Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
CK Baker Jan 2017
( i )

I lucked out
on table 4 last night
window seat
baseboard heat
with intimate passages
from Ginsberg
in his purest
and most evident form

Cover-all Carl was draped
in his usual garb
(turning pages
of yesterday's news)
animating, culturing, bantering
on the fate of the
Greek barber
(in an accent of which
I'm not so sure)

His cronies
looked on
(with a twisted conviction)
countering
with their own tales
of ingovernance and woe
did you know that Panasonic
lost 5 billion last quarter?


The evening moved
in time lapse
with painted winds
streaming lights
and a host of
school girls
running cold

Maleah passed
on her late shift
(checking the pile and trough)
patronized the boys
and called it a night

( ii )

The bald man
is back at it again
bickering at the till
(something about
a cold free coffee
or 99 cents
or the coloured guy
behind him who got it hot)
a kind Filipino
is trying to get it done
at 8 bucks per,
losing her cool
and shedding a quiet tear

Wonder what the Purewals
or Haitians or Cossacks
would have to say
about this grim public reminder,
wonder what
this sad f*ck
will do tonight...
without his
bus pass
or sling sack
or broken Turkish stems
danna22081 Feb 19
It might be said:

He walked alone,
Through the woods of ancient roots,
Within endless shrubs of glistening-green stems,
And aging, decomposing fruits.

He ran along the maze of bushes,
As though escape was distant...
Concentration,
Expertise no longer consistent.

He tripped, stumbled,
Tumbled
Along the snakes of vines,
Which promised him care, comfort,
Contentment intertwined.

As the mouse was promised love by the cat,
Vines were no longer able to maintain their caution for the boy,
For he slipped through their bare, smoothed curls
Of stems, and dislocated his purpose for living.

He fell into the cave of confusion,
Psychological transfusion,  
No longer riveted by the significance in living,
And prior to anybody’s realisation,
Of his surreal, realistic, reality of life,
Took his own, upon individual discretion.
Mental Illnesses are not jokes. Many individuals have committed suicide, due to influences of their surrounding community, and wider society.
L B Aug 2018
Bent
Near to breaking
by her burden
of fruit, swollen with seed
In that thrashing by wind
Bearing down on the sun
in her labor—
of  Need
to bear
the pain
to bring
her yield
to his hands—
her harvest
of warm juicy softness


Gone—
the upright
reach of untouchable spring
When stems, stern and smooth
wore a lace-beaded bodice of bloom
of coral chiffon
First leaves
a scarf
with a fringe of lime green
wrapping her gifted and lean
to the buzzing

She was lighter than dew
to the amateur insects
smeared with her

Her only accessory--
a robin
They had left
as evidence
they had ravaged
its song


Now broken and leaking
more damage endured  
Ripe fruit in rough hands
He leans against limbs
by his weight sternly pressed  
so suffused in the fragrance
of peach intoxicants
which he will have--

He is lost to his lust
He is forcing his need
into another year's beauty

asserting his claim over and over again
of that lost and ancient bounty
Many edits 8-16-18.
Katie Miller Jan 7
Twist the stem
And I was scared
As I got close to your name
It landed on just that one letter
That you write on every paper
And letter and note
Because you were the letter of my apple stem

I was told when I was younger
“Twist a stem, that person will love you”
But now I realize that if you plant a stem
Nothing will grow from it but hope
A twisted stem detached from the apple
Means nothing but the fact
That I love you

I thought that I could love you
If my red apple told me so
And I was right because I really do love you
I eat apples until I’m sick and can’t stomach the thought of anymore
But that means nothing with a twisted branch
And all that’s left
Is a broken apple stem
When I was younger, I was told that if you hold an apple and twist the stem while saying the alphabet, whichever letter the stem broke on would be your next true love. I was doing this with a friend today (even though we're almost 16) and I realized how silly it was for the thousandth time. I knew it was stupid and ridiculous, but I kept doing it, simply because of hope.
mariano aponte Jan 2016
Misconceptions
Fasley smiles
Psychoanalyzed  

Could it be my OCDish

Would they agree or disagree
Respectfully  - with no referee

Whatever matter  - It doesn’t

Let it be
I’m carefree
It’s the best defense
Not a draftee

A perfectionist I am
It stems from many forces
My moral sense
At any expense
Not remorses

Their sweet jabs
From the start
Yes
From day one

Like Mr. Shukar - they see
I'm the new prospect

My disposition in scrutiny
As I take in with fluency
No unity
Let it be

I’ll take it in my dome
Its my best cover
Not styrofoam
I'll take it whichever way it's thrown

Please...

Pass the twisted news along
I continue staying strong
Detail-oriented is my syndrome
King Panda Mar 2016
I laid an anemone
on the mask of a crying girl
the young mother
the crouching woman
I am beautiful
says the sirens
says the ever-youthful vegetation
of God

I mixed my blood and nectar
on the mask of a dying man
the decay of kiss
the resurrection
I am beautiful
says the anemone
says Adonis in his grave

I burned their leaf-stems
on the mask of an artist
the eternal springtime
the life-death-rebirth deity
I am beautiful
says the martyr
says girl as she wakes
to the sirens

I am beautiful
says the head on the platter
I am beautiful

and the woman descends
the bronze invading
the bronze high-handed
the bronze opening
to the gates of hell
King Panda Feb 2016
I know the flowers better everyday
their twisting stems
their curtain petals
their floating spice

I know the flowers better everyday
their capillary roots
their plum faces
their purple stamens

I know the flowers better everyday
their shaking seeds
their modest thorns
their unabashed lust for the sun

I know the flowers better everyday
I know the sun will rise
I know the clouds will rain
I know my daughter will laugh

I know the flowers better everyday
I’ll draw a fence for flowers
I’ll draw a muzzle for the sheep
I’ll draw a number for the man to crunch

I know the flowers better everyday
I know how lovely it is to feel
grass in between toes
the breath of a boa
the embrace of home

I know the flowers better everyday
I am forty
I am a mother
I love fearlessly
Inspired by *The Little Prince*
CK Baker Feb 13
Dry veins branch the dead gulch
cinder cone set on a marbled tan scape
fanning sands sketch ephemeral
fossil plates fold under columns of gray

Mountain back steep at the crevasse
sinkhole spots form on parallel nine
sulfur pipe stems from molten ash
desperate shrubs and crumbling spines

silt fields cover the foothills
swayback shed at the whipple tree barn
tumbledown shacks form the patchwork
from goat canyon ranch to big bison farm

Salt lake fractured in amber
sickle-bush cut at the bowline knot
half-moon traced by the viper
oxbow streams, and valley grot
Travis Green Dec 2018
He plucked the stems from
my existence and buried
them in fiery Mars.  And
as I tried to search for
the missing part of me,
there was nothing to be
found.
CK Baker Jan 2017
they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle)
400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence)
red ant drivers (who can forget those little ******)
caked fir needles & feather cone
bug hologram & cedar moss
graffiti crack & cut joist
wheel rut & pick
pike stain (s)
sow bugs
electric
blower
purple
fueled
washer
missing
foul bits
and two of
its former pins
somewhere near
the erratic 9th stroke the
side kick (and his sloppy dullard)
fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter
anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems
lacewings (womanlike in their task), third door down windows
old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes)
all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine
Deck Painting
Sophia Apr 2018
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?
ryn Nov 2014
these thoughts...
they are my own,
walled within the deepest recesses
of my
cerebral labyrinth.

sprouting out of vine covered walls,
are multicoloured blooms
brandishing thorned stems
and
thirsty stigmas,
dripping with
absinthe.

mind full of poison in
permissible amounts...
i am caught in a
web of restless stupor,
anguish...
and regression...

these thoughts...
rationed out sparingly,
for they're not for unready ears
blooms of thought meticulously
triaged before
necessary expulsion.

hairline cracks between
insanity
and peace...
i tread precariously
the fine,
meandering line.

still clutching my flowers
in a tight obstinate grasp...
not letting go
for these tainted blossoms
are
undoubtedly
mine.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Yogurt.
"I begin the day buying yogurt in a small favorite grocery store."
Not pizza, nor gatorade.

Bananas
although they are imported from afar and grown in monocultures.
Attract fruit flies in August.

Peaches
locally grown with rainwater. I ate all the farmer's peaches alone
stacking them by the railroad tracks.

Water --
rainwater, tap water, distilled water, carbonated water, spring water –--
deep gulps, infinite sips.

Nuts
in moderation, or not, unsalted, raw, replacing chips. His bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts quiet weekday mornings.

Edible plant parts --
roots, leaves, stems, flowers, fruit, buds. In olive oil
or butter.

Potatoes --
look online how best to prepare. Baked or fried. With a little
fish or meat.

Tea and honey,
play and prayer. Swimming and running,
talking quietly.

Bread?
Bread's possible as the Bible. Each is liable
to bloat your thoughts.

Wine and dandelions.
Dandelion wine's Ray Bradbury's story. Cans in a pantry, books on a
      shelf
to the end of time.

Pasta
we used to call spaghetti, never noodles. I wonder if I can remember
      how to make
grandma's sauce.

Tomatoes --
cherry, grape. Grab God's eye
going by.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Stephen E Yocum Nov 2013
In ’68 Hutch and me,
Sitting at the bar drinking
Our third cold beer.
In a semi Fern Bar
Laguna or Newport Beach
Which now, I’m not sure.
It was around nine or so,
A week day night,
The place more empty than not.

She came in alone, made
Entry like the dramatic host of
A TV show. As if she were the
Center piece on the nations
Thanksgiving Dinner Table.
Over dressed to the nines,
Lots of color, heavy make up
She didn’t really need.

Her perfume scent hovered
Around her like a cloud of insects  
On a hot summer night in a wet meadow.
Kind of made my eyes water up.

She perched daintily like a dancer,
Upon a bar stool,
Three empty stools down,
Nodded the bartender her regular order.
A martini, a double it was,
With but a dab of vermouth.
One green olive on a stick.
The glass was prechilled as if
It had been waiting only for her.
She pounded that first one down,
As if the stem wear was a shot glass.
Another full stem glass appeared,
That one also quickly consumed
Two bright red lipstick stains all that
Remained in or on the stemmed glass rim.

Her main task accomplished,
She audibly exhaled,
As if tired or relieved.
I couldn't tell which.
Turned around on her stool to face
Hutch sitting closest to her.
“You boys Marines.” She declared,
More than inquired.
The close chopped hair cuts
giving us away.

Hutch just nodded, he never did say much.
A ****** just back from The Nam,
A dark scary guy of few words.

She opened her fur trimmed cloth coat,
exposing two very nice stocking clad legs,
And just a quick flash of red underpants.
Rotating towards us so we got a better shot.

She announced her name,
like as if we should know it.
Our blank stares informed her we didn’t.
Her face was to me, somewhat familiar.  
From movies in the 40s or 50s.
We were early 20 guys, she much older,
Trying hard to look younger, not succeeding.

Soon she was sitting right next to Hutch,
Two more Martini stems had come and gone,
Her lipstick finger prints upon them.
And still Hutch had not spoken more than
Three or four words.

She bought us a pitcher of brew,
Hutch grunted a short bit of gratitude.
We didn't have to say much, she was in charge.
It was all about her, she rambled on and on
Speaking volumes saying not much at all.
Beating back her crushing obscurity,
With flowery reminiscence recall,
Of glory days, long gone away.
Important for the moment, if only to her.
It was all; “me and I, I did this, I was that,
I slept with him,
And him and him”.
How about so and so?  I asked,
“No Darling not him, he was gay!
Still is.”

It was not long and she was touching Hutch.
On the hand, the shoulder, she was working him
With languid hungry looks from her big baby blues,
And the message could not have been plainer,
Had she held up a large hand lettered sign.

I don’t believe she was a “Working Girl”,
Just someone very lonely seeking to find
Herself, and some company for the night,
All to prove that she was still alive.

Looking at her, I could only think,
How sad and pathetic she seemed,
How desperate her plight.
To humble herself so,
In that dingy bar, among strangers
She did not know, Acting yet, still
On the only stage she could find,
Staring in her own bad ‘B’ movie drama.
In that dingy smelly bar.

Hutch and her left after a hour or so,
He never told me much about it.
He was unofficially AWOL for three days.
I covered for him, kept his name off the
Missing Morning Formation Reports
and the Daily Duty Lists.
No one cared to check. Our unit made up
Of mostly guys back from the war,
A pretty loosey-goosey outfit.

Once in a while now I see an old movie,
most are Black and white, Film Noir stuff,
And there she is, a much younger her,
Looking pretty **** good,
Not real big roles they were,
Claimed she was in the chorus
Of "Singing In The Rain" in '52.
To this, I can not attest,
watched that film several times,
But I never saw her there.

Had parts Playing damsels in distress,
A mobster’s gun moll a time or two,
Or unhappy Play Girls on a bar stool.
I guess it was type casting that done her in.
Or maybe she got a little too long in the tooth..
A sad ending to a short B movie career.
Life ain’t easy, even for a so called “movie star”.
Fame is not all it’s cracked up to be.
A smattering of fame, apparently worth,
Nothing at all.
True stuff from an old guys past.
She had called the Company Office
once or twice, looking for Hutch.
He told us to tell her that he had
been Shipped Out, when he actually
hadn't.

She no doubt found someone else to
tell her story to.

I saw that woman the other day on TV,
an old film on Turner Classic Movies
doing her thing. I sort of wonder what
ever  happened to her, but refuse to
Google it to find out.
Some information you don't need
or what to know.
It did inspire this little Poem Noir write.

Got a letter from Hutch in '70, we were
both out of the Corps. He was headed to
the Arabian Desert as a hired gun, to guard
some pipe line operation. Have no idea what
became of him after that. Hutch was a real hard
case, 14 confirmed kills through a ****** sight.
I hope he made it out of the desert all right,
maybe sitting on a beach someplace recalling
his back in the day three nights with a once
upon a time B movie star. Actually I doubt he
recalls her at all.
William Keckler Nov 2014
The field of red flowers
on white stems.
Hurry home.
Mary Gay Kearns Aug 2018
I laid them on the old brick wall
Those many coloured hollyhocks
Their heads now cracked and open
Their stems brown and dried.

And as they pass, the friends of mine,
Gather in their gardener’s hands
What next year will begin to grow
The following year stand tall.

Love Mary ***
Alice Wilde Jan 2017
All I see is up
The pink flower stretches to forever at the sky
I stare wishing to be among the clouds
Its anterior filters the sun’s warmth upon my soft arms
I sit upon the dark, sodden, summer earth
I am all to myself. Alone.
At home under their stems
So benign am I encased by the pink flower

The pink flower trembles under slight hand of a summer breeze
Honeyed are its petals,
But dangerous is its center
Pricking my delicate fingers
If I am not careful
Yet I watch a dragonfly land on it with grace           
Fragile insect legs grip tightly at the miniature pointed peaks

Wind caresses wisps of hair around my petite face
I am like a fairy
Not knowing the wonders of the world
Only the kingdom of the pink flower
Moisture sweetens the air
Drenching it with the breath of nature
Almost as if a mother is breathing comfort into my small body
Next page