Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
a m a n d a Apr 2022
And you may ask yourself, "How did I get here?"
And you may ask yourself, "Where is that shiny automobile?"

And you may tell yourself, "This is not my beautiful house"
And you may tell yourself, "This is not my beautiful face"

And when the task before you
is thousands of files,
staple - on staple - on staple
You bite that bullet,
Staple Lord.

With every fiber of your being,
you hunt them down
and wrangle them out
like you were born for the thing;
because you are alive and
it's the task before you.

you tear dem ******* out like
it's your Sistine Chapel.

do all things this way
nothing is wasted.

the light of your attention
reflecting back on you.
Julie Grenness Apr 2017
I feel like a staple! Funny, eh!
I hold things together round this place,
In a mild-mannered old lady way,
Like the staples in a book,
I guess there's no need to sook,
I am a helping hand today,
Nothing lasts forever, eh?
Avoid  confrontations with the ex,
Who carries on like old T-Rex,
The old staple of their lives,
I would do stuff anyway, being kind,
Doormats do get exploited, eh,
I feel it's a staple kind of day!
Smile!!
Feedback welcome
That which I discovered a Beat Squire
A Potential who I Trust can be Friend
As sincere as the News he respires
Giving you Updates which does make us Bend
Kaibigan, should you show the Numb Male
Which Ingredients we are truly made of
He chose you. That alone should just prevail
And Rice the Staple makes your Friendship oft
I mean this Good Thing. Being at your Best
And Youth such Buddy could ever provide
Live out this Stage well. Far from what the Least
Full-Cupped Elders think they could just Advise.
My Part is done. Decisions are your own
This Future is yours; Make it well-known.
#jancarlo717
English Jam May 2018
Boredom on a Sunday is inescapable
I try to hide it behind playing my musical instrument
Trumpeting with my trumpet - blowing my own horn -
I'm praying no one interprets that last sentence as an innuendo
Anyway, I'm nodding off, signing out of reality
The world goes hazy in a second
And I'm ****** into the vortex of a dream

Weird how when a dream begins, we immediately understand the situation
For this scene, I'm spewing blood from my spleen like a bottle of sauce squeezed too hard
It stains the leather of my vehicle
My foot is pressing the pedal to the floor, and the speedometer is twinged in half from all the pressure
The monolith of a highway I'm speeding on shakes as though giants stomp upon it
And the wail of a siren drives me into a frenzy as I try to escape the inevitable
Their polychromatic lights dance at the edges of my eyes, spurring rhythm into action
Even though they must be aeons behind, my heart melodramatically pumps in my chest as though the police are in the backseat
Blood bursting through my temple, thoughts wheezing by like someone's let go of hundreds of balloons  
Up ahead, the road twists itself into a knot of nothingness
My hands are wrapped around the steering wheel so tightly, I fear I might never be able to release them
It's a slight movement: right hand goes down, left goes up, but it kicks the vehicle sideways
My body slams into the car with a satisfying crunch and my mind spirals to spaghetti strands
Oddly enough, the world becomes rinsed with blue wash and I'm underwater

My train of thought becomes peaceful, melodic
I float about, running on the inverse of the waves
Here, even a scream is joyous as it sounds all bubbly and childish
Suddenly, a red streak runs across the ocean, chilling me to the bone and erasing all my bubbles
The sea becomes glittered with red and blue streaks, a warning
Bullets stab at my spleen, reminding me of the pain that was, and still is
And my body gears into a full 360, concluding my return to the real world
Or is it the dream world?
Oh well
Either way, I'm back in my car
Carelessly freefalling from nowhere
Weapons, glass, blood droplets, pocket change, pedestrians...all breeze around slowly
Pleading with me to wake up
Then

Everything crumbles, and I smack my ugly head against the window, splattering my brains everywhere
My car flew from the sudden turn and I crashed, I think
Now I lay, grasping onto consciousness while pedagogues staple me to the ground
The Lawman towers over me, grinning madly at my defeat
The most barbaric insult, however, comes from the radio, still magically working
"I fought the law and the law won," The Clash idly sing
One of my favourite songs turned into dark irony
The last I remember before blacking out is the scarlet and marine lights clashing forevermore

When I wake up, I'm face-down on the stony and icy floor
The cold burns me enough to wake me from la la land
The iron grip of the handcuffs feels very real
Words are forced into my head, not by my own design, but sort of like they've been placed there
An argument as to whether existence has a meaning is taking place in my head, and I can't stop it
Sort of like how in a dream, you can't control your thoughts or actions
Wait
This is still a dream, right?
Right?
Scott M Reamer Apr 2013
Man life know just set eyes way like young world soul day hunger space mouth earth thoughts ignorance blind things mind knew final moment human creation kind creatures souls high forgotten dream love spoke self existence face holy deep bound think home void say surrender ear forever called held ephemeral red state end shall heed hope edge living waking fall sea wake garden need February thought past wanderer got men page colored tepid terrible **** proudly untitled features point painted faceless box forgot render wild spring splendor  handfuls looking half brain lost torn ancestral  unseen vision inner summer honor mister owned banner save today fear groans wasn't smoke  street fable strange year contrast black years  able pain body spoken word known motion  palpitate reeling nature culture disclaimers  cancer beg attentive frames ****** base profound double remember wholly finger death token  cries continue folk oh fishing form broken true  divides spread ah twas away breathe wait warning hallowed wish closer lens turn eye live  constant current author hung theory dangle  bramble chemical new force changes adderall  anymore giving beneath possess pardon commentaries eternity internal walk reason  long change does idea glimpse consciousness  wandering simply wonder physical dreams war  sleep told rest benign prior begging truth little  2012 born tale crow bowels allegory animal rule  exasperate making horse curse hands ones read  rearrange capture doing command fail awake  aperture seedlings shift steely sir nap spead ****** demons slits clever telling loud spits la-la-di-dah killing slip game reflected nameless ask  lovers rabid bear salivate plunder shameless  famously savior mint rides menthol bully fate traded melodies play misunderstand mammals gentle witless fine utterly savage silt tongue-less  dirt dilutes pure non-sensory taste briefly ravage dismember it''ll shedding ruined curtain  knots offers plot fulfills munificent two-act  relegates boxz bug altruistic wintergreen tossing  callously guise grovels one's singers treachery ashes mid-life mutter fashion parading  ambiguity separatist liars staple steeping neath  guidelines scoffing stitch moans civil wrote  Fictitious undoing fables table effigies serve  sonnets staged remark psalm swoll praise harken  beggar verse bread lines heavily electricity detection snow sack-happy preaching credit  spotted wicked best gravity gun campaign owe  barge choir revelry celebratory satiated sinking  headline pack hound persistently propaganda  gentlemen excluding diminished ******* run idles  occupied levies wolfishly honestly misinformation cuba vehemently dumb grace spectator erasing  toned sage crowded secrets inter-connectivity  loaned prayer hymns grave mistaken magnified  vandals selective jump leak escapes says minister  buckle mass honesty shut tar children's hats  monument doping long-lived electrical ladle  exaggerated cartoons address seconds cool cradle bleak yang's mind-framed hypnotic  walker caps folly treble claim streaks mixtures  swelled interstate elapse teasing spoon mobile  succulent witchcraft borderline fatal 99 temple stacks sups plastics creeps neurotic ills tossed  meek sipping old crack interlock wax alleyway  coughing blown freak clock birthdays societies  slow flashing viscous candy argument toothless  pills cerebral rapt wall bisect lives wheezing  photo kid starter foiled pair saturated self-castrating pre-packed naked uncertainly pill  used came chaos coated reprisal fells wrack  irreverent mirth sickly disinherited proudest  collate wheeze appearance palette disharmony  discontented bastardized emotive bio inhale diction beat spoiled reclamation loudest tempo  totally disembodied matte imperfect shells flat  struck sounding imparts flak origin severance remarked bone walls snared leaflets mocking  hot scripting adjective noun agape seemingly  resistant gawk calamity passage paintings wind  trashcans signings sits cheap makers poetry persist scrap slipping individual talk wonders  leaving questions fold actor fancy parchment  fates engenders flown jaws stripped longer music  sacrifice fakers book boldly frown sigh atop patient hang trade occupation blows spectacular  whispers worthy backward waving certainty danced suppose needn't ‘drawkcab’ second-guessing  boys forget marched motto heads tightly lies two-tone earthbound harp twice turns goodnight  lying ***** internally indiscriminate nickname  drunk convictions myth steep  in-consumption  fitting artist **** universal sick expressions bad  du spell melody big siphon proud learn sprawls song spastic something temperaments utter check  fissures stomp totality blend definitely thrall sing rug voice shade pestilence ties commiserate round devil steady brains emotional certain gate  suckling gates dearth decay weight bounce pound  carrier pangs glass startle contest earthen web  tug pressed air patience flush amassed guest gone apprehension staring empathize captain believe fading in-perceivable deathbed guarder makes surrounds scatter drooling ebb blink cob tome  venom near door lair derision draws host stairs scent parts curiosities spider webbing surprise wares tips stepping ascetics starkness realize picture surroundings dictations grand pillars  deaf limited comparisons greet visual residents  personal settings dismiss alien law stability common earthly shiftless places prelude  understanding mosaic keen trifling embodiments  geared inception whisper visible jowls kiss murky  puddle rank dawn dichotomy single faithful fraying pays tailor veil climb mores pence whim  breath wellspring samara god stony pear  shadows fruiting forebodes moonlit looming  shown passed bog gold wracked faint tongues  noble preachers mirror shifting layered depth  threads jungle narcissus bemused seamstress self-worshiping architect's wore slumber anomalous  opened barren seam lip caustic scene coupled brick gardener's clenches -with forms idle breed  embodied lore starving empathy design illusion  tree coat fabricate lucid mason scatter-all  narrative seeking imbued 16th shivering chemicals 17th 15thrisk improperly dare  deliberate plan purge try brought chapter speed  aide utmost spirit leading intervention felt  recall recent advent sincerity times diary  lackluster piously lasting happy holding hear  stem tasteless whimpers wet spine monstrosity  dripping causes position quite softly claws pallet  answer digging tearing beast satiating circle breaks skips redwoods beckoning rotted hushed  gray lapsing monoliths deities creborus  imbuement hand stroll paradigm rendered chorus shy whispering forest residual tension  surrenders tolerance lull anew sentenced  bearing tide birds dirge divergent rim joined  cogs wood hesitant mist emergent towering offer  awareness confinement inverted faultier stowed  plane sanctified blanketing trusting memory fossil flash twists laden self-indulgent fleeting invitation agony grip shore impetus lingering  crows promise gift union swallowing endless floor supposed ecstasy sensory intent  psychotropic cradling placement interned  jagged connectivity exchange congenial begun  summons singular spiral assumes ambient reciprocates re-entry fruition reached aggregate lifetime limbs birthed instinct  frightening tarry proper entire light  boundaries innocence pursuit ago discover left  youth's unknowing sacred time place meager  simple fact cast ceaseless wide-eyed literal  apparent coincidence create boldness morphed  crooked kempt mere stumble buried shutter fairy  pivotal definitive months worth shear ambition sound required journeyed self-reflections title  facets vague restless intimation gut wanderer's  leap motivate path account boy soon bears faith  question tripped reasons uproot awaited confronted days step heal provocations wisps crushing transcend chronicles instance  directness raw drove occurrence objective-less  real enters slightest confident nondescript  typify  foreshortened interment paradox bitter heart  devoid jeopardy angry sensation confidential guilty arrogance mercy compliance reprieve  vincent deadening factual sign emotion awe  inhibition shackled butterflies absence actual sciences acknowledgement violent stagnant  spiritual American doors roots lack matted fore  gestures society cause streams intensity hair impossible discord lonely hearts resounding  jest  what's flavored pains closed toxic contented  happenstance scientific knowledge yeah  wizardry shaking stifled withdrawn bloom  jitter dreads settle asocial hulton make  predisposed figurative reflections demeanors  wondered affect hulton's projected sense  morning industry arrays ghosts feeling  certainly endomorphic where's partially wrath  passer mornings jovial unease advertized asking  trash onward wished tempers media mentality connect pasts sharp-toothed scramble great colours trial test salvation continually lent  degree secretly subjection social waned  disconnected colors grimly intellectual civilization cash trading baffling particular  digest myths monumental ending seasons winter  repetition introducing agent everlasting  shoulders delivered honestly-- possession funny  continence history unsightly function suffering propulsion profession divulge familiar tugs era  importance capability perpetuation spite inventory words entirety leveling fray insight  date record continues writer getting evermore fellow tongue possessions identical proof accuracy education similar sack admittance  favor unravel conveyance guilt gives beginnings  predicting audacity definition bobby heady eaters frameless learned release stone grandeur sang  speak molds sleeps split built seats people folded  sheer pour evoked playhouse liquid boring  tellers frayed stark walked reality pleas doth  preformed shows beak pride squawks opinions  greatest bold stunning sightings he'd loudly slain  sunk watch legend precipice theater deeper compound commentator civility justly silly sin  reverent seen prophetic moral confounds notion  lacking explain attempt prolific viral estrange proclivity scorn hide blur pious strung eden's  horror cut skin arch cruel twig mother vile  pass lend woods peach shrunken trail man's canopy worn 434 eat warm limb familiar father delete.

You are what your reading lady. Now would you hold this gun?
zebra Oct 2017
Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

............
Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

................
SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

......................

.
IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
...............
PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

.............
OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition
Àŧùl Jul 2015
I've had my breakfast,
Still I'm so much hungry,
Only 'cause of her, I guess!

I've not talked to her,
She's the only hunger I've,
Both in my days & my nights.

I've liked her flavour,
Flavoured it is like olives,
Her voice is my final dessert.
A morning poem for my enamorata.

My HP Poem #892
©Atul Kaushal
Nigel Lloyd May 2015
Thin and crispy, round and flat
A staple of the proletariat
Two for a tenner
It makes you wonder
And delivered to your door on the back of a Honda.
Olivia Jan 2014
No one ever knew
No one ever knew
No one ever knew
I called up the doctor
Told him to staple me up
I called up the doctor
Told me the stitches wouldn't be enough
Don't you see?
Your skin: sewn with fine thread
My skin: punctured with fine metal
Your thread has seeped in
And
My staple have fallen
But the doctor says I need stitches
But the prescription says my skin cannot handle it
I just want to hold you without falling apart.
judy smith Jun 2015
To beat the blues, declutter the mind and trim that waistline... there are far more reasons to stay hydrated than to quench the thirst. Here's how to do it...

Hydration is central to the most basic physiological functions of the body such as regulating BP and body temperature, blood circulation and digestion. But having enough water is one thing and keeping the body well hydrated another. Hydration comes not just from sipping water but from a diet high on water. One needs to have a variety of fruits and vegetables that have a naturally high water content to replenish the electrolytes in scorching summer.

EAT YOUR WATER

"The primary way of hydration is drinking plenty of clean water ******, but about 20 per cent of our intake comes from foods, especially fruits, vegetables, drinks and broths. Hydrating food not only corrects the water balance but also replaces essential salts and minerals," adds Manjari Chandra, therapeutic nutritionist. Aqua foods provide volume and weight but not calories. Grapefruit, for example, is about 90 per cent water and half a grapefruit has just 37 calories. High water greens and fruits contain essential vitamins and minerals, bioflavonoids (compounds believed to prevent heart disease) and antioxidants that slow down the aging process. They are also high in fibre, which keeps you feeling full for longer and helps the digestive system run efficiently. They can provide al most all vitamins and minerals and correct nutrient deficiencies.

WEIGHT WATCHERS

If you thought the list of hydrating foods ends with the usual suspects like cucumbers, watermelons and tomatoes, you are wrong. Some offbeat natural hydrators include leeks, spinach, peppers, carrots and celery. In fact, celery comprises mostly water... qualifying as a great snacking option. It can also curb sweet tooth cravings, which will help you stay slim and keep away from acidic sweets. "Eggplants are a fabulous weight loss kitchen staple. This versatile ingredient has low calories and is rich in fibre that boosts satiety. Grape fruit has been hailed as a weightloss superfood globally for its cardio protective, antioxidant and appetite-sup pressing qualities. This high fibre, juicy fruit has the ability to lower blood sugar levels and control a voracious appetite," says Jia Singh, travel, food and wellness writer.

MOOD AND MIND

People usually don't consider water as a mood enhancer. However, studies have proved otherwise. Even mild dehydration can alter a person's mood, energy levels, and ability to think clearly, according to two studies by the University of Connecticut's Human Performance Laboratory. Mild dehydration is defined as an approximately 1.5 per cent loss in normal water volume in the body. It is important to stay properly hydrated at all times, not just during exercise, extreme heat, or exertion. This is because water gives the brain the electrical energy for all t, its functions, including r thought and memory processes. When your brain is functioning on a full reserve of water, you will be able to think faster, be more focused, and experience clarity and creativity.

MUSCLE POWER

We all know the importance of exercising, getting enough protein, calories and rest in order to build muscles.But water consumption is as important for muscle wellness and lubrication of joints. Water composes 75 per cent of our muscle tissue! So, if your body's water content drops by as little as 2 per cent, you will feel fatigued. If it drops by 10 per cent, you may experience health problems, such as arthritis and back pain. When you're well hydrated, water provides nutrients to the muscles and removes waste so that you perform better.

TOP SUMMER HYDRATORS

Strawberries: They rank highest in water content in comparison to all other berries. Berries are powerhouses of antioxidants that are cardio protective, good for your eyes, skin and nails and even help prevent inflammation and chronic illnesses.

Carrots: They are almost 90 per cent water, are rich sources of vitamin A and C and have tons of betacarotene that keep cancer at bay.

Zucchini: Zucchini is a popular summer squash made of 95% water. It is a good source of dietary fibre, vitamin A, C and K, folate, magnesium. It is best to use it fresh and raw in salads because cooking leads to loss of water.

Bell Peppers: Sweet bell peppers are amongst the veg gies with the highest water content. They are also a great source of vitamin C.

Iceberg lettuce: Health experts often rec ommend substituting it with darker greens like spinach or romaine lettuce for higher amounts of fibre and nutrients such as folate and vitamin K. It's a different story, however, when it comes to water content. Crispy ice berg has the highest amount of water amongst the lettuce family.

Spinach: It may not be as hydrating as iceberg lettuce, but spinach is usually a bet ter bet overall. The leafy vegetable is rich in lutein, potassium, fibre, and brain-boosting folate.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Hayley Simpson Sep 2012
Dear Pickle,

You are making my face sour. Mom is mad at you for skipping school and I have to talk her down again.

Maybe next time you can write me a 1200 word essay on "How stupid your decisions are", So I can mark it up with red pen before you lose grades on your ribs.

Sister, you need to calm your *** down, because the world isn't a race and the underdog doesn't always come in first, or even second.
But take a second to stop breathing that smoke you call air, everybody is choking on the smell of teen-spirit.
The tattoos not yet ingaved in your skin will serve as a reminder of how you took last place in a family full of sharp broken pieces of glass.
I tell Mom "Don't worry, it's just a phase, she just needs a second to find her place, in this world" But, at this rate, I'm not sure you will.

Because, people will knock on your door and hand you bottles of quick fixes and Novocaine, and I hope that this poem isn't in vain to serve as a reminder of that little girl that still caught fireflies in her teeth.

And I am sorry I left for 3 years without watching your molecules multiply, but I wrote my times tables on the back of my diploma for you to study.

That 6 year old girl with woodland creature cheeks hasn't been forgotten.
That 6 year old girl who never failed to puke in the car after a glass of milk hasn't been forgotten.
That 6 year old girl that cried every time we told anyone you are cat food under the kitchen table hasn't been forgotten.

I am sorry, can you bring her back now?

And for me, could you stop making Mom cry, she has watered so many Forget-me-nots that I am afraid her roots are drowning.

Don't get me wrong. I appreciate all the time you bared swords and shields to defend me against the stereotypes that threatened to staple them themselves to the inside of our cheeks, but come on...get your **** together.

We are blood-brothers...with vaginas.
Don't you dare break that bond because if you do I will lock you in the closet, turn the lights of and leave you in there screaming and crying until the rebellion leaves your bladder.

I'm your sister, not your mother. I will not birth any more brother *****-ups for you to father.

Love,
Vinegar.
Written (2012)

Author: I wrote this for my younger sister who is only 3 years younger than me, the youngest one in our family. It started when I used to call her "Pickle".
Antino Art Aug 2019
I am the only Asian in this bar right now.
Be my friend!
I will check the box of your social diversity quota.
Granted, I only speak a mispronounced fraction of
my immigrant parents' native tongue.
Ala Jackie Chan, I do not understand the words coming out the mouths of anyone on that massive continent (Russia included) that I appear to be more or less from.
But, I do eat spaghetti with chopsticks.
I am mystical as
fox, or Kitsune, in Japanese folklore.
I can hit you with wisdom worthy of a fortune cookie as fast as Google can tell you that the Philippines is nearly 2000 miles away from China. I want to say I'm from an exotic island where they play basketball in sandals and drink soda from plastic bags- like, A-level material you could make a movie out of in Slumdog Millionaire fashion and get awarded for your romantic portrayal of poverty you think is three worlds away from home. But nah, I'm just a kid from South Florida. Paved driveways and cul de sacs. But I do pump both fists in the air watching Manny Pacquio PPV fights on a bootleg stream. Beyond that, I'm probably the worst Asian there is. Not the crazy rich kind with a PHd. I dropped out of engineering after one semester and cannot solve a rubix cube. I never learned kung fu. Though I'm learning to face the adversity of becoming a single parent after my daughter's home broke in two. I write marketing proposals to pay the rent and poetry to fight without fighting in the spirit of Sun Tzu. My eyes do not slant in the direction of your narrative. I once ran in a pick up game where I caught the nickname of Yao Ming. Yao, I am 5 foot 8. Though I fall short of expectation, I can still check your diversity box on the way down and do a cool pen spin after to punctuate my intellectual prowess. I also happen to own an assortment of Japanese swords made in China, which I intend to use as heirlooms. This is what cultural colonization looks like: me, in a bar, the last samurai standing confused in an age of melting pots, Korean tacos and Asian slaw made by corporate imposters with names like PF Chang. What in the slaw is Asian? I wish I knew!  I wish I knew the true value of my heritage to be worthy of carrying it forward. Like how my grandfather planted a Malonggay tree in our backyard whose leaves my mother would pick and boil to make tinolang manok -the Filipino version of chicken soup- as a weeknight staple on our dinner table. I can barely soft boil an egg for instant ramen. Or how my motherland's socioeconomic gap tooth smile is so wide that it drove over 10 million of its native sons and daughters off its shores to find work overseas as servants on cruise ships and hospitals to feed the families they barely get to see. To follow their trail blazing footsteps, let me be the second generation tipping point where some form of cyclical tradition breaks. That way, I can raise my daughter free of predetermined scripts. So as the worst Asian in this or any bar, cheers:
to being the first of a new kind.
Sarah Jan 2014
Insecurity is wool blanket drenched in water
laying across my nose and mouth,
every breath i take in is a wicked reminder of everything i am not.
its sharp needle points prodding my pores
ripping apart the skin of my throat with every word i'm unable to speak.
Insecurity is facing a firing squad,
every bullet comes from the mouth, every tongue a trigger, every tooth ammunition
Your feet are nailed to the ground, an iron staple of your own making lacing through your toes.
The worst thing about it is that your hands are bulletproof shields,
and if you had the strength to raise your thousand pound arms,
you could use them to block your bruised up brain.
But you can't.
So you don't.
its being uncomfortable in your own skin, a bone shattering, helpless feeling that you
cannot change this.
no amount of compliments or beautiful words whispered in the darkness can fix it
insecurity is the building blocks of my personality,
I'm constantly tailoring everyone in my life to fit it, like a worn dress
I can't walk down the hallway, down the street, through a store
without the feeling of a thousand weighty words cutting into my skin
In every war my mind wages against my body
i stand there like marble, letting the bullets eat me alive.
its time to crack my foundation down
Andrew Parker Mar 2017
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)

Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.

Like I'm a creep.  I'm a ******.
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.

You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.

So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.  

Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.  

They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.  

They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.  

They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.  

They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.  

They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies,  if you know what I mean.


In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.  

They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!


I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.  

And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.  


I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!  

I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
robin Mar 2015
i have no patience for you your feet sunk in the mud im leaving even if you stay behind.
nosebleed in a public restroom irrational shame,
dark stains on the carpet and we strain with the task of memory.
if your feet hold you back cut them off at the joint.
self-dissections in the lab,
case studies of the effects of
obsolete diseases. black plague typhoid smallpox
specimen pins/surgical staples, an efficient kind of suicide.
ill try not to smudge your lipstick when i kick in your teeth,
your white-knuckled hands digging grooves in your thighs.
efficiency as poetry.
brutality as poetry.
█████ as poetry.
i am trying to make a perfect vacuum of myself, purer than space. purer than black holes.
this is for the dirt ground into my jeans for the rusted nails in my walls , this is for you,
your delusions, your lover impaled on a sundial and you weep to complete the scene,
admire your artistry.
this is how to make feathers look like armor,
this is how to renounce your body,
how to be a living parody how to give up on yourself,
from a vulture to a prince. wren to a gryphon.
the water i drink is infested.
with eggs hatching in my throat i become more than myself,
mother to a thousand maggots.i name them all.i divide my love evenly among them.
here i staple my grievances to the doors of the church,
here i scream of plagues in the streets, filth in shining skyscrapers,
here i imagine myself cassandra here i prophesy misery
here i staple my grievances to your chest where you cannot brush them off this time.
you licking the doors, trying to taste what's gone, finding splinters in your tongue,
stuck in the braces you had
when you were twelve.
{i curse all metal grow more crooked by the day,
crooked man in a crooked house crooked cat on a crooked fence i can still rip your throat out with crooked teeth} you glisten you glisten you shine
like oil in the pan,
oil dripping from the car,
oil on top of the lake. lover where are the matches the pilot lights gone out again,
burn off the blockage till the heat shines blue.
domestic arson.in the forest you gather tinder,
too damp to burn clean.you smoke us out of our home.
leave it for someone better, stinking like a forest fire.the soundtrack is so loud i cant hear what you say,
im shouting with the strings it all sounds the same when you close your eyes,
smoke-blind you whisper from across the room and ive never hated you more than i do now.
i read your lips i write your words i staple them to the bedroom door i kick in your teeth too fast too fast a reminder that this isn’t pretty, eggs in the throat an exoskeleton too brittle to block the blows.
[me fetal on the kitchen floor me standing with ****** boots]
i count the teeth,
mark them as a symptom.
shedding the physical/shedding teeth.
shedding children from an open mouth.
Entheogens, such as:
Tetrahydrocannabinol, Lysergic Acid, Dimethyltryptamine, Mescaline and Psilocybin,
(of Cannabis, LSD, DMT, Peyote and Mushrooms, respectively)
(None of which Firefox thinks are spelled correctly, including 'Entheogen'..)
have many unfounded and illogical taboos about them
for the seemingly sole reasons that those who;
do not know themselves well enough,
and/or
do not realize the magnitude of what they are getting themselves into,
make themselves seem crazy or otherwise endangered or dangerous while having Revelations.

Heed not the Fear-Mongers:
(they generally fear for their own sake)

An Entheogen is a psychoactive substance that brings forth the Divine within one's self;
it is a temporary death of Ego
a temporary glimpse of Heaven
a brief window of Enlightenment.

An Entheogen is the basis for each major Religion on this planet.
Many established Religions have in turn proceeded to attempt to stamp them out
as if to eliminate healthy competition for their precious power hungry Dogmas
(similar to Wal-Mart, but in terms of Religion as opposed to Business, which is eerily similar)

Vines with DMT in them inspired early philosophers in Southeast Asia and South and Middle America.
Mushrooms crammed with Psilocybin were the basis of the monotheisms of the Middle East.
LSD has been a major pivotal factor in many mediums of art since it's 'accidental' synthesis in the 1930s.
Peyote has been a staple for North American shamen and mystics for thousands of years.
Cannabis, as well, has many mystical applications and medicinal properties used worldwide.

And yet,
all of these things are a massive no-no in commonplace Law worldwide
which is a detrimentally terrible turn
for the Spirituality, interconnectivity and thus Enlightenment
of Humanity.

The lack of unbiased, scientific, accurate and up-to-date information about Entheogens
is a tragedy paralleled only by the unnecessary loss of Rights, Freedom and Life,
not to mention the forgone personal lessons one can gain from Entheogens,
as a result of the censorship of sensible, reliable, consistent, fact-based Information.


Entheogens are only an inherently bad idea
if an individual is so ignorant of themselves as well as the nature of their Reality
that they wouldn't be able to handle the aspects of either
brought forth so abruptly by the Entheogens.


Entheogen: To make manifest the Inner Divine
Psychedelic: To make manifest the Mind


These two things are one in the same; yet one is far more stigmatized:

Entheogens/Psychedelics are vital
if we are ever to learn about the parts of ourselves and our Reality
which are too obscure to recognize in everyday life.

Entheogens make apparent the interconnectedness of the Universe;
They break down the superficial and illusory barriers 'twixt Self and Godself:

They are Death of Ego,
which is frightening to Egoslaves;
They are disillusionment,
temporary Enlightenment;
Mystic Teachers.
Shamen in Botanical form.

Entheogens are Divine gifts:
Terrestrial Shepherds for the Soul, Prisms of Divinity;
Ignored, excommunicated, exiled and squandered by Societies
in the supposed name of 'safety';

Safety for those wrongfully in Power, perhaps

We have truly crucified the Prophets.
It didn't just happen in Mythological history;
it has never stopped happening,
it's still happening right here and now.


What personal freedoms are we willing forgo in the name of totalitarianism?
None, I would hope.

To further illustrate the blinding absurdity:

Should we trade in our legs just so we wouldn't need to worry about stepping on pinecones?
I sure wouldn't.
Should we trade in our eyes to preclude seeing things we find uncomfortable?
I sure wouldn't
Should we trade in our voices in fear that we won't be heard?
I sure wouldn't
Should we lay down and accept Authoritarianism?
I sure won't

Would you, were it law?
though I would sure hope not,
many have
;

Law of this sort is an appeal to both Fear and Authority,
all of which are arbitrary
yet all of which mutually and relatively define each other.


Thus I implore of thee to heed these words:

*Civil Disobedience is a Virtue.
Reflections of cultural Biases are everywhere.
Culture like this tends to suffocate Humanity.
Culture is a Cult that 'ure' (you're) in.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/psychedelia-1/
Jeremy Betts Feb 2018
{Political}

Just look around you and you'll notice that every day there's another suucker born
Another mother fuucker trying to pick around the thorn
But there'll never be breath blown through the victory horn and there won't be one to worn
Cause the new norm is news meant to deform not to inform
Leaving only torn fragments of real mixed with lies, a new truth is born
And it's one that defies the meaning of truth so it's armor for our thoughts and soul that must be worn

Cause it's forced upon every sense, attached to ignorance, illegal for an opinion to be drawn
It's a new dawn where rational thinking is gone, new laws signed in crayon
And it doesn't matter what paawn gets passed the baton when an election comes along
Cause it was years ago that this corruption spawn with a freedom slogan button on
And it's the divide that's grown from a line to a deep chasm of a wide canyon
That'll be our legacy, the legend we pass on till we feel defeat and meet the same demise that fell upon Krypton

It's crazy how we as a society love to single out one to staple blame on, makes it simple
But every man that's held an oval as his office might as well have been a floating carcass, dead in the water from the get go
Don't just agree cause I said so, that's half the problem yo, go do your own research bro
And know that they fear intelligence so go gather up a couple library's full
And don't jump in half cockeed like you only got one teesticle
Give it your all, fuuck being humble, we keep this shiit up we're all in fuuckin trouble
So burst this bubble, let it trasnform to rubble, forget being subtle
It's time to break huddle and be a factor in this much needed rebuttal
Screamed in the face paced on this ancient government scandal

But fuuck it. I'm only one person and not the one to change it cause I'm not perfect
But my imperfectly perfect plan sits perched in dust, never to be touched like it's deadly sick
Like a dripping diick, you pretend you don't have it 'til the graphic turns horrific
Then they say it's fake news but you're looking at the problem, starring derectly at it
But it's me that's ignorant and insignificant? I see it different you one percenter priick

I have a thought, just a notion, top of my head, tell me what you think
How long can we survive on the brink? On a doomed vessel destined to sink?
Holding the knowledge of where the boat is weak
Have known about the leak but putting off repairs till a metaphorical next week
We can see the old, rusty chain of command, it's obvious who's the weakest link
But if we the people aren't in sync (bye bye bye) we're all gonna drown in the drink
The spiked flavor-aid is laid out just waiting for evil to speak then give a sly wink
The nod to give the go-ahead once we're in to deep, swerling round the bottom of the sink

But there's more of us then them so I say we push back
Take the power that we hold off the rack, grow a pair of metaphorical baalls in a metaphorical nuut sack and attack
Put on Hatebreed as the soundtrack and dish out some payback
This is a call to all who can't just lay back like seats in a Maybach and watch the train skip off track
You don't need an almanac to predict this fact, the shiit storm is here, lead by a maniac
And if we don't take our country back then it's our fault, not theirs, that the future seems bleak and black
Let that neat little fact sink in and fill the crack like plaque stacked from years of no contact
Then get back to me when you see clearly that the peace tready that was eagerly signed so freely is actually a death contact

You can't dispute that once you've read the small print on the back of this sinister, sell your soul type contract
Gotta realize we've given to much slack but we do hold the rains, we must pull back
But mustn't hold back, can't afford to hoard the ball and record a sac
It's already fourth down and forever, standing in our own in zone taking the snap
A hail Mary is our only hope, but it might be crazy enough to be the key to the exact play we need to get the lead back
We lose this game and that's it, no respawn, no next season to fall back on, blap, extinction just like that
But fuuck that shiit Jack, I'll fight till my last breath escapes me, I ain't going out like that
Can't give up with my back turned to a population under attack
Cowering in a ransacked bomb shelter resembling the shrieking shack
Can't do it, no matter our differences no one deserves that
But I'm going to need all the help I can get to keep this flaming wreckage off the tarmac

So please, as soon as the Kodak filters been lifted and you see the mess that we've been gifted
You'll come join the million other kindred spirits that have enlisted
No longer tainted by politicians political poison, no longer frightened
Instead, an ability to sift through the ******* has been heightened
No blinders, just enlightened, a vision readjusted, a true path brightened
Natural senses sharpened like a tack then augmented, now you look frightened
All ready to attack and take our lives back, combat tested
And mother approved, well connected, you've been vetted
And we've all come to the conclusion that it's time this reign of terror ended
Way past time for this regime to be upended
Quickly removed and  permanently suspended
Only then can we drop the act, no longer a need to pretend we're not wounded
Only then can we be on the mend and begin the healin'

©2018
ARTICHOKES are very nice roasted with pine nuts

Who likes BANANA cream pie?

They say that eating CARROTS improves your eye sight

Along the river Nile there are many DATE palms

ELDERBERRIES make a flavorsome wine

Piths from a FIG can easily get stuck between your teeth

Nape tape and shape all rhyme with GRAPE

HORSERADISH has a hot tangy taste

ICE-PLANT is a much used vegetable in Chinese cookery

The oil extract from JUNIPER BERRIES produces quine

My sister likes KALE steamed with lemon rind

It is so nice to munch on a LETTUCE leaf

MANDARINS are presently plentiful at the green grocer's

NEEPS can be mashed or left whole

On a hot summer day chilled ORANGE juice goes down well

Has anyone got a good PUMPKIN scone recipe?

Lashings of QUINCE jam were spread on my toast

The lady next door grows RHUBARB

SPINACH gave Popeye much strength

Smothering sausages in TOMATO sauce is sensational

UGLI is a member of the citrus family

In New Orleans you'll find fresh VELVET BEANS

WATERCRESS salad is so easy to prepare

XIGUA is a type of WATERMELON

YAMS are a staple of the New Guinean diet

ZUCCHINI bread is delicious fair
Edna Sweetlove May 2015
"Dog's Longevity Due to Tobacco Habit"**

The staple diet of Sebastian, a pitbull-miniature poodle cross-breed owned by Mrs Emmie Snaggletooth of St John's Road, Little Tittington, Berkshire, is Bruno Extra Strength Old **** pipe tobacco. He consumes two ounces of it every week and his proud owner keeps it in his very own tin.

The procedure is as follows: Mrs Snaggletooth rolls a cigarette and puts it between her lips. Sebastian then leaps up onto her lap and removes the unlit cigarette from her lips and sits with it for several moments between his own lips.

His mistress, who is a pipe smoker herself, then lights up and, as she sits contentently smoking her twelve-inch ivory carved Meerschaum, Sebastian eats his cigarette, leaving only the filter tip which he normally spits out into the fireplace. He has twenty cigarettes a day and enjoys his tobacco best after he has eaten his evening meal of Pedigree Chum (Older Dogs Recipe).

Sebastian, who is now seventeen years old, discovered his penchant for tobacco when he found an open tin of Bruno Old **** and ate the lot. "He became very agitated and barked for three hours non stop", says Mrs Snaggletooth when she fondly recalls the incident, "And we have not been able to stop him since. He's become a bit of an addict and has appeared on TV twice as a result."

Emmie Snaggletooth has smoked a pipe for over seventy years; she keeps her treasured Meerschaum on a cord around her neck. Born in Stillfockin in the County Cork eighty-eight years ago, she went on stage with her sister Catriona as part of the renowned music hall act, the Fabulous Snaggletooth Girls. Emmie picked up the pipe-smoking habit when she had to smoke a traditional clay pipe whilst playing the principal boy in **** in Boots at the old Queen's Theatre in Reading, before it was pulled down to make way for the Pay-As-You-Go Municipal Car Park and Disabled-Access-Toilets.

"All this talk of smoking being bad for your health is a load of old *******", declares Mrs Snaggletooth through her few remaining blackened teeth. And it would seem that Emmie and Sebastian are living proof of this. Emmie sadly points to the fact that her sister Catriona, who never smoked at all, died aged only 25 after being run over by a runaway bus and she emphasies Sebastian is the longest surving member of his litter. "Sebby is the only one of his family who ever liked tobacco, I'm sure of that", she says, "Although his sister, Mary-Jean, was fond of a glass of stout with her biscuits."

Readers are invited to turn to page 24 to enter this week's competition to win a year's supply of Bruno Extra Strength Old **** tobacco and a free ****** examination from Hilary Clinton (Mrs).
Yenson Sep 2018
Swept in on the sixth of the first
Icy winds sluiced on dripping fleecy snow showers
I saw a raging storm coming with vile foreboding nursed
Staple in peace in love in goodwill laid a fitting banquet for all hours
Rewards for toil and strive in minds attuned and goodness versed

I knelt supplicant before my Lord
Laid my just heart bare and without fear or dread
laid a ringing vow as in warmth or bellowing thundering cold
I rest in the forethought I am girded to sail sun's flames un thread
For no blooded being can justly state I harmed or injured in my fold

I will walk this vale of tears
Meet with demons and the ****** of the outer worlds
Face the volcanoes in hell and shame blazing red lava ingots
I will not cower before deadly serpents or baulk at icy frozen walls
If I fall I will stand again an again till God's time uneaten by maggots

I implored my Faithful Lord
Take me down grind and cast me asunder and bereft
If this be ordained that an innocent soul pays an unjust price
The darkest storm has raged wild and furious a depraved joy theft
My God upholds me and holds that truths and honesty never a vice



Copyright@LaurenceA.2ndOct2018.Allrightsreserved.
nichole r Jun 2014
the night sky looks sickeningly beautiful to an insomniac.
Tashatha Sep 2014
Sometimes its a shame to be black
We claim we're in it together
But the unity we lack

We belittle each other
Even though we all came
From the same father

Our ancestors fought to bring us to where are now
But how we choose to separate each other is foul

Light skins and dark skins
Doesn't matter we still have black skin
We need to begin
To listen

Build our race
So that every black person is safe
Racism is still real
And I cannot begin to explain how I feel

The black race is still frowned upon
Because our values are lost and gone

Let us begin to better each other
Build each other
Help one another
To get farther

Teamwork is essential
We have to realise our potential

It is a shame
How we let each other suffer
It breaks my heart
To see hungry child lost by a mother
When we have rich people
Who are greedy
In their fast cars speeding
Having no conscience or feelings
Because they won't even give to the needy
Lord Jesus I'm screaming
Please change the world
Make everyone start believing
That africa can rise
If we stop ignoring the cries
Of the poor
Revitalise the land
Before it dies
I know we can
If we keep our eyes on the prize

We can build africa
Make africa a staple
If only we work together
Bring something bigger to the table

We were blessed to be born on this beautiful land
So let us join hands
And make africa
As big as we can
I just want not only africans but black people to stop being victims and make our race be more respected and accepted worldwide
matilda shaye Nov 2014
Touch me, I am fragile but I know I will not break. If you look at me long enough your eyes will start to water based on the saltiness of my skin because of the sea's I've swam to get to the place I'm in now. Open, closed, I've ran back and forth a hundred times, I am the weakest link and the leader of the group. If you sawed me in half you'd see three things: my barely pumping heart, a toxic amount of love, and a will to survive.

Touch me, but be gentle, because although I learnt to withstand even the deadliest of summer heat your cold heart isn't something my body is used too. Close your eyes, count to ten, am I on your mind? No. Throw me into the ocean. I'm no use to you then. It's cloudy but it doesn't rain, mid 70's but no humidity, my heart is sore, but I'm breathing. Oh god, I don't know how, but I will continue.

Touch me, be rough, *****, make it a melody and prove to me all I'm missing out on by not being enough for you. Afterward, I want a list of ten things I can change so that I will be enough for you. Make it a hundred if you have too, I just want to be enough for you. Staple it to my forehead, toss me in the ocean. I'm not here for your approval, only my own, and I don't think I'll be content in who I am until I'm something you think is worthwhile. Push me on the ground and kick me as hard as you can, make this pale skin your canvas, I want bruises and blood, six broken bones and a concussion to match. Make me hate you. Babe, all I've got is love.

Touch me, one last time, but don't let go until the end of this lifetime. This love became a competition long ago, and boy do I love to win. Tonight the universe spoke to me and it told me here is where I need to be, and I think it wants me to fight. Put on your armor, give me some weapons, I'm here for the long haul and I'm taking every prisoner I can. Touch me because I am weak and I need to learn to be strong so I can withstand this, 'cause baby this love feels like seeing a doctor coming towards you with a needle the size of your head, "oh don't worry sweetie this will only hurt a tad", *******. I still felt it a week after. But this one, ****. I'll be lucky if it doesn't still sting in a year...

Touch me, please. I'm begging you. I need to feel alive, but you've been suffocating me and my heavy heart. How am I supposed to survive when loving you feels like death?
Mia Apr 2014
Scars

One. If I could, I would nail these hands to the edges of sky. I would sacrifice this body to the earth, hoping to resurrect someone that doesnt have the heart to  care about you anymore.

Two. Staple me to a table. Pierce my side with your broken promises and I will bleed all the pathetic reasons why you deserve one more chance.

Three. Loving you was the last thing that I put my all into.

Four. You wanna know how I got so bitter? Well, I ripped every last piece of you in my heart and soul and all that remained was regrets that you didn't care.

Five, I whispered you into my dreams.

Six, I spoke you into my heart.

Seven, I dipped my hands in a future that didnt exist, I touched you until you were imprinted on my very soul, treated you as if you were the only molecule of oxygen I needed ; I was good to you.

Eight. You wanna know how I got these scars? Well, I cut out my pride and then it crawled it’s way out of my mouth and I begged you to make me happy.

Nine, I realized that I was never really your girlfriend, I was just your ******* convenient-temp.

Ten, I hope your next girlfriend gets stds.

Ten, Yes I said stds.

Ten, I really hate you.

ten, I never want to see you again.

ten, I still love you. Wish I didn't.

ten, it’s hard for me to keep count when I get emotional.

Ten I heard that over 90% of human interaction is not verbal..so.. I guess the signs were right. You don't want me. You don't need me.

Ten, if I could, I would tie your arms to a wish and then auction you off to my best and worst memories. To the random girl who will start dating my ex boyfriend two days after we broke up (yes, I know you're going to move on real fast.)
When I realized that you were in a relationship with the one guy that I thought I would someday spend the rest of my life with, I broke into a million pieces. I said to myself, “Kevin Hart would say he wasn't man enough for you. Or you weren't good enough for him."
I swore I would never love again, it was all a joke to you. Some twisted game you won.

One: Everytime I see you with girls in a picture, I want to take my entire arm, shove it inside your phone and smack the happiness right off of your face.

Two, if I ever see you around me, I’m probably going to punch you in the throat. Or forget I ever knew you.

Three, I apologize in advance. And I know, I know that it makes no sense to have this much anger toward a man that I love with every bit of me,but my definition of love isnt being stabbed in the heart over and over as you watch me bleed out and hope that this time it won't hurt. There is nothing
logical about putting the most important parts of yourself inside hands that can't support you and shake, tremble, and drop you.

Four, there is nothing rational about love. Love freaking hurts. It lies. It leaves you wishing you had never met the person who makes you fall over and over and breaks you till you are a mess that can't be fixed.

Five, you're ******* irresponsible, and I’m tired of you using me for target practice.

Six, I was told that time heals all wounds. But what exactly should I do on days when it feels like my clock stopped cause you're gone?

Seven, you always said I loved you too much. My mistake.

Eight, I think I’ve seen you somewhere in her dreams. Like I’ve heard you talking to her and being happy together in her laughter. I’ve smelled your cologne on her thighs. Cause am sure you will be all over her like you can't be for me. I bet if we dusted your heart for fingerprints, we would only find hers. I wasnt the love of your life.Nine, you see I have this envelope in my head and heart.it’s full of all the butterflies I felt the first time you touched me, kissed me, admitted you loved me. It's full of memories for when I thought we had a future. Most of them are still alive. I can still feel their wings through the paper. Guess it's my hope. Here, am giving them back to you. I suppose they belong to you, too.
judy smith Apr 2015
Fashion show finales follow a familiar rhythm: after the models march along the catwalk for a last hurrah, the designer comes out to take a bow. Their demeanour is often telling, an indicator of their attitude to the collection they've shown – are they a bag of nerves, or grinning from ear to ear?

Also noteworthy is the look they choose to take their bow in. Are they even wearing their own work? One of the most celebrated designers of our time never wears his own designs. Karl Lagerfeld may create the occasional menswear look at Chanel and he designs a whole men's collection for his eponymous label but he has long been a customer elsewhere: Dior Homme.

Lagerfeld started wearing Dior Homme when he was in his late 60s, shedding 41 kilograms to fit into the skinny styles of the label's then designer, Hedi Slimane. Lagerfeld has stayed loyal to the brand ever since, even after Slimane, now creative director of Saint Laurent, quit in 2006. And although the label is known for its emphasis on youth, Lagerfeld, now in his 80s, remains one of Dior Homme's most visible clients.

Raf Simons, meanwhile, Dior's creative director of womenswear, is partial to Prada: his presence in the documentary film Dior & I (2014) is most clearly announced via his distinctive studded Prada sneakers and he often takes his catwalk bow in a head-to-toe Prada look. For his first Christian Dior ready-to-wear show he wore a vintage denim jacket with red stripes by Austrian designer Helmut Lang.

And yet many designers do wear their own work, especially if the brand carries their surname. Editors scan the wardrobe of Miuccia Prada for clues to her latest collection: is she feeling utilitarian, elegant or purposefully off-kilter? When Donatella Versace takes her bow, she often wears a look from the collection she's just shown – for autumn/winter 2015, it was a pinstriped, flared pantsuit. And even Simons has worn pieces from his own label collaboration with Sterling Ruby.

So if the name is on the label, does it mean the clothes will always be on the designer's back? Not necessarily. "I've never been into wearing clothing with my own brand name inside," says Jonathan Anderson, designer behind JW Anderson and now creative director of Loewe. "I find it odd and arrogant."

UNIFORM DRESSING

Anderson's own wardrobe is a familiar uniform: crewneck sweater, faded blue jeans, Nike sneakers. It's entirely opposite to the menswear looks he creates for his own label's catwalk presentations, which have included bandeau tops and frilled shorts. He seems to favour a clean-palette approach: keeping himself neutral so as to not deflect from his experimentation elsewhere.

This kind of wardrobe is common among fashion designers. Jack McCollough and Lazaro Hernandez of Proenza Schouler appear to have no desire to create menswear for themselves or others, dressing instead in a similar style to Anderson: crewnecks, polo shirts or button-downs, usually with jeans and sneakers.

Mary Katrantzou, meanwhile, recent winner of the 2015 BFC/Vogue Designer Fashion Fund, may have built her business on print and embellishment but she is usually found in a black knit dress by Azzedine Alaïa. Alaïa himself has perhaps the ultimate clean-palette wardrobe: for decades he has worn black cotton Chinese pyjamas, fastened by simple floral buttoning.

Each of these designers has a successful business with its own clear signature. So maybe it doesn't matter if they don't wear their own clothes. And yet when designers do, it can be so seductive. Men buy Tom Ford because they want to be like Tom Ford. Women buy Céline because they want to look like Phoebe Philo. Stefano Pilati, creative director of Ermenegildo Zegna Couture, is often said to be his own best model; Rick Owens, in his long draped vests and baggy shorts, is the perfect ambassador for his own alternate universe of otherness.

The style of Roksanda Ilincic is synonymous with her own brand. "I create pieces that embrace the female form," she says of her bold colour palette and silhouette. "Being a woman means I'm able to feel and test those things on a personal level … I tend to favour long hemlines and nipped-in waists, with interesting shades and textures, pared down with simple basics and outerwear." Does she ever wear anyone else? "Of course! Black polo necks from Wolford are an absolute staple and in winter I am rarely without my favourite black cashmere coat by Prada, which is on permanent loan from my husband."

It seems like an industry divided between designers who wear their own work and those who don't. But sometimes things change. Backstage at Loewe earlier this season, Anderson said: "With Loewe, I have a detachment. I wear a lot of it. Now I'm more, 'Does this work?' I've got a bit of a love back for fashion."

Two months on, his interest in wearing his own designs has grown still further. He is the cover star of the new issue of menswear biannual magazine Fantastic Man, posing in a slash-fronted sweater and leather tie trousers. The pieces are both his work from current season Loewe. Womenswear. In for a penny, in for a pound.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015 | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses
judy smith Dec 2015
Leave it to 2015 to transform the slip dress into, well, something other than a slip dress. No longer was the slinky, curve-skimming frock the evening-only pinnacle of sensuality; instead, it found its footing as a functional layering piece. It was worn on top of T-shirts, under sweatshirts, and over pants. And it wasn’t just the runway that inspired the nouveau way of wearing the piece: Everyone from Orthodox Jewish women to Rihanna put their spin on it. Here, see the best ways the slip dress was worn in 2015—and the cues to take when you sport it post–New Year.

Try an Orthodox Line of Thought

Turns out it was a Brooklyn enclave who managed to make the sexiest trend of the year—the slip dress—the chicest. And no, it wasn’t Williamsburg hipsters. So how to master modest layering like the Orthodox? Try a men’s blazer over the silk number, adding sleeves, or extending the neckline.

When in Doubt: What Would Kate Moss Do?

Feeling cold this winter? Make like Moss and combine the best of two worlds: The cozy turtleneck and the body-clinging slip dress. The simple pairing is the peak of insouciance—while keeping you warm.

Grunge Goddesses Still Rock

With the addition of a stoner-style hoodie, the slip dress got a major dose of grunge-forward flair. On the Vetements Spring 2016 runway, a hunter green hoodie thrown over a lavender slip dress gave an instant too-cool-for-school effect, while Ursina Gysi turned heads in an orange lace–trimmed swath of silk and a blue oversize pullover on the street during Fashion Week.

Rihanna Put a Bad Gal Spin on Hers

First, she took the hoodie and slip dress trend and gave it a go on the street. Next, she threw on a pair of sky-high cuissardes to pair with a short, baby-pink number. Then Ri-Ri topped a shimmering bronze slip with a baseball hat! Whatever the move, the singer deserves major credit for giving the ’90s throwback a modern bite.

And About the ’90s . . .

The revamp of the ’90s on the runway also brought back memories of a very throwback way to wear the slip dress: Seen on Spring 2016 runways fromCourrèges to Emilio Pucci, the boudoir staple was layered over a long-sleeved shirt or a simple tee to counter the sexiness of the slip and cut the sweetness.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney
Alligator! Alligator! Alligator! Alligator!
Bite me whole and take me to space.
Staple my **** and spaz my face,
Plaice defrosting in the refrigerator.

These things all seem to come together,
Throw them far apart will be for the better.
I hate this ******* verse,
‘cos it all rhymed from Alligator!
Jenny Gordon May 2019
..add to that, "sleeping is a luxury; eating a privilege"...by MY definition.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXXVI)  


Does coffee ever wake aught soul fr'intents?
Or do we merely welcome in betrayl
Caffeine's ole kick-start to the morning's hale
Note it is time to put off sleep?  Dad's sense
Of it I canna say, 'cept he'd swear thence
Twas to be lo, "enjoyed." not quaffed t'avail
The soul like medicine, no.  That detail
Could praps suffice, yet I'm confused still.  Whence?
And oh, tea does not mix with joe.  Tis poor
On both sides if you drink them both, each brew
No complement to th'other, as it were.
Yes, laugh at me.  Now "independent" two
Weeks running--sip tea first, to savour fer
All that what'd ope mine eyes; then joe's weak.  You?

24May19b
I don't care how many of you swear that coffee wakes you up.  Until you've had MY cuppa tea, you don't know what it is to be wakened.
Kara Jean Jun 2016
Desires feeding our souls

Gnawing and eating our flesh, until we're a vulnerable flush red

Our pores exude the confident strife

A conflict that should have never arrived

To resurface our skin, bring back the childhood mind

I still see the eight-year-old awkwardness,
holding a staple makeshift poetry book and pen

The young struggling mind, when dying was simple to find

Daily I walk into the aroma of the sunlight

Intricately snipping roses off their vines, soaking in their beauty as my fingers sting and bleed

A decade incomplete

She never stopped being a victim long enough to realize her heart was revitalized, made into an equal whole

A rose petals thirst satisfied

No insignificant being

She was now a family
John May 2016
Write me a nice letter
Tell me it'll get better
And staple it to my forehead
Before I sink into my bed
All play and no work
You'd think it couldn't hurt
All work and no play
Kills you slowly, day by day
The Yin and the Yang
The gun goes "bang, bang"
Through and through and through
You'll find the lies buried in the truth
Brianna Duffin Feb 2018
My sister is a beauty,
A photographer, an artist
And the best subject imaginable.
She is the main attraction of my coffee shop,
She’s the mainstay of Main Street.
Unlike every other woman I know,
She only carries her camera and her dignity.
And the gaze of a mirror;
Her plaid shirt, oversized even when it was mine.
A pair of tights earning their title
And sky-high leather boots, a rocker’s staple.
A cheesy beret, our mother’s bracelet.
Blonde locks like there are teardrops on her guitar.
And to complete the classic ensemble, Satan’s prized pearls:
The Cheshire Cat smile.
All tucked behind her expensive-as-hell camera.
And her phone, case with white box and black bow.
Just like my baby sister,
A photograph with a black bow.
This poem appears as part of a collection. Read it in full here: https://medium.com/@briannarduffin/characters-we-see-a0197b3aee01
softcomponent Feb 2015
What made Anthony so elaborately cold in those early autumn months? What made him glare so sourly at my exhaustion whenever I slithered past his adonis figure in our overwhelmingly ***** kitchen? Was I the quintessence of a terrible roommate? Irresponsible? Ditzy? Was the kitchen—in its pig-trough pig-sty bacon-grease glory—tacitly my fault, despite the observation it'd been I who had purged the mess last? Or was it my drug habits and the fact that on the night Anthony returned from his impulsive trip to Alaska, I was with Chris—blasting Bob Dylan and the Tallest Man on Earth—cradling my chin on the jean-sand islands of my cramping knees, high as a shuttle in the ketamine nebula? These were all questions that stoked the fires of internal doubt whether I liked it or not. People pretend to talk themselves out of status anxiety as if it were possible to entirely neutralize such a natural reaction—as if it were possible not to wonder what earned such irrational disfavor in the eyes of another. Especially when “another” is a roommate, an almost omnipotent staple in day to day life even if efforts are taken to ignore or avoid—a constant weave of growing atmospheric pressure and a pang of anxiety at the sight of his shoes or the sound of his grunts and clangs while at work on a meal in the kitchen—of course, as is obvious, I can take things far too personally. But there were points in which his silence or indifference would scare me—as if he might've wound up a psychopath and broke my neck in a fit of overboiled passive-aggression.
To be fair and give the reader a clearer picture of Anthony, he had—historically—been an incredibly generous fellow and a relatively close friend long before we approached one another on the idea of potential roommates. He was large in build—not overweight in any sense—but incredibly fit with an active agenda to exercise and eat right, both habits of which I had never had the stamina to maintain. Girls loved him. Physically, he was gorgeous—puffy curled hair deliberately stylized into a modern European pompadour; dark hazel eyes with a constantly evolving dynamism in the way they gazed... and a masculine stubble that seemed to naturally grow-out to look as posh as David Beckham, just without all the effort and pomp. Mentally, he was the perfect synthesis of adorable geek, thoughtful philosopher, and strikingly suave, dapper, athletic, and goofy 'good-guy'—he was always out with his friends or at home reading Terry Goodkind's fantasy novels, and on occasion I would see that his looks were almost burdensome to him. As if they were a superfluous gift and a personal curse—constantly forcing him into social over-exertion as an extrovert when he, at heart, was a closet introvert unable to disentangle his self-reflective image from his internal reality. As if he were unable to process the amount of attention he received.
I had tacitly wondered, at times, if he was also in-the-closet regarding something else as well, though I had always admired his effeminate qualities and mannerisms as he never once hinted at a negative self-consciousness about their strange manifestations in open view of the world. Externally, at least, he never acted like they were problems or indicative of some internal lack of found-definition, even on the comical occasion when I walked in on him bathing on his lonesome, quietly listening to Miley Cyrus and playing with a troupe of three rubber duckies—the bathroom light off and several candles burning in aesthetically strategic corners of the room. He also constantly brewed tea using an adorable teapot designed to look like an elephants head, with the hot liquid pouring from the Disney-like characters trunk. This—I reflected—was most certainly connected to his love for the 1941 children's classic, Dumbo. It was a movie he and I held in common, having watched it together on multiple occasions before our cohabiting turned sour. Of course, what was most indicative of this private wandering judgement of mine was the fact that he worked at the city's only gay bar as the youngest bartender employed. At 1 AM every night, all the bartenders (whom were pre-screened eye candy for the patrons' sake) would peel off their skin-tight neon tops and romp around shirtless, shouting last-call through the bright-eyed frey of top 40 hits and cannonading flirtations.  
Not that I wish to put him under the microscope, as if any feminine qualities in a man were something strange or problematic to me—nor do I wish to study his mannerisms like a condescending anthropologist of imperial Britain, establishing pathological definitions for what was never an illness to begin with. No... I ask these questions because he decided, one day, that he didn't like me. I ask these questions because I came upon him in the living room multiple times listening to Alan Watts's lectures on taoism—a strange anxious-emptiness behind his eyes—and when I began to worry he was dipping into some sort of existential depression, I approached him with an Alan Watts book—The Wisdom of Insecurity—in order to make a recommendation and strike up therapeutic conversation on the basis of  a philosopher we had in common. As I did so, he would frantically nod and avert eye-contact, hiding any perturbation well enough for me to assume he was still with me as I spoke. I later found the book on top of the fridge and placed it back on my shelf thinking, 'he probably has a ton to read as is.' It only became apparent when I finally decided to ask him if he was unhappy with me—this was about 2 weeks before he finally moved out—and he responded with, “I've definitely been annoyed that you use my stuff and eat my food all the time without compensation or asking,” which I understood at first until I realized I only did so because he did the same—constantly eating my cereal, using my milk, reorganizing my couches in the living room—but I didn't mind because I assumed it was a reciprocal arrangement and thus took his eggs and his bacon on the assumption (and belief) in pooled communal resources. But he continued: “And you talk at me all the time about things I have no interest in which is kinda frustrating,” which confused me even further when it was only friendly concern I was tacitly attempting to translate into his feeling wanted and liked by the person he lived with. These words, in the end, released the built-tension between us like a bursting pressure valve. He eventually apologized for how he'd behaved, and then largely disappeared from my life.

Sometimes I'll be brushing my teeth, and I'll wonder if he's doing alright. I'll wonder if he found his taoist balance in either silence or speech.
originally written as a personal assignment for my Creative Nonfiction class.
Abby Carpenter Jul 2017
There are coffee stains on my notebook.
soft brown plots colonize the corners,
Smearing the ink into almost unreadable scratches.
I love my daily coffee so much that I let it ruin my note book.
And like my morning coffee you have become a staple in my life.
A part of my routine,
Coffee, class, and then you.

And I do not write love poems.
The words never fit into my mouth right,
talking about love always felt like tossing marbles in my mouth,
blurry and unbalanced.
They never came out how I wanted.
But for you I'm willing to try,
I will fight my own tongue until I can tell you what I mean.
Until I can say that I haven't gone a day without coffee since the sixth grade,
and that the idea of going a day without you makes me sick.
Until you know that I will hold your hand like the handle of my favorite mug,
that I'll love any chip or crack you have.
And if you ever feel bitter,
Please know that I will be right here,
because I take my coffee black
And I'm not scared of being burned
But like my morning coffee you’ve started to leave stains on my sleeves,
my hands are tinted from all the times I’ve held yours,
and when I look down and see the small blotches,
I smile,
Because I think of you.
Ian Cairns Jan 2014
Attention class:
There's been a shift in our syllabus
There are some questions on my mind that warrant a new lessonplan: Does true love exist?
I will admit lately I've hypothesized that it's merely just a myth
Some wishful thinking from romantic half-wit heretics
So I'm assigning a soul mate science test
A pop quiz prophecy that could bind two of us together forever
Proving true love is suited for scientific vindication
If you respond to each question honestly
One trusty staple is capable of uniting this loose leaf love
Depending on your lead-based expressions
And their smudge-marked impressions
So please put your notebooks down
And pick your pencils up
Let's begin:

1. Is the beauty you possess easily represented in the thoughts you express?
Provide an ample sample size of your logic to suggest your loveliness works wonders.
2. Given that the fastest manned aircraft reached 4500 mph
If you spiraled down from the heavens at 9.8 m/s²
How long would it take for you to shatter record speed
And recognize that my arms are open to being your landing pad?
3. If your failures colored red and successes tinted blue
Became marbles piled high in mason jars
Would you let me embrace your entirety in the most worthy shade of purple?
4. Skin, rarely remembered, is the human body's largest *****.
Without caution, show me that your brain and heart
Are eager to become the king and queen of your anatomy.
That your organic vastness can infiltrate others' flesh majestically.
5. Think carefully. Who was the last man you kissed?
Are his lips worth enough for you to dismiss
A potential chance at creating unending bliss?
6. True or False: You would lie to me to spare a hurtful truth.
Provide evidence that you are comfortable revealing the undisputed details of your personal journal
Unraveling the spools of your most mysterious fibers.
7. Disprove Heartbreak Theory.
Show your work with mild-mannered mannerisms and sentimental illustrations.
Use crayons or colored pencils to emphasize your best intentions.
8. Chemistry is the study of the properties of matter.  
Using the periodic table of elementary emotions
Describe what matters most to you.
Remember to cite your sources of inspiration.
The inner workings of your engine that fuel your fondest explorations.
9. Fill in the blank spaces between my fingertips with your tenderness.
Is it a perfect fit?
If not, describe the characteristics possibly prohibiting this grip.
10. Cells are the smallest units of life.
Draw a diagram dissecting the little pieces of you
That belong in my possession at all times.
Include both strengths and vices.
Exhibit a sense of self-awareness that I can mimic
When I'm stuck inside my quicksand mind.

And one final reminder:
Remember to print your name legibly on the front page.
Failure to do so will result in catastrophe.
An unidentified masterpiece resulting in agony for you and I.
Practically reversing the critical proofs that your pen just described.
So let my eyes scan your signature with methodical joy.
And the curves of your cursive ink lines can become my mind's strongest ally.
Let me know you're willing to be known.
Because I need to know you're alive.
Pyrrha Aug 2018
You can never look more beautiful
Than you do through a poet's eyes
Especially if that poet only looks for you

A poet's eyes see the truth
We see what the rest of the world ignores
Every seemingly insignificant detail we turn into a whole other world

A broken piano
A speck of dust

A missing sock
A single staple

A shrunken sweater
A fallen feather

The world is full of wonder
But none like they are
To a poet who takes in all that is offered

You will never see how beautiful you are through a poet's eyes
You will find it in their words as they try to describe
The indescribable perfection they see before them

A speck of gold hidden by coal
The kind of magic that tears your soul
Released from the fingertips of someone bold
Lowercase Aug 2012
"I", said the apple, "am the body of temptation."
Blood red poison, source of expulsion!
"Oh", the strawberry cried,"And I, infatuation."
Bright ***** pink, I am compulsion.
And so every food clamored to make a claim.
All but the quiet brown staple stone.
The little potato wept in his bitter, cold shame.
"I am useless, unloved, quite alone..."
Ah, but fear not, although you are quite plain,
You are durability,  crucial, the go-to.
You are esteemed, and rather good for the brain,
So don't worry, I love you, little potato.

— The End —