"stashed" poems
1. Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly; who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
I am assured by my loving mother as a child
I believe her because the beauty in everything flow’rs and flourishes
when you’re young
The world is yours to take, everyone is yours to meet, everything is yours to do;
and I believe her.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
My first friend at school proclaims,
and I believe them.
We’ve tackled ***** training and preschool, now onto the playground and phonics!
We run and run together, taking the world like we’ve
whispered once before;
and I believe them.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
The middle school test scores announce,
and I believe them.
Primary school is in the past and I’m ready for responsibility!
I put on makeup to feel pretty, care about my grades more than the teachers believe and flash my smile to the boys who spit “compliments” at my feet;
and I believe them.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
but.. I don’t believe them anymore.
I’ve gained just enough confidence to smile at everyone in the halls in case they are having a bad day.
Suddenly my youthful euphoric vision is graffitied with hateful words and violence.
I run and constantly chase the innocence of the world,
being surrounded by darkness.
My self esteem has hit an all time low. Why is the world this way?
My friends and I chase what we used to believe and end up in deep holes;
and I don’t believe them anymore.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
And it doesn’t matter.
I have lost all hope of finding that beauty.
My heart is an aching mess of “I love you”’s
But all I hear is “you are meaningless”
Slowly these phrases of deep hate sear into my soul
I hear them every day and every night
You are meaningless
You are not worthy
You could not possibly be good enough
Until I wake up one dismal morning to realize that I have been defined by the ones around me.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
..and enough!
Because even my friends who say I’m worth something turn around and sneer at others like they can’t too be loved.
Because while the world screams “I hate people” I whisper
“but I don’t”.
But that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things
because we’ll find someone who loves us, right?
No.
Our words between just us mean nothing if we spin around and
spit in others’ faces.
And we know we hurt because we’ve been hurt but we don’t stop, none of us stop.
I dream of a world that screams a vulnerable
“I love you”
out into the world instead of a pulsing
“I hate you”
And a world that remembers that we are all worthy of love and not only the kind that makes you blush.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
The phrase I’ve heard since I was in my mother’s gentle hold
can only mean so much when you think you’re crumpled.
Stashed away until you’re needed
always feeling so defeated
but the truth
not told enough
to our weakened souls
We are all worth more than the marigolds
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
5am, I sit alone my mind feeling so bright
is it early morning or the middle of the night.
The wind still howls winters tune
and trees are dancing in the dale.
I yearn for sun and summers warmth
but all I get is cold and hail.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.
The days start dark and keep me hidden
as if to say that it's forbidden,
to laugh and sing and have the fun
I get from walking in the sun.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.
I long to see the flowers smile,
the shadows form on my sundial.
The smell of grass that's freshly mown,
the shoots from seeds so freshly sown.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.
Smiling children everywhere
running around without a care.
Winter woollens stashed away
and let's forget those rainy days.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.
Take away this winters cold
it only makes me feel old.
Bring the sun and bring the light
and take away this awful night.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.
Early morning sun please shine,
and as I sit with glass of wine.
I'll try to not let my mind splinter
and forget all about the winter.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.
So comeback Mr Sunshine please
and take away this cold disease.
Once again to see you glow
and throw your warmth through my window.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
PINK HIGH HEEL SHOES
I remember drinking
pink champagne
from your pink
high heel shoes.
I remember making love
with you
wearing only
your pink high heel shoes.
I remember
how your pink high heel shoes
became
candle holders
ashtrays
(where you stashed your hash)
deadly weapons
in an...OW!...row!
& you ask me
do I remember
your pink high heel shoes?
Do I?
I do!
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 8:15 PM UTC
The chocolate digestive is a marvel of invention
Custard creams are sickly, but worthy of a mention
Shortbread can be gritty, steer clear of the cheap ones
For if you love your biscuits, your pockets must be deep ones
For perfect dunkability, the hobnob leads the field
But prone to going chewy if their packet isn't sealed
Bourbon creams can satisfy when nothing else is offered
Avert your eyes from pretzels, no matter how they're proffered
The lowly Garibaldi is an underrated treasure
A macaroon is excellent for eating at your leisure
Enjoy the home made cookies and the chocolate crispy nests
And save a pack of party rings for fobbing off on guests
But biscuits can be functional, with keen survival craft
A packet of pink wafers can be used to make a raft
Penguins can be hollowed out and used to smuggle crack
And if you throw a ginger nut, you'll always get it back
A Jaffa cake is handy as a snowboard for a spider
And flapjacks are a sustenance and energy provider
Wagon wheels are lethal when they're wielded by a ninja
Brandy snaps cure cancer with a tiny hint of ginger
Experiment with biscuits, they're a versatile thing
Try horizontal dunking or the highland shortbread fling
Keep a packet stashed away for when the end is nigh
And always have the kettle full, and milk in good supply
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
The bars had opened just that morning
turned him loose again
he wandered blindly down the street
just lookin for a friend
The tombstones filled with empty graves
were drinking in the park
so he sat to quench his thirst
and lingered well past dark
THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN
EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED
THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES
YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES
All the barkeeps know his name
they've tossed him out before
so he cracks a pint in silence
next to the corner store
He's drank with everyone in town
they all pay for his drinks
a legend to both young and old
at least thats what he thinks
THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN
EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED
THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES
YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES
The rising sun must weigh a ton
pins him to the ground
inside his skull a screaming hell
that never makes a sound
He always smells like whiskey wether
day or if it's night
a bottle stashed inside his coat
the daydream goes allright
he lives a dream thats long since passed
he toasts to a full cup
the nightmare there when he awakes
he simply drinks it up
THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN
EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED
THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES
YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
I still remember
the drawn out afternoons,
the minutes passing without a thing to do,
the clock just a metronome
keeping us in time.
I poked fun at you without reason;
jealousy leads one into themselves it seems.
Do you recall?
We were carnal beings...
I'd apologize for my egoistic banter,
but apologies are best left to the
eulogizer,
and this may be some sort of graveside whisper;
a long-winded to-do list of idle talk.
I'd call you
"Lesbia", "Rosalind",
"my diadem stashed away",
but twenty-two months wore words away
and it would seem like frantic blandishing.
Maybe in my own life
I may be able to demonstrate
what William Yeats had meant
by a body quarreling with it's soul,
but I think -- You're delusional! --
that I could be content.
I remember everything ---
I remember the yielded heart feels a subtle sting.
The yew chattered in the wind outside your
window and I felt rooted
as I told you
I was you and would always be.
But twenty-two months is a long time.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 2:54 PM UTC
Stop describing your terrible ****** encounters
I know you've had other women since I ended things with you
You're acting like you don't have magazines stashed under your bed
What, when I was with you your hand was your secret lover
And now it's not enough?
I'm so cold. I just want the affirmation of another soul's proximity
Is anyone out there?
The spinning feeling increases its tempo
The awful silence crescendos
Bring me back, bring me back
I miss the Saturday night I spent on mushrooms.
Everything was alright in the world
Anonymous carefree the world was ablaze
I convinced myself I was a fire spirit and you were a deer
I'm not addicted: I only tried it once.
All I want is a cigarette and to go back to sleep.
The world will turn without me
Your heart will be cold either way
Why and I vying for your attentions?
I tell myself I'm too antisocial
Until I have asked every single last one of my faceless friends to come get me
I guess it's alright to take some time for yourself
Is this a manifestation of grief or depression?
Is anyone out there?
I prefer the company of strangers to those who I've already become disillusioned with
Will anyone feel my gentle tugging and lend me a hand?
Just a coffee
Just a smoke
Just a walk through the warming days
Spring cleaning
I've successfully ignored your texts for long enough
I think I'll sleep with you
Not because I think that's all I'm good for.
Is it really "being used" if you're aware of it?
Am I not using you as well?
I can't decide if this will turn out well.
To you: Help.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
Billy loved his parsnip
He'd tend it day and night
To keep it safe from prying eyes
He stashed it out of sight
But one eventful morning
He awoke to such alarm
His parsnip had gone from puny
To the size of a baby's arm
Such growth was nigh unheard of
In a vegetable or fruit
So he bore it proud before him
Grasped expertly by the root
When he showed his doting mother
She was mightily impressed
So screamed a lot then swooned a bit
While clutching at her chest
The people at the bus stop
Shared his mother's admiration
But advised him that his tuber
Needed urgent relocation
So he took it in a taxi
Wrapped up in folded gauze
To the Guinness book of records
And he pushed apart the doors
His parsnip held protruding
With a confident advance
Like a knight atop his charger
With a huge organic lance
But security had seen him
They quickly knocked him flat
A policeman saw his parsnip
And he hid it with his hat
Billy served his sentence
For unsavory displaying
He changed his name to Danny
There's no record where he's staying
The moral of this sorry tale
Is far too dull to write
So learn your ****** vegetables
And know their names on sight
**
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 7:58 PM UTC
I know a guy,
he is a friend.
Whom the cops often have to,
apprehend.
He used to do
some crazy ****
But now he doesn't do most of it.
I know you are thinking,
who is this man.
He is a friend who drives a van.
Although not to pick up kids with treats,
he uses his ride to satisfy his needs.
Which includes dolphin collecting,
live or dead,
he's always selecting.
Vaping real hard
every single day,
is how he spends,
his hard worked pay.
His job is selling,
illegal pelts
of rare albino beavers.
He sets up traps
and waits in the bushes
with an over sized cleaver.
Stalking and waiting for the perfect catch,
he watches the ****** closely.
And right as it comes into reach,
he slits the baby's throat boldly. (baby ****** not a real baby.)
My friend makes his way to the flee market,
where he sells the pelts.
He greets his customers happily,
as the beavers hang from his belt.
Blood on his hands and pride in his eyes,
he knows he's got a great prize.
The money rolls in,
and he know it is true,
that night he will party
until his lungs are blue,
(due to the fat rips he'll be vaping)
On the weekends when he's not working,
he hops into his van,
and drives to the border,
to make sure no illegals are lurking.
Loving his country with deep passion,
my friend protects us,
with the guns he has stashed in. (his van.)
After his duty is fulfilled,
he spends the rest of his time,
all alone,
drinking gallons
of acetone.
Then in the big city
he streaks for hours,
with bags of broken glass,
that he likes to devour.
I totally agree,
my friend is insane,
and on his family,
his acts cause great pain.
Although,
he treats his slaves
with a lot of respect,
and he gives porridge to the
needy and other rejects.
He's better than me,
because I like to suffocate,
small injured birds.
And barge into restaurants,
to steal cheese curds.
But my friend is the best,
friend he can be,
as I described in this poem,
that you can see.
Unless you are blind or stupid,
or don't have anyone to read you this,
just know that my friend,
has your children in his shed,
and they'll sadly be missed.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
If I were a flower
Perhaps if I were a flower, you'd pick me to be yours.
Of course you would pick the flower that was the most exquisite,
Luminous in every spectrum,
But more importantly the most Beautiful blossom,
Therefore plucking me from my survival.
See, the anticipation was your acceptance,
However, your admiration was a free ticket away from my existence
Because I am a flower,
And You removed me from my stem.
Now,
I can't breathe.
But I love you...
And I've always loved you.
And as each day passed you kept me stashed in the darkness
Every heartache, a petal would deteriorate.
Which left me withered and pale as cotton
See, I lost my beauty tangled in your insecurities.
Not to mention my vulnerability,
That created this reality.
Oh but how I wish I could turn back the hands of time,
Perhaps,
Make me intangible,
Invincible from you're grasp.
Cover me in thorns and levitate me to the highest branch,
Away from those resent less eyes.
Perhaps?!?
However, I remained transparent in your world.
No longer the center of your love.
What was once a flower became the remains of a petal-less spud.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
there was a sparkle in her eyes
I saw it
I saw it
no one else paid her any attention
and only I noticed the apple cores of her hands
unfulfilled
starving
hysterical
barren
barred
so she resorted to magic
the crazy stuff of existence
like the wheat she stashed in her sandbag heart
and when it found her not
despair shook the earth
around her sorrowful body
permeating disillusion
confusion
immersion in nothingness nothingness nothing
lonely lonely
and bottle caps launched from her fingernails
from the spiraling stems of madness that rampaged through her bulging pulse
with piercing shards of nothingness nothingness nothing
splitting her glowing veins
and sweetening her ever-kind
clueless
knowledgeable
brain brain brain
and where was the world?
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:26 PM UTC
The version of me you never met
Was the best secret that I ever kept
False smiles and a witty joke
You'll never see past the positivity cloak
Why would I tell you I'm not fine
When you don't let me in your mind
Hair up and makeup done
You'll never see me in the evening sun
Meals prepped, trash stashed away
You hear only what I want to say
Even this account is best kept private
If you knew my truth, you'd never survive it
Aug 14, 2025
Aug 14, 2025 at 3:57 AM UTC
Ordnance of the wealthy, corrupt
Sculpting the public image.
Garnishing with admiration, cloaking gall.
Mass ****** and grand larceny
Have to, in some way, come clean in the books.
Money is fabricated out of thin air.
Know that you don’t know anything.
When debt is created, pockets are lined
This is the white way in a dark world.
When the receipts are missing, the cash is stashed.
Black must then become white for the sake of tax.
All of this ultimately boils down to charity.
Deplorable or reliable, evil or honest
Easiest way to wash the attic and eyes of the tax officers.
Feigning effigies and respect in the face of media
As they donate to those they’ve stolen from with a hearty smile.
Neither will recognize, but be eternally grateful the other exists.
Just another excuse to wake up in the morning and not feel awful.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
dissuaded seamstresses seamlessly string
together thoughts throwing out convention
and convection ovens hold the bones of history
hot air blows through them and out
the mouths of bloated politicians red faced
with misplaced values and encouraging
a broken caste systems’ continuation
as classism hides beneath value menus
radically altering the fabric of not only society
but also the genetic code in which we all stem
wilted flower petals stick to flattened tires
wired children snorting Ritalin pick locks
placed by scared parents
frightened by Fox news and Vioxx side effects
stashed cash smashed in mattresses
waits for the next prescription election
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
I am a borrower
collecting things that shine
all stashed in cracks and hidey-holes
where the rafters meet the roof
in the basement floorboards
lift one and you'll see
the treasures I've collected
two gorgeous glassy eyes
seven gilded antique buttons
a bouquet of sweetly fragrant lilies
a gleaming jar of pixie dust
three noble barristers
an Irishman netting butterfly dreams
a sorceress of the endless prairie
windmills like soldiers all in a line
the saddest porcelain doll
a small brown bear
trains screaming by on underground rails
a sprinkling of desert blooms
six jack-in-the-boxes so I'm always surprised
the hairless stuffed dog that bit me as a child
a Rickenbacker bass softly riffing the blues
a farmer's Ovation to accompany my woes
seashells that sing the ocean breeze
a merman from the Northern seas
tucked away in every space
packed within each sweet hollow
these simple pleasures I have borrowed
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 12:27 PM UTC
(not much of a poem)
Thrice awake, asleep, again awake
Something always wakes me up
The phone sounded, nobody answered
Procession and vigil ended
Late fireworks echoed through this Black Saturday night..
I'm deciding: to cease, or not to cease
I can't find my desired peace
To find lost journals, or just burn what's left, old and new
To start or not to start, a life anew
To rise, or just lie through this hot evening
My late mother said then: Black Saturdays are days...rarely ending
Black Saturdays are for resurrecting...celebrating...
This late night, it is segue-ing, to an Easter morning
While dogs are barking, while gecko is calling
Cats are quiet, where are they stashed? where could they be hiding?
Here...now... I am a car, my motor is hushed...but i am still running...
Sally
Copyright April 4, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 6:28 AM UTC
Stealing away from the noise and glare
I paced the aisles of an ancient library
Being worn and tired, indisposed to read
I sat in a corner, lost in half reverie
Around me were books stacked end on end
In safely locked glass and wooden shelves
And sectioned into different genres
Fiction, non- fiction, verse et al, in thinly layered leaves
I felt lost in this vast continent of erudite friends
Poet, scholar, philosopher and sage, each sat quiet
But those silent souls seemed to crave for human touch
Waiting to serve anytime learning’s lovesome diet
Closely sheltered from the tumult of the world
The place, though serene had an eerie air
And books like so many beauties in a harem
Were kept away in seclusion just to admire
The lifeless air and the long deserted look
Mildly disturbed my inner calm
Couldn’t digest man’s total disregard of books
Which for long, to many a lonely soul, served as balm
Sitting amid those gallant souls
I thought over the relentless efforts of sage like men
Who in the stillness of the night, in their cloistured cells
Plunged into research and meditative reflection
What knowledge is garnered in these tomes!
What all charms, encased in these pages!
To what magic lands they can carry us
Sharing with us the accumulated wisdom of ages
With the profusion of electronic gadgets
And information, readily available by a finger hit
Books no more are given a venerable treat
And fated to be stashed away in corners unlit
Heavy with the time tested wisdom of the wise
They sit huddled together in damp corners
Longing to get a little human warmth
But sadly neglected like rusted burners
After an hour’s enervating reprieve
While I was leaving that dumb world
In my ears, fell a faint sound
Of the agonizing cry of the Printed Word!
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 8:58 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, just an old a family memory on a dinner table--sorry no rhymes :>
to the no one who is not recognizing......
when I stopped for a long stare for me
I stopped and looked around me searching for something that
I don't know stashed deep into the picture I view
I smiled for the happiness that invades those hearts
for the gratitude that my soul is permeated
I crowned the thrones of blood in pure joy
I stole the sounds of laughter
I screened that shot that is bottled into the core of my memories that shot the reason I am on ground in this life
the reason that I believe in the reason that I hang on to the reason
that I long on my stormy nights and deprived alones
I locked them on that table of love and warm clouds attached
when I stopped for a long stare for me
------ravenfeels
Jun 29, 2021
Jun 29, 2021 at 1:57 PM UTC
Ink, ink, ink,
It was the same ink which wrote those notes, we passed in class,
I’d read them, my hair a curtain round my face,
Hiding the feelings my face would betray.
Ink, ink, ink,
It was the same ink which wrote those love letters stashed carefully under a comer of my bed.
You’d read them, a light smile playing on your lips, in your eyes I’d see my words and
I’d fall in love with you all over again.
Ink, ink, ink,
It was the same ink that wrote those poems in my notebook,
The ones you’d pretend you couldn’t see.
I’d read them again and again,
And each time I’d find a sadder meaning behind each line.
And you have to believe me I’d never do all of this just for attention.
Ink, ink, ink,
It was the same ink that wrote those dreadful, melancholy lines you’d hear people talking about in the hallways.
I’d sit in a corner of the washroom sobbing till I couldn’t breathe,
Then wash my face, erasing all the evidence off my face that my eyes couldn’t hide.
They’d look at me and ignore my pain, cuz u know people they’d rather believe the lies than hear the truth.
Ink, ink, ink,
And finally it was the same ink that wrote that suicide note I kept on the rack. I read it one last time before finally walking away, slipping and drowning into the water.
But this time I didn’t try to fight back.
I SANK, I SURRENDERED, I SLEPT.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC
Stepping on a rusty nail
Showing the baby sitter the back yard
Went straight through my Ninja Turtle Flip-Flops
I looked up at the sky last night
I think I saw a woman
Walking out back to the tree with the vines
Dogs barkin' and mesquitos bite
Don't tell mom if I fall
I looked up at the sky last night
I think I saw a woman
Walking down the street to the church
Meeting up with Zach for a smoke
Got it stashed in a lock box behind
I looked up at the sky last night
I think I saw a women
Life is funny, well peculiar I guess
You think I got it all figured out
Then why am I such a ******* wreck
I looked up at the sky last night
I think I saw a woman
An abandoned mine shaft
On the top of a blown up mountain
Throwing myself into traps
I looked up at the sky last night
I think I saw a woman
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
there is another big world I keep
in the small space of my room;
my dreams tucked by board pins,
some letters stashed by paper clips,
notes of joy, laughter, little sadness
inside the yellow-turned diary pages,
some secret souvenirs of good time
kept neatly hidden in my wardrobe,
few oblivious scribbles on window pane,
old leaf, dry roses, ink, wall art, gadgets,
glad that I have taken care of them
always, like cherished treasures of mine.
the bright and the dark equally welcome,
wind and whispers settle swiftly in moonlight,
by my bedside, where many stories sit,
which I read or heard many many times.
whistles from some star ruffle my hair,
remind me of the times of love and talks,
I look out of the window, into the open,
where vivid memories glitter in the sky.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 7:31 AM UTC
the dark ice cream man
floats up and down the empty streets
his truck weakly cranking out a warped sounding song
that leaves a trail of dogs objecting
the truck has the word pestilence painted on it
instead of ice cream
his dark form hunched over the steering wheel
his cheshire grin has aspects of his delirium
imprinted on its clean toothy shine
he only comes out at three am
and glides the cool pavement in search
of Delilah's phone number
she promised him that she would be his one true
and he meant to hold her to it
he would do anything to have her all to himself
Delilah walks barefoot along the train track
with one ear nailed acutely to the train whistle approaching
the other ear in her pocket
where she hums a **** version of
the battle hymn of the republic
all good girls love horses and shotgun weddings
she wants her shotgun wedding on the saddle
with the ice cream mans brother
who she thinks is just too nifty to be anything but heavenly
she always pictured him with angel wings
carrying a sword and riding a pale horse named death
there are echoes in the concrete parkland
the neatly trimmed grass glistens wetly in the darkness
a dew touched tree stands on a narrow hill
its leaves thrashed slowly by a whisper of wind
the sound of running feet
laughter
its an illusion
she is an illusion
i make matchstick men
watch them march in precision lines
i am a matchstick man
watch me scribble in precision lines
the ice cream man now sleeping
away the humid hot afternoon
stashed away in the back of his pestilence truck
while Delilah learns how to knit and make candles
that ice cream mans brother sells at flea markets
we all settle for what we think we want
and in the end we all get what we deserve
Delilah marries the brother and they live happily
while ice cream man spends his mid-life crisis as a
politician who leads a double life
making ice cream sandwichs out of his basement
and i am discovered 'neith the truck making
matchstick men out of twigs
from the tree of life
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
Kneel before me at your white porcelain altar.
Sacrifice the bits of pieces you had stashed away inside,
Place them inside the holy not holy water.
Watch each piece and place where they were from.
Sacrifice to me
For I am your goddess.
Your martyrdom will be known throughout
For you died for the lives of animals, for their rights to live
By being staked- refusing steak
Not for the 679 other reasons you decided to say no.
Die a martyr for me
For I am your goddess.
Wear red rubies along your wrists.
No one will ask where they’re from or how long you’ve had them
But they will shake in fear for this rosary- your rosy cheeks
Is as holy as the blood I too have shed for you.
Bear my symbol
For I am your goddess
Do not fear the day I come to meet you at the gates.
Stand in your doorway arms outstretched.
Await me for I await- will weigh you.
Sleep at night and dream of my loving embrace
and my second coming,
For I am your goddess
Feel my not hands touch your not waist
And my not lips kiss your not face
For this is not me and this has never been you
Because you are a child
And I am a goddess
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC