On paper it was simple:
        You gave her your house,
        She gave you hers.

And so her house shrunk around her and
became a dolls’ house of your own making,
                        she saw your god-hands reaching in
to manipulate and
extort her.

She was wrong, of course.

You were making good on your promise.
You would come through for her in her old age.
You did.

But it was a promise you made more to yourself than her,
And she let her illogical mind
        never analytical to begin with
        now razed and blinded by grief and loneliness
                        (there was nothing to work with)
poison your good deed
and you were both dolls now.

Eight years later she died lovelessly.

She was moved into her sitting room
        the only part of the house that stayed the same
        after you moved in –
                the walls closed in to contain it
                constrict it
a hospital bed and vinyl chair with commode,
and the brown laminate floor
        just like
        her lolly sticks.

You administered painkillers
Admitted the nurses
Negotiated with your estranged brother.

but her paranoia rotted everything
and your hands cared with compassion but not love.

Gone, now,
the dolls’ houses remain.
An inheritance of clutter but in a house
you bought.

You answer the phone
      ­                                  aggressively.
You have been heaving the big one up the stairs
        that sack of compost
        that heavy conscience of yours.

You will be heaving those ******* dolls’ houses around
until I have to buy your house and care for you.
But I am telling you now:
        I am putting them in a skip
        the moment I have the chance.

They are not imbued with the joy they gave her
any more than
                        by keeping them safe from landfill
                        you can imbue them with the love you withheld.

They are painted lolly sticks and sewn hessian.
They don’t contain any more of her
than the bits of paper she kept
        passwords and bank balances
        dates and instructions for the Sky box
There is nothing left of her to protect now.

        (We won’t mention her
        unscattered ashes
        which have been left with the undertaker
        for nearly two years now.
                They’re not her either
                but they’re more her.)

Open up the hinged false front
                tip out the miniatures
                let the little figures be free,
                                be landfill
                                (isn’t that what dying is anyway?)
all the tangible things she touched and loved
are not avatars for her touch and her love.

The past is not present through the preservation of objects.
The past is not erased by the advancement of time
                nor can it be undone by corrective action.

Now she is on the other side of the road,
        (why did the chicken
She has no further use for the things she left behind.
Jim Allen Apr 18
Each time I read his nick

I remember our two countries

were in stalemate during my youth.

My government

wanted me to believe

that if we bested his to the moon

his citizens would forever be subjugated

to second rate status.

I knew but a little, certainly

one could not judge

with the equivalent of a space age

sporting event.

Now we are at it again,

suspicions well fed

by twenty-four hour

social media with nothing

but separatism on the brain.

Alex is my friend of choice,

neither he nor I selected the lands

reared within, enemies

do not care for one another

as brothers.

Be ****** the drama

of political intrigue,

I want more from our friendship

than the uneasy truce

of another era of detente.
For AV, a friend in Russia.
Dawson Aug 4
I should let you go.
But I don’t want to.
I should stop giving you this power
Over me
But I don’t want to
this age old battle rages
Within me
The head and the heart
the ultimate Stalemate
I should stop
I should stop
I should stop
Letting you back in
And again
Says the head
But the heart
She won’t budge
she can’t fathom of a day when she won’t love you
When she won’t want you.
If I could channel this sadness into rage
Maybe I could muster the strength to close that door
block out the cracks
That allow you to slip back in
Without me even knowing
But today She wins.
I walk off the battle ground
Praying that maybe tomorrow
I will have to courage
To hold my shield strong
But for today  
The heart takes the gold
today I keep loving you
Antino Art Sep 15
I pledge to write for an inner peace movement
To fill the void left on the blank page of a story we could not complete
I pledge to write more beginnings than endings, and if words fail to meet me where you left, I'll wait with the patience of a bookmark, holding down the gap we left pending
as if locked in stalemate: light paper vs dark ink because the way of the pen is the no-sword style of contending that deflects the black and blue thoughts that leave bruises where we think.
I pledge to erase, or at least, start over, only to toss each cumpled piece unfinished onto the pile of things I have no answers for- only hopeless questions, mailed into the static of heartbreaking silence, until it clicks, like a retractable pen, and finger flicks from an audience follow as this throwaway piece hits the mic on its head, drawing feedback, the static giving way to meaning and the audience now there, tuning in as if waking up while dreaming, now clicking, snapping, leaning forward as antennas to the right frequency we're streaming, snapping together now, a thousand pieces of a hidden picture completing, I write to throw captions around my own confusion, and watch them snap like photos of what I'm seeing beyond illusion on this train of thought leaving, the coast starlight from LA to Seattle, the lines of a notebook as my railway leading toward our emancipation from battle.
We are free from the places we are told define us. I write to move past them. Poems are what we leave behind us, in the graffiti'd nowheres of subway tunnels between the lights of the places we were meant to see.
Poems are the spaces between.
My mission is write
for you to read me.

— The End —