Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"stanton" poems
10/3/2014 at high noon, and i think, high tide She looked up at the shy pisces sun, which is never brilliant, tripped over a brick, traced her long shadow on the sidewalk with her finger in the air and i had to remind her I was standing right behind. she'd say "right, that you are" I was tempted to add that I wasn't quite sure about that. I noticed our shadows were contorted, stretched like papyrus, I was remembering how she'd announce at times with no order: "I am happy" or "I'm sad" while watching T.V. or walking down the lane. But now she didn't quite seem to say much. And I was always asking "Amy you happy? Amy you sad? Amy you OK? Amy you fine?" Amy you ok? Amy you ok? Amy you ok? Going well? Fine? It was like that we held hands in a modern art museum is how we met "It's a good picture," she had noted of "My Grandparents, My Parents and Me". I had looked sidelong to its neighbor, a picture of a trashcan trying to desperately scream about some societal ill lost in translation forever. I had already given up when she had given me a 'goodday' I didn't care about seeing her anymore but it still hurt. My name? Jane. Bryant Jane. Born a man or at least Earth Planet tells me my parts belong to a boy, whatever that is. In second grade kids teased me and I went by my middle name as a form of protest against them. Looking back, I was feeding them. Or was i starving them? I read once the name Jane is considered bad luck in English royal life I entertained this just as I did my taut masculinity this 'girl' Amy found it cute. but remember how i had ended up asking for her opinion on everything in the end? because she would not say it on her own volition?
0
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
the ballad of bryant jane stanton
10/3/2014 at high noon, and i think, high tide She looked up at the shy pisces sun, which is never brilliant, tripped over a brick, traced her long shadow on the sidewalk with her finger in the air and i had to remind her I was standing right behind. she'd say "right, that you are" I was tempted to add that I wasn't quite sure about that. I noticed our shadows were contorted, stretched like papyrus, I was remembering how she'd announce at times with no order: "I am happy" or "I'm sad" while watching T.V. or walking down the lane. But now she didn't quite seem to say much. And I was always asking "Amy you happy? Amy you sad? Amy you OK? Amy you fine?" Amy you ok? Amy you ok? Amy you ok? Going well? Fine? It was like that we held hands in a modern art museum is how we met "It's a good picture," she had noted of "My Grandparents, My Parents and Me". I had looked sidelong to its neighbor, a picture of a trashcan trying to desperately scream about some societal ill lost in translation forever. I had already given up when she had given me a 'goodday' I didn't care about seeing her anymore but it still hurt. My name? Jane. Bryant Jane. Born a man or at least Earth Planet tells me my parts belong to a boy, whatever that is. In second grade kids teased me and I went by my middle name as a form of protest against them. Looking back, I was feeding them. Or was i starving them? I read once the name Jane is considered bad luck in English royal life I entertained this just as I did my taut masculinity this 'girl' Amy found it cute. but remember how i had ended up asking for her opinion on everything in the end? because she would not say it on her own volition?
Continue reading...
38
dont get weirded out this is safe for work you see im entertaining tomorrow a thorough cleaning is in order through and through first things first a proper dusting right after the coveted sharpie box shelf comes "first" books records bric-a-brac and all **** ive been meaning to listen to this album signed and everything lets put that on for some dusting music table turns check the needles effective i can hear the shallow resonance hmm no audio lets unplug all the cables check the power supply and the pre-amp turn it all off then on again **** let me take this apart real quick **** i need some parts i need to call stanton OPERATOR! OPERATOR! 30 minutes later im told they dont have it WHELP back to dusting stepping over stanton parts I THOUGHT I LOST THIS MOVIE i can play it in the background whilst im cleaning THE PROJECTORS BROKEN let me take that apart real quick hope i dont get the parts of the two aberrations crossed that mustnt happen wink and then the re-framing project and then organizing my music collection and then just one poem color code my closet rewrite my resume clip my toenails and my nose hair four more poems annnnnnnnnnd mess "oh hey welcome, drinks are over there just dont step on my record player" and heres where it gets crazy smart i tear EVERYTHING off the walls draw all over all the stuffs with those ****** sharpies that started it all turn the whole ******* place into a performance art piece i call it "fix it: I DARE YOU!"
0
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
bedroom! party of one
"Tu ignorancia es un monte de leones, Stanton"                                                                                                -García Lorca Juntos para morir, separados para vivir. Como un manantial de loros te canto, Stanton no se quien eres pero nunca nos encontraremos cual cima de hipopótamos, cual valle de elefantes. Podría seguir, seguir con mi orografía animal, Stanton. Sentirme una Lorca envalentonada, envalentonada como un monte de leones. Pero no lo soy. Sólo soy un intento de física, un intento de poetisa, un intento de mujer, un intento de persona. Un intento. Reímos juntos aquel día, aún hoy lloramos separadas. Y este poema se torna pensamientos no ligados. nuca lo estuvieron. Mi ignorancia siempre fue un monte de leones. Y mis pensamientos se tornan contra mí una vez más. Contra mi cuerpo: mi archienemigo, tantas veces te he escrito para herirte, tantas veces te he herido para herirte. Mi odio hacia ti es una riada de cuervos. Contra mi mente: falsa amiga, tantas veces te he usado para servirme tantas veces me has herido al servirme. Mi rencor hacia ti es un acantilado de ratas. Y sí, este poema es una excusa para alabar el citado verso, pero entre verso y verso se cuela mi odio, cual filtro de lemures, cual escurridero de serpientes. Mi odio por todo, mi odio por nada. Y aquí termina mi canto, diciéndote una vez más, Stanton. Tu ignorancia es un monte de leones. // "Your ignorance is a mountain of lions, Stanton"                                                                                                -García Lorca Together dying, apart living. Like a spring of parrots I sing to you, Stanton I don't know who you are but we'll never meet like peak of hippopotamus, like valley of elephants. I could continue, continue with my animal orography, Stanton. Feeling myself an encouraged Lorca, encouraged like a mountain of lions. But I'm not one. I'm only an attempt of a physic, an attempt of a poet, an attempt of a woman, an attempt of a person. An attempt. We laughed together that day, even today we cry alone. This poem turns itself thoughts not linked. They never were. My ignorance has always been a mountain of lions. And my thoughts turn against me once again. Against my body: my archenemy, so many times I have written to harm you, so many times I have harmed you tu harm you. My hatred towards you is a stream of raven. Against my mind: false friend, so many times I have used you to serve me, so many times you have harmed you to serve me. Mi resentment towards you is a cliff of rats. And yes, this poem is an excuse tu praise the mentioned verse, but between verse and verse my hatred creeps in, like filter of lemures, like sink of snakes. My hatred towards everything, my hatred towards nothing. And here my singing ends, telling you once again, Stanton. Your ignorance is a mountain of lions.
0
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 12:07 PM UTC
Canto a Stanton/Song to Stanton
"Tu ignorancia es un monte de leones, Stanton"                                                                                                -García Lorca Juntos para morir, separados para vivir. Como un manantial de loros te canto, Stanton no se quien eres pero nunca nos encontraremos cual cima de hipopótamos, cual valle de elefantes. Podría seguir, seguir con mi orografía animal, Stanton. Sentirme una Lorca envalentonada, envalentonada como un monte de leones. Pero no lo soy. Sólo soy un intento de física, un intento de poetisa, un intento de mujer, un intento de persona. Un intento. Reímos juntos aquel día, aún hoy lloramos separadas. Y este poema se torna pensamientos no ligados. nuca lo estuvieron. Mi ignorancia siempre fue un monte de leones. Y mis pensamientos se tornan contra mí una vez más. Contra mi cuerpo: mi archienemigo, tantas veces te he escrito para herirte, tantas veces te he herido para herirte. Mi odio hacia ti es una riada de cuervos. Contra mi mente: falsa amiga, tantas veces te he usado para servirme tantas veces me has herido al servirme. Mi rencor hacia ti es un acantilado de ratas. Y sí, este poema es una excusa para alabar el citado verso, pero entre verso y verso se cuela mi odio, cual filtro de lemures, cual escurridero de serpientes. Mi odio por todo, mi odio por nada. Y aquí termina mi canto, diciéndote una vez más, Stanton. Tu ignorancia es un monte de leones. // "Your ignorance is a mountain of lions, Stanton"                                                                                                -García Lorca Together dying, apart living. Like a spring of parrots I sing to you, Stanton I don't know who you are but we'll never meet like peak of hippopotamus, like valley of elephants. I could continue, continue with my animal orography, Stanton. Feeling myself an encouraged Lorca, encouraged like a mountain of lions. But I'm not one. I'm only an attempt of a physic, an attempt of a poet, an attempt of a woman, an attempt of a person. An attempt. We laughed together that day, even today we cry alone. This poem turns itself thoughts not linked. They never were. My ignorance has always been a mountain of lions. And my thoughts turn against me once again. Against my body: my archenemy, so many times I have written to harm you, so many times I have harmed you tu harm you. My hatred towards you is a stream of raven. Against my mind: false friend, so many times I have used you to serve me, so many times you have harmed you to serve me. Mi resentment towards you is a cliff of rats. And yes, this poem is an excuse tu praise the mentioned verse, but between verse and verse my hatred creeps in, like filter of lemures, like sink of snakes. My hatred towards everything, my hatred towards nothing. And here my singing ends, telling you once again, Stanton. Your ignorance is a mountain of lions.
Continue reading...
73
Live blog: Romney and Stanton vie for Iowa win. Dead heat in the dead of winter What do the Iowa results really mean? That Romney's less of a robot than he seems? Oh, by the way: replacing a bulb, can save you 50 dollars or more! But it'll cost you ten times as much, at your hardware store. Starbuck's hikes prices despite the lull, People stupidly betting on Powerball, Selma Hayek's trending, y'all! (We don't know why). But what's all that compared to shootings? Soldiers flying and not being sniffed, Suspects nabbed in Utah killings, And GOP runners had another tiff. Personally, I'm more fascinated, In the Aussie hybrid sharks! This might mean global warming's overrated, Or that animals are way smart. Mideast peace-talks stalled, I read. Have I not read this before? Oh, yeah, back in 1972. When psychos killed athletic Jews, Who might win And Olympic village was off view, While the Israelis dragged people in. That year, Nixon was re-elected And we thought we'd never see worse, Yet now the nation is infected With a yellow-haired, inhuman curse. Blog goes to sleep... Begun long ago and finished in 2018
0
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 11:30 PM UTC
By the way...
Today I got a message from a friend in poetry if you get a request to be my friend i'll tell you it's not me there's another person out there who's playing at a game he's gone and made a copy of me with the same name i thought on this a while our Johnni's not alone there's a version of him out there Our Johnni has a clone Of all the people out there why did he chose to be Johnni Stanton esquire why did he not choose me? Imagine now...two Johnni's riding scooters down the street Giving Johnni Stanton scowls To everyone they meet Johnni earned his reputation Through all the things that he has done And if you ask me my opinion I think there's room for only one So, I'll keep checking for that someone Who will ask a friend like ne And will report that cloned imposter To the powers there that be There only is one Johnni There's no room for any more He's our impassioned, mad curmudgeon All the way through to his core.
0
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
Will you be my friend...love Johni
a whirl on heels with a shrew could strew the map with their features a cartographer drew in their wild fantasy with red carpet with their faction pursued a revolution with Stanton à la carte
0
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 7:21 AM UTC
woman
I'm haunted by a ghost who won't text back I need it the most but it only gives black this ghost from a heart attack leads me down a disheartened track of perilous cracks so I can't relax. Your Danny Phantom threw our new tandem off like Drew Stanton giving me a true tantrum tramping to the netherworld to find a bed of pearls instead of twirls in dead end whirls. I stare at people talking in my mind I'm throwing **** sounds like the gun cocking right before the trigger flick killing me quick in a ghost's grip instilling gross and sick voices telling me to quit. I want to go to the astral world to be in your presence I want to be your astro girl then extinguish your essence to get my revenge after getting incensed from the haunting intense of a ghost with malicious intent. Your apparition isn't an aberration plenty have seen the line of demarcation between relationship adjacent and my next replacement so I hide in my basement people wonder where my face went a ghost set it to its blank placement to cover up the rank grave scent. The spirits of the undead notice that I'm unfed repeating that I'm ***** until I've done bled they cackle with triumph after I've run for someone to see the sun. So go chill on your ghost ship with your ghost clique whose locust lips give you focused hips just stop haunting me I view recovery dauntingly because for a while I've got to see every person as wild ghosts mocking me.
0
May 14, 2021
May 14, 2021 at 2:33 AM UTC
Ghost
Another world championship comes into view that is, if the pitching holds up and they maybe get Coby from Detroit. And maybe work Glybe Torres and Andular and Clint Fegie into the scheme of things and maybe Requito Kyle Schwarbe from the Cabs That's quite a few ifs but sure they got the premier slugger in baseball he sounds like even ore of an CBI man than Judge and will make them pitch to Judge more. He sounds like a great public relations figure and the endorsements will motivate him too... Maybe he'll be the designated hitter as opposed to Schwarbe or else he'll take up on outfield, right field slot, then the Yankees could move Aaron and trade Brett Gardner for a pitch My Yankees are back in the business of bringing Romans to New York again. The Kicks are back for me too having hung out in NYC for a while among other reasons
0
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC
The Giancarlo Stanton Yankee Stadium
What's the scariest book you ever read? ... Some Stephen King book like Salem's Lot or The Shining? For me it's Kate Millett's ****** Politics ... Oh, man ... Now THAT will scare you to death if you're female. I discovered a man, overheard at my church, who actually believes his *** is a sign of power and of superiority. WHY am I so startled? Some childish trust not yet scrubbed off?" Or worse yet, some belief, not yet strangled, in a better world? See, stupid me, I thought this bill had been paid, by sufferance, by real people like Elizabeth Stanton, Carrie Catt and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. ... by entire generations who ran through those tangled woods emerging cut and bruised ... if at all. What is it like for HIM? I see him eyeing us, his little inferiors who bleed with the moon, with secret, catlike distaste ... regarding female opinions as slightly impure ... then, with calm, Godlike grace, granting females the forms of servant to assume. Can I, can we, be forced to accept this inheritance? I don't know ... All I know is that this prejudice, so strangely without substance, strikes me like a dueler's lucky ****** robbing me of attendant rights and wit ... springing a tender trap of doubt in the future and abandoning me to stammering.
0
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 9:40 AM UTC
dueler's ******