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Stephanie Aug 2018
Para sa Pusong Iniwan
: A Spoken Word Poetry by Stephanie Dela Cruz

Umuulan na naman pala
Basa na naman ang kalsada
Malamig na naman ang dampi ng hanging nagmumula sa bukas na bintana
Gabi na rin pala, nalipasan na nang gutom,
Nakapatay ang ilaw sa kwarto, pero maya’t mayang binibisita ng liwanag ng kidlat
ang malungkot na gabi
Ang hirap pala ngumiti kung may luhang dumadampi sa mga pisngi
Nakakatawa kasi eh. Buti pa ang kidlat bumibisita
Buti pa ang kidlat, may hatid na liwanag, tapos yayakapin ka ng kakaibang lamig ng haplos ng hanging dala nito
Mabuti pa ang ulan, bumubuhos na parang malayang-malaya
Bumubuhos kasama ng mga luha
Bumubuhos kasama ng mga sakit na iniwan
Bumubuhos kasabay ng pagluha ng pusong iniwan.

Umaga na naman pala
Buti nalang nagising ng maaga
Haharap sa mesa, at kagaya ng nakasanayan, magtitimpla ng mainit na kape
Tatangkaing gisingin ang diwa, susubukang palitan ng init ang hatid na lamig ng gabi
Iba talaga ‘pag hinahatid ka ng sariling paghikbi sa kapayapaan ng mundo ng mga panaginip
Doon kung saan walang sakit, yung bang walang imposible
Heto na naman, panibagong araw
Araw-araw kong nasisilayan ang sigla ng sikat ng araw pero bakit dama pa rin yung dilim kinagabihan
Hindi pa rin matanaw ang liwanag
Tinangay mo kasi
Sinama mo sa pag-alis
Bakit naman kasi ang bilis? Hindi man lang ako nakapagpaalam

Tanghali na pala
Oras na ng kain.
At tulad ng dati, inaaya pa rin nila ko kumain
At tulad ng dati, tumatanggi pa rin
Kasi alam ko pupuntahan mo ko tapos sabay tayong kakain
Dun sa dati, sa paborito natin
Tanghalian na pala
Pero imbis na sa pagkain ay sa telepono ako nakatingin
Hindi man aminin pero sa loob loob ko’y naghihintay pa rin
Para sa iyong “kumain ka na ba?” o “Puntahan kita, kain tayo”
Hingang malalim, yung may kasamang matinding damdamin

Ilang tanghalian pa at malilimutan rin kita

Malilimutan ko rin yung ningning sa’yong mga mata kapag kausap kita
Yung mga biro **** corny pero tatawanan ko pa rin kasi habang binabanggit mo yun, natutuwa  ako
Natutuwa ako na kasama kita
Natutuwa ako na kausap kita
Natutuwa ako kasi akin ka
Natutuwa ako kasi ang cute mo, para kang batang masayahin
Natutuwa ako kasi magkasama tayo
Natutuwa ako kasi solo natin ang bawat sandali
Natutuwa ako kasi ikaw yan at mahal kita

Yun. Tumpak! Mahal pa rin kita.


Matagal na rin pala.
At hindi na tulad ng dati
Memoryado ko na lahat ng pasikot-sikot ng pagkatao mo
Ginawa kasi kitang mundo ko
Mahirap.
Masakit.
At para lang malaman mo, hindi kita kinabisado na tila mga salita sa paborito nating kanta para lang limutin
Mahirap.
Masakit.
Hindi naman kasi kita ginawang mundo para lang lisanin
Pero hindi naman talaga kita nilisan, mahal.
Ikaw yung nang-iwan
Ikaw yung sumuko
Ikaw yung bumitaw
At matagal na rin pala
Nung sinabi mo sakin na “Malaya ka na” alalang-ala ko pa. Yun yung panahon kung kalian ayaw kong lumaya. Ayaw kong lumaya sa pag-ibig mo. Gusto ko masintensyahan ng habang-buhay na pagkakulong dyan sa puso mo, sa buhay mo.

Pinilit ko kumapit pero kinalagan mo ako, pangako, pinilit ko pero pinalaya mo ako

Matagal na rin pala
Mahirap pa rin.
Masakit pa rin.
Ako nalang ang hinihintay. Siguro’y panahon na.
Para sarili ko naman yung palayain ko
Hindi naman siguro kailangang pilitin
Hindi naman kasi ganoon kadaling kalimutan ang isang taong naging parte na rin ng pagkatao ko
Pero para sa ikalalaya ng pusong iniwan
Para sa ikagagaling ng pusong lubos na nasaktan
Sisimulan ko na…..                makalimot.

Pero teka…


Umuulan na naman pala.
Wag naman sana pero ayan na, papatak na naman pala


Maaalala na naman kita.
I just have every pain and smiles enough to write this piece, not necessarily the experiences. Perhaps, with all my heart
Richard Riddle Jan 2015
From: Richard Riddle
using: "nicy stephanie" or "rita derrick"


THE INFO BELOW STILL APPLIES---DO NOT RESPOND!!
ALERT !!
You may already be aware of a message currently showing up in the HP message boxes from a female(supposedly) identifying herself only as "Miss Stephanie". She states that she saw/read your profile and is interested you, and has something important to tell you. She asks that you reply with YOUR email, then gives an email address supposedly belonging to her. No other information is given.
DO NOT REPLY!!
She will post two, or more poems, probably in an effort to gain trust and establish credibility. She may even mention the on-going situation with Boko Haram, or some other conflict. THIS IS A SCAM!! Once your email falls into the wrong hands, there are untold numbers of consequences.DELETE it immediately, then BLOCK IT.
Please pass this on!

Thanks,
Richard Riddle
Scott Veinland Sep 2013
I am 16

I hate relationships

I haven't had one in two years
I've been happy since
Girls are great
***
Freedom

Anything I'd like
It's wonderful

Then comes Stephanie

She isn't nearly as hot as some of the girls I've hooked up with
Why must I like her

Why am I pulled to her

Why do I get shy around her
That has never been a problem
It's been three years since I've been shy

Then comes Stephanie

What do I do
I can't think
Can't study
Can't focus
On anything
but
her

Help me.

Save me from her


*"Happiness is the most insidious prison.."
Richard Riddle May 2015
From: Richard Riddle
using: "nicy stephanie" or "rita derrick"(this time its solicitation msgs)
THE INFO BELOW STILL APPLIES---DO NOT RESPOND!!
ALERT !!
You may already be aware of a message currently showing up in the HP message boxes from a female(supposedly) identifying herself only as "Miss Stephanie". She states that she saw/read your profile and is interested you, and has something important to tell you. She asks that you reply with YOUR email, then gives an email address supposedly belonging to her. No other information is given.
DO NOT REPLY!!
She will post two, or more poems, probably in an effort to gain trust and establish credibility. She may even mention the on-going situation with Boko Haram, or some other conflict. THIS IS A SCAM!! Once your email falls into the wrong hands, there are untold numbers of consequences.DELETE it immediately, then BLOCK IT.
Please pass this on!
Thanks,
Richard Riddle
JS CARIE Oct 2018
I would like to sit quietly with you
like to go all these places with you
Watch you change yet remain the same you
I would like to wear white with you

I would like to ride bikes with you
Want to be healthy and go slow with you
Put the top down smoking cigarettes too
Watch the powerful perfect tender you

Watch your rings see your necklaces swing
Feel the fire on our skin in the wind
Try and fail, **** up in sync with you
Try and fail, learn to just be with you
unnamed Apr 2017
Will the spell she casts
In time be broken?
And the pain that lingers
Be the token
Of a soul once whole
Left torn and broken?
All hopes placed on the morrow
And that time will heal
Such pain and sorrow
As of now and forever be
Nightly dreams bestow on me
Visions of my Stephanie
Stephanie Apr 2019
isinulat ni: Stephanie Dela Cruz

\

isang daang tula.
sabi ko noon ay bibigyan kita ng isang daang tula
mga tulang magiging gabay mo kung sakaling mawala ka man sa akin, o kung ilayo ka man ng ating mga tadhana, o kung paalisin mo na ko sayong tabi,
ngunit pangako, hinding hindi magiging dahilan ang kusa kong pag alis, pangako yan.
itong mga tulang ito ang magiging gabay mo kung sakaling maisip **** ako ang kailangan mo at ako ang gusto **** makasama hanggang dulo
itong mga tulang ito ang magiging resibo mo, magiging ebidensya ito ng kung paano kita minahal ng pagmamahal na hindi mo kailanman naibigay sa akin

isang daang tula.
alam mo bang tula ang una kong minahal kaysa sa iyo
ibinuhos ko lahat ng mga inspirasyon, pag-ibig, luha at pati tulog ko'y isinantabi ko na para sa kanila
dahil ako rin ang mga tulang ito,
alam mo namang isa kong babasaging salamin na paulit ulit na binabasag ng mga taong gustong maglabas ng sama ng loob, ng matinding emosyon, isang salaming kakamustahin kapag gusto nilang ipaalala sa sarili nila na maganda sila at mahalaga at kamahal-mahal at importante...
ako nga ang mga tulang ito, at paulit ulit kong pinaghirapang buuin muli ang aking sarili, ang bawat dinurog na piraso ko'y sinusubukang buuin muli gamit ang hinabing mga tula
itinago ko sa bawat maririkit na salita ang mga lamat na hindi na maaalis pero pipilitin ko...
at sa huli naisip kong hindi ko lang pala gustong sumulat at bumigkas ng tula..
gusto ko rin maging tula ng iba, na mamahalin ako katulad ng pagmamahal na ibinuhos ko sa mga ito

at ayun nga... dumating ka.

ngunit tanong ko pa rin sa aking sarili itong palaisipan...  "naging tula mo ba ko talaga?"


hindi.

dahil hindi ka naman talaga interesado sa mga tula.


alam ko naman kung anong nais mo talaga..

ang gusto mo'y musika.


maganda, masarap sa pandinig, masasabayan mo sa pagsayaw... maipagmamalaki.


hindi naman ako musika... isa lamang akong tula.



isang daang tula.
alam mo bang kung nakakapagsalita lamang ang aking mga sinulat ay sigurado akong magtatampo sila
dahil naisulat na ang tulang bukod tangi sa lahat, tulang pinaka mamahal ko higit sa lahat
ito ay ang bawat tulang isinulat ko para sa iyo..
isa... dalawa... tatlo.. hindi ko na mabilang kung gaano karaming tula na ba ang naisulat ko para sayo
ngunit mas marami ata yung mga tulang isinulat ko nang dahil sayo
at wag kang mabibigla kung sasabihin kong hindi lahat ng iyon ay puro kilig, puro saya, puro tamis ng sandaling kasama kita
dahil sa bawat pagkakataong hindi mo namamalayang sinasaktan mo ako ay sumusulat ako ng tula
may mga pagkakataong ikaw ang dahilan ng mga luhang siyang naging tinta nitong aking pluma na pinangsulat ko ng tula

wag kang mag-aalala, hindi nasasapawan ng kahit anong sakit at pait ang pagmamahal ko sa iyo. :)


isang daang tula.
teka, kailan ba tayo nagsimula?
napakabilis ng panahon, lumilipas na kasing bilis ng pagningning ng mga bituin sa gabi
hindi pa tayo tapos mangarap ngunit tumitigil na... natapos na ang pagkinang.
inaawat na tayo ng kalawakan... o teka... mali pala... dahil ikaw ang umawat sa kalawakan
pinatay mo ang sindi ng pinakamakinang na bituing pinangakuan ko ng wagas na pagmamahal sa'yo habambuhay
wala nang natira.. pati ang mga bulalakaw na nagdadala ng milyong paghiling kong makasama ka hanggang dulo ay wala na, lumisan na
at hindi ko naman inasahan na sasama ka sa kanila
hinihintay kong hawakan **** muli ang aking kamay nang mas mahigpit sa paghawak ko ng kamay mo katulad ng una't pangalawang beses nating pagkikita pero
binitawan mo ako mahal



isang daang tula...












teka muna mahal, hindi ko pa naisusulat ang pang isang daan
bakit ka'y bilis mo namang umalis... hindi mo man lang hinintay na matapos ko ang mga tulang ito na nagpapatunay na minsan may tayo


pero pangako...


tatapusin ko itong isang daang tula at hindi ito magtatapos sa pang isang daan dahil susulat pa ko ng mas marami, susulat ako nang mas marami pa hanggang sa hindi na ikaw ang tinutukoy ng mga salita sa aking tula, hanggang sa hindi na ikaw ang buhay nitong aking pagtula...
ipapaalala ko sa aking sarili na ako ang mga tulang ito at hindi ako magtatapos sa panahong pinili **** umalis kesa basahin ako, pinili **** iwanan ang tunay na nagmamahal sayo, sabi mo iingatan mo ang puso ko ngunit hindi mo ba alam? ikaw ang muling sumira nito kaya't heto... may dahilan nanaman para sumulat ako ng tulang magbubuo ng mga piraso ng aking sarili na dinurog mo... pinili **** saktan ako, pinili **** lumayo para sa sarili mo, pinili **** maghanap ng mas maganda at mas higit sa akin, ang dami dami **** pinili mahal ngunit bakit hindi ako ang isa sa mga pinili mo? ah. alam ko na. dahil nga pala may mas higit pa sa pagpipilian kaya bakit nga ba ako ang pipiliin mo diba?


pero pinapangako ko... isa lamang akong tulang hindi mo pinag-aksayahan ng oras para basahin ngunit balang araw ay magkakaroon din ako ng sukat at tugma, ang mga salita sa aking malayang pagsulat ay tatawaging liriko at kapag ganap na akong maging musika... pangako.... huling pangako ko na ito para sayo kaya't makinig kang mabuti...




mapasabay ka man sa  saliw ng aking musika, kailanma'y hindi na ko ang kanta, liriko, musika, at tulang isinulat para sa iyo.
I miss you so bad but not enough to want you back.
RECORD: THIS OLD MACHINE
FROGMAN: COCOapeNUT RECORDS

Johnny Five: No.

Stephanie Speck: No, you're not an alive?

Johnny Five: Yes.

Stephanie Speck: Yes, you are, or yes, you're not?

Johnny Five: Yes.

Stephanie Speck: Yes, WHAT?

Johnny Five: Yes, not.

Stephanie Speck: What? Talk about a conned-fusion.

BACK TO PRESENT:
ALL-WAYS

STOP: STOPPING YOUR SELF
The Letter-Ing: way back to the present
thirty-fourth or last
in a series of poems made of quotes
one part to a whole joke
its sum has yet to be totaled
may be more than its parts
subject to change
b for short Feb 2016
She’s been put together;
spattered with
handfuls of shiny warning labels that
no one ever took the time to read,
only to reside in a lonely wooden box—
sheltered, still, and safe.
Living unlit and knowing nothing but patience,
she’s unaware of all the wonderment
that resides just beneath her own surface.
When the box finally opens,
she’s handled carefully
by strong, gentle hands that recognize
all of her treacherous potential.
She doesn’t flinch,
when those trusted fingers
strike the match
to light her fuse.
She doesn’t fret
when the heat catalyzes
a chemical reaction—
one far beyond her control.
She only sings
when her own jolt sends her rocketing
a hundred feet into the night sky.
And when she can’t stand the pressure
any longer
she swallows what pride she has left
and explodes—
a million strands of glittering fire
decorating the dark, ominous unknown.
Just for a moment, she hopes
she’s the most beautiful thing
those hands have ever touched.
But as she fizzles out into a small cloud
of smoke and something that once was,
she accepts her purpose
as the short-lived,
soon forgotten,
spectacularly unsuspected
good time.
© Bitsy Sanders, February 2016
Joshua Haines Apr 2016
Sheers of shimmering gloss grace her torso.
And I have broken her bones,
imploring that I love her so.
Blueberry lips belly the cold;
hold her too deep, hold her I'm told.

I.

He says Call me Mr. G.
G for Gore, Greed, that Green.
An atypical stoner
with hair wetter than his mouth.
With more ******* than a pound,
he says, With an understanding of
all the suffering in the global delusion
that is the Earth. Mr. G, his name.

Oily brunette, Mr. G., would smoke
Marlboro Green Blend -- menthol --
and spit shot out between stained lips
after each extracurricular exhale.
The saliva would land, tremendously,
and puddles of Rasta shooting stars
would lay, stretching across concrete galaxy.

Hazel eyes invaded and shamed him,
for he wished to be green, like life,
but only envisioned a contradiction:
death (see nature),
for which he learned to embrace, stoically,
like a shepherd of an endangered breed
meant to die among skewed perspective.

II.

This house could be mistaken
for a cinderblock purgatory;
between color and absence of,
eternal and temporary.

A raptor laughter purged the tension --
he abided by no accommodation of civility.
As smoke followed his hyena howl,
the landline lay suddenly of purpose.

Resin raided the clunky, black buttons;
a voice was whispered like a blue phantom:
*******' cheese, pineapple, pepperoni
-- no, extra ******' cheese, extra pep --
Sure, add some more pep with your driver:
he, she -- honestly, man -- they better have
pep-in-their-******-step-you-feel?

Minutes passed like sentient matchbooks
dropping towards a skeletal fire.
G threw the phone across the room
and, like a disenchanted drunk dance,
his words wobbled over each other,
I ordered a 'za, a pizza for the layman.
About thirty, probably thirty-one
minutes, that is.

Passing me the flower-stitched ****,
I ****** in one, maybe two, three,
blasts that I swore
had some sort of nano-insects
bite and burrow into the holes
of my sponge for a throat.

Wringing my rubbery neck,
watching my words leave my toothy cave,
I found out that G doesn't believe in beer.
Believes in souls but not beer,
believes in green men, not beer.

Alcoholic splash is what we all need,
at times. So I told him the obvious,
I'm going to get a case of
(Insert your ****** choice)
and I'll be back as soon as possible.

G stared at me and made a guttural noise,
Do whatcha please, I'll stay here and
protect us from vampires.
You know, blood-suckas.

Pale stoner vampires.


III.

The leather painted door was wide open
like the legs of ominous spider cave,
but the doors of a car
I had never seen before
were as closed as the lips of a VCR.
There's nothing but silence in these situations --
is this one of those situations? Grassy knoll?

Approaching the mouth of purgatory,
I entered with the hesitancy of a lost dog.
On the plastic covered couch,
two people sat atop the invisible cloud
above the patterned fabric
and above the fingers of time.

Blonde hair sprouted from her scalp,
raining down upon vanilla shoulder blades,
her chest a harbor for two pale, freshly mounds,
with crooked, beige diamonds in the center.

She trembled when G said, Meet Steph
-- can I call you Steph, Steph? --
Meet Steph, the artist formerly known as
Stephanie, holding up her licence,
Vanmeter, of 441 1/2 Locust Ave.

That's creepy, huh, Steph? Locust Ave?
Are you something that lives in the ground,
comes up every several years, making noise?
Has this been years in the making?
Are you bound to make noise in my house?

You know this is a house, right?
Whatsa matter, unfamiliar due to ya
living-in-the-*******-ground
or is it because you share a house,
an apartment, Steph? Is it one of those?
Pizza deliveries ain't paying the bills?

G gets up, I, a coward, approaching him
about to say -- Hold up, brother, he says.
Not another move, pulling his hand from
behind her shaking, confused head,
a silver cannon an extension of his arm.

She's here to **** our blood,
She's here to ****. our. blood.
Whether she means to or not,
I know you don't think you want to, Steph,
I know you don't mean to,
But you're here to
drain-us-like-the-Red-Cross.

I tell G that she isn't,
What have you done, G,
You need to let her go
before this gets worse.
That cliche dialogue.
Because these things always do,
cliche or not.

Brother, you don't understand these things
-- It's impossible for a godless man
to understand the mechanisms
of something bigger, something holy --
but you need to listen, G said, You need to --
she tried to move, quickly,
but G grabbed her by her blonde strands,
pulled her back towards the couch,
She swiped at his eye, drawing blood.

There was a pause, a deathly silence,
by the hair, she was rendered motionless,
Oh, no, he echoed, Love, you shouldn't,
You ought not do those things.
Looking at me, he asked me to listen,
Always remember this wasn't your fault.
Sometimes, you can't be in control

Holstering her neck with his gun hand,
G picked her up, slamming her,
head first,
into the drug covered,
resin sprinkled
coffee table.

He dropped on top of her,
Looked at me, Remember, okay?
and beat her head with the **** of the gun,
until the cracking of a larger M&M; shell
muffled towards all eardrums,
maybe even hers.

With blood,
that could be mistaken as war paint,
swimming across his jaw and neck,
and sprinkled on his forehead,
G whispered, You are free,
and I was never sure
who he was talking about.

My feet left before I did,
I was suddenly in my car
with only the ignition
and G's voice registering.
I passed car after car,
pastel metal wagon after
metallic matte creation,
not sure if I ever saw him,
not sure if he ever existed,
if I ever existed.

IV.

Sheers of shimmering gloss grace her torso.
And I have broken her bones,
imploring that I love her so.
Blueberry lips belly the cold;
hold her too deep, hold her I'm told.

Waking up in a cavern darkness,
my dreams disintegrate from my eyes,
swirl in my headspace, evaporating to
heaven knows where.

Scattered pitter-patter
drowns midnight Seattle,
killing and washing away
cluttered, modern filth,
******* carnivorous minds
into hungrier gutters.

This is the part
where the screen of my life reveals:
SIX MONTHS LATER,
in yellow, stenciled letters.
But what it wouldn't say is
how I still feel like I'm dipped
in the ink of Ithaca, NY.

If this were the indulgent
autobiography of my life
it wouldn't say that
the distance doesn't matter,
because that'd be a lie;
I feel like I have only escaped myself.

The rain swells, sounding as
thick as blood, swishing around
the veins of the city.

Stephanie dies every night,
disappearing and reappearing
behind secret doors only she can open.

When she comes to me in sleep,
she is baptized in green, head caved,
Forget-Me-Nots sprouting
between fragmented skull
and select spots of brain soil,
the flowers singing jazz
with a different voice, every time.

One time she spoke.
With blueberry lips that belly cold,
she sounds like my mother:
I am so proud of you, she statically says.
You saved me. Remember.

V.

To be continued.
Half of "Godless". Any feedback, good or bad, is appreciated.
Em Feb 2014
I knew a girl
Back in my hometown
And should you ever
Decide to go down
To see the hills
And valleys
There's no better view
Than Allie's.

I knew a girl
On holiday
Who liked to sit
Next to the bay
And look to the sea
When it's sunny
There's no better ocean
Than Bonnie's.

I knew a girl
At a B&B;
When I lost my way
In Sicily
At the end
Of your journey
There's no better bed
Than Courtney's.

I knew a girl
Who worked at a club
And liked jazz, blues
And jailhouse rock
If you like the sound
Of harmonicas
There's no better show
Than Danica's.

I knew a girl
Who breathed in fumes
Of marijuana
And did *****
If you like to get
Delirious
There's no better trip
Than Emilia's.

I knew a girl
That made no fuss
And bathed in sweat
And reeked of musk
If you're into
All that hanky-panky
There's no better bed
Than Frankie's.

I knew a girl
With perfect teeth
But had a thing
For eating sweets
And if you lose
Your stash of candy
There's no better place to look
Than Ginny's.

I knew a girl
At a fancy bar
With salon-fresh hair
And a red sports car
I'm gonna take her home
Or better yet
There's no better place
Than Harriet's.

I knew a girl
She had no shame
I barely even
Caught her name
When you're in the mood
For something obscene
There's no better bedroom
Than Irene's.

I knew a girl
Who liked to dance
And displayed a fondness
For romance
If you'll love her 'til
The end of days
There's no better love
Than Juliet's.

I knew a girl
Who spoke her mind
And didn't care
For cuffs and fines
So if protesting's your
Idea of a date
There's no better activist
Than Kate.

I knew a girl
Knew how to work a pole
As long as people
Kept dealing the dough
So if you fancy
Yourself a high rolla'
There's no better showgirl
Than Lola.

I knew a girl
We met at the gym
She was into the whole
Fitness thing
If you can keep up
On treadmills and weights
There's no better body
Than May's.

I knew a girl
Who could make a mean shake
Whether by ocean or poolside
Or down by the lake
If you have the time
To head out to Bora
There's no better smoothie
Than Nora's.

I knew a girl
In the symphony
Who played the double bass
In perfect harmony
If you like to watch
The orchestra
There's no better sound
Than Octavia's.

I knew a girl
In New Orleans
She could read tarot cards
And decipher dreams
If you'd like to know
The things to be
There's no better fortune
Than Penelope's.

I knew a girl
Who was quite possessive
And I must admit
A bit of a sadist
But if you can look past
That killer grin
There's no better poison
Than Quinn's.

I knew a girl
With venomous lips
And razors on her
Fingertips
That troublemaker
Will give you hell
But there's no better trouble
Than Rochelle's.

I knew a girl
At an art exhibit
She liked the emotions
Raw and inhibited
If you ever pass
By a gallery
There's no better aesthetic
Than Stephanie's.

I knew a girl
Who could arabesque
And pirouette
With all the best
If you'd like to try
A ballerina
There's no better plié
Than Tina's.

I knew a girl
From the Philippines
And was the brightest star
You'd have ever seen
Major in astrophysics
A real Minerva
There's no better brain
Than Ursa's.

I knew a girl
Who lived next door
And when she woke up
Every morn
She'd start playing
The harmonica
There's no better wake-up call
Than Veronica's.

I knew a girl
Who was always loud
Soon as she had an idea
It had to come out
Bursting with
Youthful energy
There's no better mind
Than Wendy's.

I knew a girl
She held the reign
Over all pretentiously
Spelled names.
Somebody ought
To give her a tiara
For there's no better Ciara
Than Xiaira.

I knew a girl
Who owned a shop
She'd sell the goods
And work the mop
She's a hard worker
That one
And there's no better employee
Than Yvonne.

I knew a girl
With a heart of aurum
With grace, she observes
The proper decorum
Climbing the ladders
Never once a pariah
There's no better friend
Than Zariah.
I deeply apologize for the overuse of the word "harmonica." No, really!
AM Apr 2014
there's always been something about her,
something that I know has been breathing life into my decrepit soul from the moment we met.
she carefully takes my bitterly realistic view of my world and changes it into something so beautiful,
I no longer recognize it as my own.
she's revealed to me such possibility,
such wonder and adventure--
it's the way she sees this delicacy in every human being that makes them so beautiful to her.
and it's her presence,
the mere fact that she's remained by my side despite my often dark demeanor,
that is slowly beginning to brighten the world around me, allowing me to see things I couldn't before--
to see this beauty, this delicacy of this life and the possibilities of the future
Vivian Oct 2013
just another lovesick poem
written by another sad boy
about
being alone or
rejected or
"in love"
as if any of you
*******
have the experience
to look at another human
and know
to the depths of your soul
that you are
in love
all lowercase
because
love isn't trumpets and fanfare
love is
quiet mornings and
simple dinners and
a willingness to be
vulnerable
love is
"hi babe
I know you've had a rough day at work
so you just lay there and
let me make you
***"
or
"I'm gonna make you dinner
and then
I'm gonna tie you up and
*******"
love is not
what we were taught in church or
on the Disney Channel or
from a Stephanie Meyers novel
love is not
what your parents told you
"wait to have *** until you're
married"
abstinence is good
condoms are bad
your *** should be vanilla
men are dominant
women are submissive
missionary is the only position
*** is about procreation not pleasure
love is self defined; find it for yourself.
Ryan Bowdish Jul 2013
Shannon, Mariah, Serena, Maria
Meridia, Midian, Sharon, Alliah
Rochelle, Camille, Rose, Halo
Trenna, Jessica, Ashley, Georgia
Marla, Olivia, Sofia, India
Daniella, Diana, Christina, Caroline
Isabella, Amelia, Amanda, Matilda
Nadine, Haley, Bailey, Francine
Eliza, Annabelle, Kathryn, Sandra
Melinda, Audrey, Aubrey, Emily
Tara, Emma, Ginny, Kathleen
Josephine, Helena, Charlotte, Laura
Chelsea, Arkady, Megan, Kelsey
Kayla, Karliah, Moana, Vivien
Kaysea, Macy, Stacy, Lorraine
Theresa, Felicia, Cecilia, Darlene
Holly, Brianna, Alexa, Ariel
Marianne, Miranda, Jennie, Coral
Korra, Daisy, Penelope, Rayne
Zoey, Cassandra, Grace, Stephanie
Female names are beautiful. Poetry on their own.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
. and i am only ascribed, a relevant nation status, within the individual, by only having to "enjoy" an exile... back, "home": merging into an NPC-meme, so not the mahjong solitaire acronym "game"? you know: PSCAPE-complete, NP-complete... NP-C? NP-complete problems? nondeterministic polynomial time? guess i was the only dumb 'un to self-teach myself to play mahjong solitaire... i guess that's not expected to be hard... hey: here's the map, you figure it out.

the current climate of a crescendo
of events...

****...
        i can't say maine ****:
even though i own two cats
of that breed...

it's all...  (sniff sniff):
very much like being back
in a catholic high school,
of a highly irish choice
of breed area
of outlier "london"...

       with black girls...
putting vaseline cream
into their hair,
to keep the frizz out...
or the afro...
whichever...

     getting into cat-fights
with each other
and some outlier white girls...
stephanie:
oh i remember stephanie...
while the "other"
time i learned what
a "kit-kat" was...
   lucy...
with ambitions to become
a stripper...

    "kit-kat":
  one hand, does a four-finger
*******...

but the fact that the current
climate
doesn't allow dialectics?
i mean: debate,
without all the rhetorical
******* of:
pre-staged "events"?

i take two beers,
or three,
   a packet of cigarettes...
spot a park bench,
sit on it,
and...
              wait...
some old timer is bound
to chat me up...
hardly complaining
about me drinking in
public,
i excuse myself,
asking him:
is it o.k. if i light a
cigarette?
  no complaints...
he might just come
back with
a rayleigh bicycle...
green...
******* plush specimen
from...
  i'm guessing the 1950s...
and then we'd juggle...
opinions...
because opinions
are not debated...
not in a dialectic environment...
juggle...
two clowns: first pucker
to the punch of a smacker
of a pair of lips of a woman...

and you know...
there would be this...
aura of a whispering silence...
like...
somone was listening...
god... ****: perhaps god...

and we'd sit there...
spewing opinion after
opinion,
   and we'd talk about bicycles,
about his grandchildren's
supposed autism,
and i'd try to comfort him
saying: just give them some time...

but the pop media doesn't
do that, does it?
dialectics on a park bench
is as alien to pop media
as seeing a ******* ****
saucer, all phosphoresent
in the night sky...
   like: neon a. zero...
neon a. zero
  to b. abide blackout,
come in c.
c. piccadilly circus
                             neon out...

i was saying something:
yeah, i was:
never pity the drunk...
he'll just turn inside out and
tell you:

   'the best poached eggs
i ever made... were...
when i was blitzed...
  plastered...
  *******: goo....   goo'n:
gone...
but the perfect poached
eggs...
        yeah yeah...
whrill in a movement
for a tornado,
drip some white vinegar...
  drop... pouch you
limbless chicky-coco-clock-in!'

or... that what i expected
from... not taking
boxing lessons...
did about 3 lessons in martial
arts...
was kicked in the *******
by the teacher...
so i flunked...
  **** to that sort of "club"
of self-defense...
you kick me in the *****,
i kick out your ego...
and thought?
  hell...
         either a stephen king
novel
       or a shot from a shotgun...

honest to god,
i once asked an afro-saxon
if i could touch his hair...
guess what?
  i touched it...
   ooh...
goose feathers...
they would really replace
goose feathers with
afros...
  it's like:
the engineering
concept that went into
springs
of cars?
    ever touch an afro?
cushions...
  i'm feeding goose feather
stuffed pillows...
or springs on both
the bed,
   or a car,
or any variant form of
transportation...

i prayed for chop-sticks,
instead...
they gave me drum-sticks...
but no drum...
they said:
   air-drum...
  ****... that's a tough gig...
air-guitar is once thing...
but air-drum?

i had to start thinking
about my inherent
physical "disability"
concerning the *******
as...
   leech...
  or  yiddish:
     schmuck...
       and... i went to the elders
and they...
didn't expect i was
handed down the script
of william burrough...

imagine...
   a world...
where there was "excess" skin...
associated with the ****...
like... a floral pattern,
protruding out,
and not in...
   so i said:
  sleeve off, or sleeve on?
am i to **** some maiden
or simply do some
jamaican recipe replica
of a *******?

you sure eve of eden
confused the phallus
with a serpent...
or more... a mushroom?
well... if you circumcise
the ******...
that's more a mushroom
than some reptilian
                   artifact, no?

well... we're not going
to have a dialectical spectacle
with the way we're going,
are we?
  i'm juggling opinions,
midly drunk,
with some elder,
bicycles,
the weather, seasons,
grandchildren and autism...
and on the center
stage...

              ONLY RHETORIC
ALLOWED...
       i'm as ugly as Socrates
inside and out...
at this point,
at this point: inside and out...
so...
  if only i was dyslexic
akin to the modern and ancient
greek standards of
not having
the capacity to write...

        writing has become
a famine of conversation...
i don't want to speak because
i chose the medium of writing...
i like ballet...
  i also like watching someone
play the piano...
and then i watch myself
itch away at a keyboard
of, thus, arranged letters.
Poppy Jan 2015
ALERT !!
You may already be aware of a message currently showing up in the HP message boxes from a female(supposedly) identifying herself only as "Miss Stephanie". She states that she saw/read your profile and is interested you, and has something important to tell you. She asks that you reply with YOUR email, then gives an email address supposedly belonging to her. No other information is given.
DO NOT REPLY!!
She will post two, or more poems, probably in an effort to gain trust and establish credibility. She may even mention the on-going situation with Boko Haram, or some other conflict. THIS IS A SCAM!! Once your email falls into the wrong hands, there are untold numbers of consequences.DELETE it immediately, then BLOCK IT.
Please pass this on!

Thanks,
Richard Riddle
This  was sent to me by fellow poet Richard Riddle. SO ITS TOTALLY NOT MINE - I'M JUST SPREADING THE MESSAGE. I did receive a message from her before though. Her name is "stephanibaby." "She" did post one poem that gained 1,000 views, but it was stolen from another poet.
Gannon Dec 2010
I could slit my wrists,
But that would require
One porcelain, bathtub, spotless, white.
Hot water, 65 gallons of.
One razor blade, sharp,
And a mere five to ten minutes of quiet solitude
In which to revel in my misery
And contemplate my end.

Or I could hang myself,
But that would require,
Rope, six to eight feet of,
The knowledge to tie a noose,
An overhead beam, 8 feet from the ground,
One chair, easily kicked over,
And another mere five to ten minutes,
In which to revel in my misery
And contemplate my end.

I could drown myself as well,
But that would require
Trousers, cargo style, with many pockets
Rocks, large and heavy,
A lake or large body of water,
A boat to fish out my body,
And mere minutes
In which I could revel in my misery
And contemplate my end.

No, it seems to me,
That the best way to **** myself,
With the slowness and misery I deserve,
Is to simply keep loving you,

For that only requires,
One fool, old enough to know better,
Two hearts, one easily broken
The other bitter and jaded,
And a long life,
In which to revel in my misery,
And contemplate my end
I wrote this years ago for my ex-wife, but little did I know then, that it was really written for the woman who, years later, would actually crush my heart and destroy me.
I HAVE NOT TRAVELED
PATHS YOU HAVE TRAVELED
OR LEARNED LESSONS
YOU HAVE LEARNED
OLD AND NEW

KEEP LOVE AND FAITH
IN YOUR HEART
FOR IT WILL GUIDE YOU

DAY BY DAY
CLOSE YOUR EYE'S
FEEL THE FAITH
DEEP DOWN IN
YOUR HEART
DEPEND ON IT
WHEN IT'S NEEDED
FOR THAT MITE BE
YOUR ONLY WAY

LIFE'S MISTAKES
ARE LESSON'S
WHICH YOU HAVE LEARNED
TEACH OTHER'S
NOT TO MAKE THE SAME
MISTAKE'S
YOU HAVE LEARNED FROM

ONCE YOU HAVE LEARNED
LIFE'S TEACHER'S
TO NEVER MAKE
THOSE MISTAKE'S AGAIN
ALWAYS HOLD ON THE FAITH
GOD'S THE MAIN TEACHER
THAT WILL DEFINITELY
HELP YOU
FIND YOUR WAY

REMEMBER THIS
MY FRIEND
WHICH YOU ARE
A SIGNIFICANT
PART OF MY LIFE
YOU ARE DEEPLY LOVED
YOU ARE TRULY LOVED
THAT'S GIVING TO YOU
FREELY
FROM THE BOTTOM
OF MY HEART
TO LEARN FROM
MY MISTAKES
LIFE'S LESSON'S WAS WRITTEN BY STEPHANIE S.SCOTT
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Poetry Round (find your self within)

We sit together in spirit, if not in body,
You join me in the Poet's Nook,
A few frayed and weathered Adirondack chairs
Overlooking the Peconic Bay,
Where inspiration glazes over the water,
And we drown happily in a sea of words,
Commencing:

You say unto me, whitecaps, I reply,

"Solitary swimmers, poets, arms crooked over head, in the sea of us"

I say flooded with gratitude, and Stephanie replies,

"Thou art my carved destiny-and the river that permits my blood to flood...And all this noise shall fall into poetry; Which every day grows statelier and comelier.

You say to us Moonlight, and we laugh, delighted, for she has given us

"This love can be ours,
Under the iridescent moonlight
Embraced within one another,
To live for an eternity,
Languid and soft"


Someone calls out Bala,
And Vicarpio Gale favors us with his words,

"a poetic rain, in small print, fills the white sky page"

And we pray nightly, that come next morn, he will rain upon us once again

We pretend it is night and there are
Stars to Touch,  but this poet of pax corrects us and writes, t'is but,

"late afternoon sun slanting
behold, jaune compassion
alfalfa ocherous leans willowy in wind
distance of silence yearns on
afternoon shadows lie within majestic vales"


Who is it that calls out
Have Mercie  B.e  upon us,
for she reminds us of what we B.e tasked individually,

"Provoking ideas and intoxicating imagery overflow from within and yet somehow you can't see.  There are dreams that run wild inside of this heart and there is no way I'll let them be tamed"

Sunshineflowers every where,
But even more beautiful when she coaxes us to laugh
at ourselves
when writing of true love,

"Why don't i have bananas, said the monkey.
The tiger said, because you are my soulmate"


Did you C Holmes reminding us that

"when you're certain you've
painted the next Van Gogh
with the swirls and gusts
of blues so pure,
any mortal would
stop stare & lose track of time?"


Fyi, Fyi,

"Her callous persecution insinuates,
The elusive flaws of humanity and life,
It implicitly elucidates,
The sombre reality"


About certain Angels  was writ, that both in heaven and on earth, she was garbed, for

"She wore an air of mysticism
Her memory bore prophetic visions
From ancient egyptian
And judaic traditions
She knows every star system
And every night is a mission
Where she wishes and wishes
For help from the legends"


Emily  has met an unwanted friend, familiar to all of us,

"Cemented shoes
And silenced talk
It's even hard to describe
Writer's block"


Sara B.  from B'kara, that's in Malta, gives advice most sensible,

"Times they are a changing
make everybody feel blue
just turn up the music
and forget what you're supposed to do"


Victor  claims not to be a

"poet, a musician even less
but I may be kind of a beggar
when I beg of you
don't forget me
or let your music fade out
of my rainy days"


Dare I disagree? **** right I do!

Little RedWritingHood,  from my city hails, so wise, far beyond her years, reveals that,

"people try to
make me see reason
or their definition of it
but reason is relative
as is too much in this world"


Should I go on? Why not!

Something's are ForeverMarvelous,  like

"Hurt is fading
Fists are pumping
Bass is trembling
Some are hating-
But I keep dancing"


mybarefootdrives  me forward because

"every seed of thought
starts itself out like a whisper.
Until weight behind words
allows them to stand on their own merit"


Maria GH  could be an old friend, who

"draws me near,
it's slender form bleeding into
the background.
Slowly, kindly,
it extends a hand and
I take it
as to forever hold comfort
in mine"


Andy from Mombasa, your poetry

"conspires to purge me of my sense of reasoning
Leaving me bare to suffer the perils of an incongruous world"

And I am a better poet for it...

Brendan'  I've watched your words,

"Crack the veil of tired souls
cloaked in lonely sorrows,
broken by faithless wanderings,
and feel the strings course through your veins"


I am blindsided and Blastsided  when I read

"Onomatopoeia
I love words
for their meanings
their woven tapestries
but also
for their taste"

For I know exactly what you mean

I am exhausted. So many gems to decorate
My body, my soul. I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out, none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.

Once again, in your debt.
If I could do nothing more but write your names, I would be endowed with thousand more poems.
OOPs, occurs to me someone may not like my excerpting their work, so let me know if its a problem and will edit....hopefully not and taken as the compliment it was meant to be!
Saying your name is like singing a melody.
Through grace and rhythmic harmonious symmetry.
Easing every moment in posthumous remedy.
Printed in the stars, your face and your name my lady.
Here I stand, beside your golden throne.
As if the moment will soon be gone.
No single lifetime is more than enough.
If you won't be here with me, in times so tough.
Each moment is like forever, so please leave me, never;

Momentous in your presence, is my heart;
Enchanted, still hoping, though we're worlds apart.
Night may come and dusk may arrive,
Dawn will appear after, and I'll be alive.
Only for one moment in such little time.
Zestful and beautiful may even rhyme.
And you my girl, my woman, my lady, would forever be mine.....

— The End —