"stanford" poems
Within these Rumours I have read past-date
Are Cheeky Darlings I will not observe
Why? Will adding Pepper improve the Taste
And lower the Pressure our Brains deserve?
The Stanford Machine was the Heretic
Condemning my Peace to un-needed curse
This Drama - a Theatre's immature Tick
Delivered my Intellect to your Hearse
Then, this Scene: Mercy bleeds on your Sweet Head
That Moment my Entire View did change
Prayer drowned my Tears as I knelt on your Bed
Asking the Father to heal you Today.
Yet, in Solemn's Fine, I beg you to see
Those Kneeling Hands over yours wasn't me.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
Within each and every one of us
is a unique culture:
Ethnocentrism
reaches just as far inward
as it does outward:
Just because
academia
has imposed it's own
fascist, totalitarian, absolute
definitions
does not mean
that it has final say:
i postulate
such adacemic-fetishism
is merely a byproduct of
propaganda
pushed by Big Money
rather than
a genuine insitution
of respectable edification:
that is
i see it as
a mere appeal
to authority;
a well-known logical fallacy
to those who are in the know.
Tread lightly.
Modern Academics
seems to be
yet another
corrupt branch
of Business;
little more.
Academic achievement
is not equivocal
to intellectual worth:
a graduate's degree
is moreso
a status symbol
than it is
a credential
anymore.
'T'is vile idolatry
in lieu of
an individual's personal philosophy;
that's not to say it's
absolutely worthless,
but it may as well be
in today's job market
(unless it's a business degree!)
Then again,
that's just my opinion.
i guess i oughtta shut up
before Edu-nazis shut me down.
Oops, did i type that out loud?
I'm so sorry, you see,
vhat i meant to say vas:
Heil Stanford!
Heil Harvord!
Heil Berkley!
Heil vhat i am told zu heil!
Heil zhe publishing companies!
Heil zhe holders of student loans!
Heil egredious student debt
in lieu of philosophical discourse,
let alone progress!
Heil vhat i see on TV!
Heil *******
Heil alkohol!
Heil gasoline!
Do not qvestion zhe dogma;
go back zu sleep, you sheep!
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
Thugs
Go to Stanford.
And the construction workers
I've seen
Are more likely to spend
Their downtime playing
Video games
Then smoking the ****
And I've seen my
Fair share of manic,
Wide-eyed young Filipinos
Like myself,
A little browner,
A little more beautiful,
I'm a little more racist
But
It's not okay.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
I guess what I simply want to say
Is there is a simple joy
To watching fingers
Of all kinds
Mold and shape futures,
Whether it be in the form
Of softened concrete slabs
Or the hard writ
Of word,
Whether it taste
Of exhaust smoke
And leather
Or orange juice
The school
Is the sky
The blue sky and the
Fields and university
Is a gold-ringed
Fist and in this
Respect we all have
Our PhDs.
And as for this sheltered
Unsheltered rooftops
Holed like ozone
World we've all built together
Well,
We try to find words for it
And collapse.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
his ancestor a coolie
laid the rails many long years
but returned to Peking
to fight white devils
this, the tale
passed through the generations
with the jade necklace which
never left his mother's neck
first born son
spawn of two doctors, expectations
were high he would practice
honorable healing arts
early in his years
he fueled their fears, and ire
coming through their sterile door
with bloodied knuckles
black eyes, fat lips
they tried various exorcisms:
confinement in the temple, lashings
and hushed cabals with head healers,
but none could shrink his will
much to their dismay
Stanford rejected him; he landed
at a community college, where he spent
an indolent year, before vanishing
a thousand tears and fears later
the PI revealed what a hundred
billable hours had reaped
the son was so far west
he was east, in a village on the Yangtze
stooped over paddies, his feet firm
in the mire the generations
had yearned to escape
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
~
fallen…
heroes all,
saviors-in-training,
on mission repeat;
the service-giving,
life-giving,
members of
a fighting team.
existing solely that
you and i
can spend our time
consumed
with the art
of loving well;
their actions
no less impassioned
than our own,
no less worthy,
no less loving and
no less selfless.
whatever we think
of war,
we must think
of the individuals
who move toward the fray
rather than away;
those to whom
we owe our very
everyday existence
be it extraordinary
or mundane;
to their daily efforts.,
to their repeated training,
to their daily sacrifice,
we offer
a prayer-filled salute!
and to these
who paid dearly,
to wives,
sons & daughters,
mothers and fathers,
nation with a
grateful heart,
a debt we cannot repay,
we humbly offer
our heart-filled
and loving tribute.
may you ever
rest in peace.
~
*post script.
serving you and me from Camp Lejeune, North Carolina,
these fallen Marine heroes are:
Capt. Stanford Henry Shaw III of Basking Ridge, New Jersey;
Master Sgt. Thomas Saunders of Camp Lejeune;
Staff Sgt. Liam Flynn of Queens, New York;
Staff Sgt. Trevor P. Blaylock of Lake Orion, Michigan;
Staff Sgt. Kerry Michael Kemp of Port Washington, Wisconsin;
Staff Sgt. Andrew Seif of Holland, Michigan; and
Staff Sgt. Marcus Bawol from Warren, Michigan
http://www.marinecorpstimes.com/story/military/2015/03/13/names-of-7-marines-killed-in-helicopter-crash-released/70277156/
(the four fallen Guard members remain unnamed at this time)
next month my son is deployed
to points classified to us his parents.
i can only think about his sacrifice
in terms of time, money, exposure to danger …
and his safe return!*
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Socrates on the Courthouse Lawn in Liberty, Texas
“Strong minds discuss ideas,
average minds discuss events,
weak minds discuss people.”
-attributed to Socrates, but no one knows
Imagine if you will old Socrates
On an old wooden bench on the courthouse lawn
Playing checkers with all the other old men
On an old picnic table throughout the day
He lifts his old straw hat in the leafy shade
With his old bandana he wipes his old bald head
And sagely asks the old questions of us
And through his dialectic dismantles old cant
And that must be why, as the ages pass
They’ve made for him a monument here in the grass
(While passing through Liberty, Texas I saw on the courthouse lawn a marble slab engraved only with “Socrates”.)
Liberty County Courthouse - TexasCourtHouses.com
Liberty, Texas, Bed & Breakfast Hotels (usatoday.com)
Socrates (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy)
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 9:25 AM UTC
Expectations
I can never meet them
They're too high
Spoonfuls of dreams
Shoved down my throat
For as long as it takes them to stick
It won't work
No breaks
AP classes
Yale
Harvard
Stanford
A+
Repeating classes
Failure
Disappointment
Unacceptable
F-
Can I please have a second to relax?
NO.
Keep working
You will be a star
I don't want to be.
I can't be.
I'm too stupid.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
(A reply to Stanford **** victim's letter)
I have never been sure of anything in my life until I came across your letter. It was one of those moments where I needed to find a safety net, as I am completely falling apart and my self-esteem, sinking hard like the Titanic. For the longest time I have been a warrior - fighting self-made battles that I ironically lose everytime.
It wasn't easy, good God, it never was, at the slightest- easy. Trapped inside a hollow body with nothing but hate did it for me. I recall countless times of drowning myself with worry that I can never be good enough. Not good enough, pretty enough, intelligent enough, worthy enough. Enough. I was never equal to that word. I wish I was almost enough, but reality bites and it bites hard so I'm always left with nasty and painful bite marks. My tears and sobs are now lullabies to my ears as it helps me put myself to sleep. It wasn't always like this though, I've had my share of sunshine but in the end, and like most things, my happiness reaches its finish line way quicker that I would've wanted.
My life is a daily routine I no longer want to be a part of. Even if I no longer want this - something is telling me I shouldn't quit. For fuck's sake, I'm a warrior, it would be a disgrace to quit. So I held on. For how long? I don't remember, but I did and I still am. The day I read your letter started out like most days - empty. I thought it was going to be another one of those **** related articles, but I was wrong. And I've never been so happy that I was wrong. Each word you wrote were like swords cutting through the chains I made for myself. It was freeing to read about something so tragic yet peaceful at the same time. It was as if your letter was a *** of gold found at hell. It was the rose among all the thorns. A treat amidst all the nasty. As I finished reading I realized something: you are right, I am a boat. A boat you guided with your light. Thank you for shining. It doesn't matter how bright your light was as long as it shone, and found me. In turn, I will one day be a lighthouse, guiding boats toward a safer shore.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
Something forgotten for twenty years: though my fathers
and mothers came from Cordova and Vitepsk and Caernarvon,
and though I am a citizen of the United States and less a
stranger here than anywhere else, perhaps,
I am Essex-born:
Cranbrook Wash called me into its dark tunnel,
the little streams of Valentines heard my resolves,
Roding held my head above water when I thought it was
drowning me; in Hainault only a haze of thin trees
stood between the red doubledecker buses and the boar-hunt,
the spirit of merciful Phillipa glimmered there.
Pergo Park knew me, and Clavering, and Havering-atte-Bower,
Stanford Rivers lost me in osier beds, Stapleford Abbots
sent me safe home on the dark road after Simeon-quiet evensong,
Wanstead drew me over and over into its basic poetry,
in its serpentine lake I saw bass-viols among the golden dead leaves,
through its trees the ghost of a great house. In
Ilford High Road I saw the multitudes passing pale under the
light of flaring sundown, seven kings
in somber starry robes gathered at Seven Kings
the place of law
where my birth and marriage are recorded
and the death of my father. Woodford Wells
where an old house was called The Naked Beauty (a white
statue forlorn in its garden)
saw the meeting and parting of two sisters,
(forgotten? and further away
the hill before Thaxted? where peace befell us? not once
but many times?).
All the Ivans dreaming of their villages
all the Marias dreaming of their walled cities,
picking up fragments of New World slowly,
not knowing how to put them together nor how to join
image with image, now I know how it was with you, an old map
made long before I was born shows ancient
rights of way where I walked when I was ten burning with desire
for the world's great splendors, a child who traced voyages
indelibly all over the atlas
, who now in a far country
remembers the first river, the first
field, bricks and lumber dumped in it ready for building,
that new smell, and remembers
the walls of the garden, the first light.
1.5k
struck by lightning twice by twenty-four
this astronomical record was hers, Guinness proclaimed,
this lady so famed, top of her class at Stanford, then Yale Med,
and blissfully wed, to a surgeon who always came in second
this did not matter at Cabo, or even in their first condo
but as her curriculum vitae grew faster than a Walmart receipt
on Black Friday, he scrubbed up for one bloodletting after another, removing appendixes, and appendages, feeling her shadow
grow heavy, even in the bright lights
of his operating theater
his first was, of course, a nurse, though at least her age
his second, a decade newer model, fixed his lattes at Starbucks
number three was the neighbor with whom they shared
nothing but a fence, and a few awkward stares
her hours in the lab with petri dishes grew, and
she never let on she knew, that her clean shaven number two
was lying with others to stand himself
when he asked for a divorce--number four requiring more
than liquid exchanges in sweet hotel suites--she acquiesced and even let him have the Welsh Corgi, the cabin in Aspen,
and half the 401K
to this day, she recalls imagining his liaisons
while she married menacing molecules to one another
in tubes under faithful light, seeking answers to questions
asked by the dying she would never meet
a lump would only grow in her throat
if she thought his scalpel never sliced
the heart of number four, for five
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
I’m writing a paper on the Stanford
Prison Experiment, which now connects to Abu Ghraib;
one set of men walked into a plaything, a basement
in the bottom of a University, and could quit
at anytime; and roll into fresh mattresses
again,
but when it came
a second time round, and there was another reason
to be afraid, what happened
was different;
no get out clause in the basement
just the hands of mindless hearts
of those already
too numb
to do anything different
when down there.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
******* me so I cannot follow
Your hopscotch stumble. Tie my laces
Around the oak by Allbrook Elementary, handcuff
My wrists to the swing set of mauve plastic
And chipped cedar. Tether me in youth.
Leave me at the fudge shop on 73rd
Across from Sunday school and St. Joseph’s
Candy Land windows. Hide me beneath
Tanner Bridge as you shuffle away like some star-struck Cupid
After a ginger-haired mademoiselle in old-fashioned Mary Jane’s
And a mustard petticoat. Forget
Our first clumsy kiss, feet naked in cool creek water,
Toes nibbled by baby rainbow trout.
Bury our history of 18 years
Beside the grave of your granddaddy and
Put on your mask. You've lost me
To ambitions set high above Stanford red.
You don’t see the colors of home anymore.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
She had to reach inside herself
and pull out pine needles. They stuck to
her inner thighs, where his fingers had first grazed,
trailing up. The lights in a police station
post-rape are jarring.
She looked through slitted eyes
and faced a dumpster staring back,
her mouth reeking of stale beer and blood.
The cool infinity of last night loops
into a tightly-knotted ribbon of forever,
a graveyard of bruised hips and phantom touches.
When the story stretched wider than
the picturesque Stanford campus, ivy-covered walls that distract from dark dumpsters,
a news anchor gave the viewers vital facts:
“Brock Turner’s freestyle time is one minute and thirty-nine seconds.”
No media could be bothered to discuss
the humiliation of getting a **** kit. No one bothered
to mention how helpless it is being
too drunk and resigned to walk,
naked,
body like a rag doll left rotting
with banana peels.
The world stepped over a ***** girl
to defend a white boy, to bail out a monster,
all the while wondering where the blood on their shoes could have come from.
She could still hear the music,
a steady beat in spite of it all,
ear pressed soundly into the pavement.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
She stands with her hands together,
and her head down.
She thinks of the past day,
and all the sadness that was around.
First her mother who died when she was so young,
now her father, from the cancer in his lungs.
Just becoming single she feels so alone,
now everyone she loved seems to be gone.
Popular she may be,
they surround her; honey to a bee.
lost and scared,
tired and teared,
nerves on edge,
broken pledge.
They promised her they'd be there through it all,
now anger fills her heart, and she screams a heartbroken call.
She screams so loud the animal all flee,
every single bird flew out from every tree.
Suddenly a breeze hits her in the face,
and it seems like a whisper of beautiful grace.
A whisper in the wind,
that seems to calm everything that lies within.
Another wind gust and definitely a voice.
She strains trying to hear and it sounds like the word choice.
She pleads for more, but no more wind came.
It figures she thought, now I'm insane.
Supposedly going to stay at her aunts,
she takes the long way and thinks about the wind taunts.
Always believing in God she just ponders the wind,
then out of nowhere it comes again.
Patience my child you have been so brave,
you are not alone and we are not buried in a grave.
This place is more than what you ever could have dreamed,
Know that we will be with you even though we can't be seen.
Go forth my child and don't dwell on us.
Don't be angry with God, don't dwell and fuss.
The wind dying down gave ten more words to Jo,
We will always love you we hope that you know.
She stood out side for hours everyday praying for whispers in the wind,
waiting for anything more her parents could send.
As times went on she sometimes felt the wind and heard a voice,
Love you, patience, faith, so proud, it's your choice.
The girl accomplished her goals, well most it seems
she got into Stanford, got a masters, and that was her biggest dream.
She fell in love and the man was the kindest and best God could send,
but every time she felt the air, she would stop and listen for whispers in the wind.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
“If you grow old, it is your own fault,”
I say to Terry as we climb
the mountain behind his cabin.
Terry is wearing a device that transmits his heartbeat
by cell phone to doctors at Stanford.
Terry has a flutter, nothing serious, probably.
Terry has a great heart, actually,
something serious, warm and wise.
We ascend this hill on Tuesdays every week
discussing poetry and plumbing, our twin passions:
the gathering of mountain water funneled into pipes,
delivered to homes,
the ordering of words funneled into pages
delivered nowhere, sadly.
We discuss friends fallen or falling,
the arc of marriages, parenthood, oddball relationships,
each a story and a puzzlement,
webs woven of love and rage.
That, and motorcycles, we talk,
pacifist veterans who walk still seeking sense
of an incomprehensible war that shaped our lives.
Objectors, conscientious, we realized too late,
not an easy path but better than following orders.
We walked away from war.
He, the Air Force; I, the draft.
Branded dishonorable.
So we hike, hearts pounding,
the simple friendship of two old men
seeking the hilltop
again and again.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 1:44 AM UTC
She moves slowly in her parlor
in the fading light of day.
In her time she was a beauty,
celebrated on the stage.
From ingénue to has-been
was a short eventful trip.
A cup from which a never-was
Perhaps would like to sip.
Even in her eighties
Her pose is ramrod straight
As when she was a lovely teen
pursued by the rich and great.
She loved the man her husband killed,
She never loved her mate.
When Harry Thaw killed Stanford White
Karma chose the place and date.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
As of late I have been told an excruciating number of times, by a couple types of people, that they do not understand me, these people are often in positions of power, between me and some goal, usually I would wonder why they neglect to specify what they don't understand but I've gone so far as to enumerate and source my messages in point-by-point explanations, in about three messages I'm just pasting quotes from where I've already answered their questions, I've tried being "reasonable" for weeks in some cases, if only when I was obligated to try and make it work, bureaucracy has finally hit its boiling point, The Stanford prison experiment could be redone for office work, Forum Administration, and any number of benign micro powers, it's not just absolute power corrupts absolutely, people are absolutely corrupted by power, it's statistically quantifiable now given ninety-plus percent plea bargain convictions to say the only courts that still exist are kangaroo courts, there's no point in testimony or evidence, even our scientific community is learning from our governments, fixing things by definition, like the unemployment rate, yes 5% unemployment, celebrate while nearly 60% of people don't have jobs but I may as well being trying to discuss the reich's in Germany.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC
As you dear Eminent Sample deserve
The Lone Star Beauty induce your Folks Proud
From your Labours Just and Hard-Earned Reserve
Won this Institution of Trumpets sound
Of this where Marked and Raised Doctors combine
Now spread your Sheet to Write the Athletes prove
And Brand this name - the Name so long Divine
Postpone his Sentiments yearning to Love
I pound no Pillows; Save of Honest Gold
To where this Verser's Promise takes to Flesh
For her Joy's Sake by her Knowledge behold
Draw out their Blessed Strings at her Expense.
The Waters do turn; And turn to Stars follow
Her Spangles must Fly; For they Heal the Sorrow.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
Carl didn't finish school
Preferring to work on my father's farm
Breathing prairie dust and smoke
Seeing suns rise and fall
Living under the weather
Freezing or sweating to the season
Reading the wind
Cursing the heat that brought migraines
Smoking Salem cigarettes
Alone in his bunkhouse
With his regrets
Three meals a day with us
A car or truck demanding payments
Kept him coming back to work
The draft cards came;
Neighbors left, but Carl stayed.
One day I asked him,
"Why didn't you finish school?"
"Why weren't you drafted?"
"Are you going to marry?"
"I can't," was his reply.
I asked him why.
"Because I tested as a border-line *****
At 10, I had no idea what ***** meant,
Had never heard Stanford-Binet,
Didn't realize the damage of labels,
But now I do.
When authorities mis-measure
the capacities of a man,
And labels shackle,
They fail to see or know
The genius in a Carl.
They didn't stop to think
What gifts he had
Nor had they seen
The perfection
Of his creations
There on the bunkhouse table.
Perfect miniatures of our farm machinery:
Tractors, cultivators, harvesters,
Cut from plastic and metal stock,
Measured intricately to scale,
Fitted with loving care,
Glued and painted
Complete and ready
For some small-minded man
To drive into a miniature field.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
so here i am, moving forward
grey mornings bring progress
that's what they said
when Leland Stanford was condemning the Chinese
to slavery
for a railroad
i want that one thing
i want to hold it in my hand like the beating wings of a tiny bird,
or the fragility of a baby's trust
to have it, to say; this makes me worthy.
i'm jumping onto the box car
with a knapsack and a sandwich and my hat, hoping
to cross the country
and be okay at the other end.
here i am.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
a raven's cry haunts the
Stanford Bridge, a warriors life
tribute to Odin
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 12:56 PM UTC
Your marriage is going to fill a large
part of your life, and the only way to truly
Be satisfied is to marry who you believe is
A great partner. And the only way to have
A good home is to love your spouse.
If you haven't found that soul yet; keep
Looking. Don't settle. As with all matters
Of the heart, you will know when you find
Them. And like any great relationship, it just
Gets better and better as the years roll on.
©2014
Folorunsho Obalugemo
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
What does he know about hearts?
He's a smart boy,
a genius perhaps.
Stanford taught
and although that seems impressive
it only scratches the surface of his résumé.
What do I know about art?
I can paint meaning onto anything
that could be better described as feeling
or intuition.
And although he knows all the parts
of the heart
and how to properly knot vessels,
does he know the thrum and the ache of it all
willing it to stop beating?
But yes, yes he does
He knows a lot about hearts.
And me?
Not so much of art as I should.
But one thing I do have in common with that boy,
I learned everything that I could.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC