"ster" poems
somewhere between the fourth and fifth
load of laundry,
sometime after breakfast~lunch,
now served in the USA at home,
as an all day meal, per the edict of Mcdonalds,
start fixing dinner, take a break, walk to the mailbox,
retrieve the post and quick retreat back inside,
ah that Texas sun, bilingual chili hot,
toss the unopened on the prior weeks pile,
cause everyone loves company
the home-cold-brewed ice coffee needs a filling
for the fridge has decided not to help
by automatically refilling the pitcher
even if it could
I, busy folding,
needing two hands
and all my teeth
for folding my master’s rocket ship
sheets
my master observes with one of his alternating demeanors,
this one, super silent watching, announcing that I need a nap:
*“don't you always say, baby,
take a nap when you can, baby,
for when you need one, baby,
you probably won’t be able, my baby”*
with selected-hand-led fingers,
he lays me down to sleep,
bids me to slow slide to dreamland, dinner will keep,
curling inside my frame, hands a-cupping my *******
telling me a drowsy tale, inherited from his mother’s womb
and his granddaddy’s tongue, mindful of his family’s history
there, is where, they find us,
dinner fixings burnt,
me and my five year old baby boy,
still sleeping fast, around 5pm, bodies enwrapped,
tied by blood and entwined in old nursery rhymes,
Texas tall tales of Pecos Bill,
me and my very own
nap-ster master
<•>
p.s. and they call me by my other name to wake me, momma
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
the first day i spent in
Venice, CA
i bought the 2 most
ster e o typical
things
Number 1
was my medical marijuana license
Number 2 was my skateboard
I’m not very good
at skateboarding
but when you shred
on the boardwalk
people get out of your way faster
and thats really all i wanted
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
Is moeilik om te begryp,
en nie rerig mooi nie.
Dis 'n spoegspat soos 'n herrie-
'n gemmors wat langs die kar staan en bedel.
Dis 'n gemoedsbekakking... ag verskoon tog
verswakking soos die breakdowns innie gossip magazine.
Ag shame , hulle dra ook maar swaar aan society se crimes
en al dai drugs is maar ommie pyn te verlig.
Kyk nounet daar , sterre wat pyn , is seker maar
'n metafoor. Vir wat? Se jy my!
Jy wat my analiseer en dissekteer...
want daar is geen meer sterre wat pyn nie,
die woorde wat rym ennie
ander goeie goed is lankal van alle kleur bevry
in my agterkop waar dit donker is soos
'n land waar hoop 'n feeverhaal is.
Dis te donker om nou te rym,
maar te donker om in te hou...
so ek sny maar die kanker stuk vir stuk uit
en bloei nonsens-ink op die blaai.
Aan die einde is dit nie net die gedig nie.
Dis die ganse wereld wat rym.
Elke herrie en spoegspatter
elke gerookte ster en hartseer kokkedoor
ek , jy - ons almal is 'n gedig.
Ons almal rym...
ons is net te moeilik om te verstaan
en nie altyd mooi nie.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
Ek het die siek gewoonte om oog op te slaan
en die nagprag te aanskou met digters-oog
wat 'n ster van elke mens wil maak
en elkeen wil bekoor, maar
selfs al span ek al my mag in
is daar een ster hoog verhewe...
Daar sit die ster op 'n tuinstoel troon ,
oe betowerer deur die vuur
andag gestrek deur die ganse heelal
- orals behalwe hier,
waar ek soos 'n straatbrak honger kyk,
aan die voete van 'n ster
*** almal bietjie aandag eis
*** almal van jou kry
maar ek soos 'n een aand wonder
uitteer aan jou droewe stilswy
My slapelose nagte
maak my van die drome vry
want in realiteit, al kyk ek vir die sterre,
kyk hulle soms verby.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
They squirm inside their clothes
tweed, chiffon tiered skirts, and bows
of their grandmothers’ sepia, halcyon days
with lumberjack flannel and Kerouac quotes,
but it’s more a matter of age than size,
these charging, listless, candid creatures
with hairstyles that can only be described
as gravity readily defied and self-cut,
frequently dyed to shades that swing
between black coffee and New York poetry
deep imagism and social realism against the backdrop
of American Apparel ads on scratched up Macs.
They slouch up and down trafficked Newbury,
dropping names like Morrissey and Bukowski
pausing now and then to pick up on the ennui
of twenty-three, and how they will one day live la vie
Dharhimian, running on American Spirits,
James Dean, Truffaut chic,
a monthly check from their parents,
an apathetic sneer at holding anything too dearly
and how they hate that word—hip-ster.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
Write your poems about death.
(write ur emo-black-hair
skinny-wrist-white-scar
silent-back-of-classroom
ster-e-o-type po-e-try
about death)
Write your overdone morbid
imagery, similes
(write ur unhappy-heart
out-in-ink-onto-paper
arteries-bleeding-out
ur-blue-and-purple
octopus-veins-ur
ster-e-o-type po-e-try
about death)
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 7:21 AM UTC
Rain-ing out-side,
think-ing of you.
It could be the
drum beat you play.
(fast, cha-o-tic)
My jump-started heart
when I see you.
(long-ing, crav-ing)
Or the sound of
Flesh, skin on skin.
(ea-ger, play-ful)
But, I think its
Be-cause its set
to the same time,
(Four. Beats. Per. Bar.)
As when I struck
my closed fist to
my ach-ing chest,
ster-num crack-ing
*(four-loud-thumps-to
-my-rib-cage)*
Try-ing to stop
cry-ing, gasp-ing.
*(four-with-each-damn
-ed-rattl-ing-breath)*
When you hurt me.
It-did-not-help.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 6:21 PM UTC
No town homes in my hometown
We throw up and we throw down
Drinks pour up, tears pour down
No outlet in this port town
Glass crumbs and shards
elephant-skinned sidewalks smeared with tomato paste
the streets remember
potato-tipped death machines
starchy falsetto bullets
the cracking
window
skull
smushy hamburger meat brain
meet bullet—meet steering wheel—meet
ster
e
o
my little brother stays in a shelter
on American and California
where babies
sit themselves
change
is a dollar short
and DST
stands for daylight shootings time
Grandfather time
please stroke your shredded wheat goatee just a little longer
postpone apocalyptic
soon the children will hop skotch on chalked body silhouettes
and jumprope with bungie cord intestines
But not him
my little commando
he will find a way out
depart from home plate
three strikes carved on a flaming chariot
soaring through the sky like barbasol jet streams
the great
escape
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 7:34 PM UTC
Beautiful Freaks
Every Size-every Fashion
Loud
Strange
Popped Culture
Slow movers
Hip-ster Retro Chick
Wait Now that's A GUY
Dyed Hairs
Soul-less
Glare
Stores and Bores
Homeless
Snores
Picking Trash
While
Searching Eyes Through
Urban Mob
Crowds and crowds
Of Skinny Jean-ed Legs
Curly Headed
Whit Boys Jam
Soulful Blues
Of What(?)
The Loss Of Saturday
Cartoons...(?)
Cheap Dates
Dark Eyed
Grungy Beauty
Hidden By Lost Meaning
Of Splashy Sub-Culture
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 8:44 AM UTC
Hip
ster Dance
Your Hipst
er
Dance.
Sway ever so
slight
ly To the
Dysfun ction
al
Rhythm
Lost In Some Sole
mn
trance Cue The
Solo & a slight
nod of the
h e a d
let them know
that your
hav ing
a goo
d time
hip ster,
hipster
you amaze me
in your
mis an thropic
stillness
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 3:05 PM UTC
hunger slates itself of this one's
vessel. demanding piety, demanding
existence. requesting change of
scenery, seeking change for
firm foundation. that of trench
burrowed deep and reinforced in ma-
ster fashion with land unfamiliar.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
I'm going in there,
the box is locked, but I've been feigning,
shouldering off opportunities,
tormenting
how you lie, how;
you
are too ****
good,
too **** sweet,
for me.
still,
take me with you, please.
how do you manage to,
or, how do I delude myself as,
to get to the matter at hand:
i want
every
last brushstroke
of your co-ordinate skin
surface patch union
in a quilt of
frail, tendre, beauteous,
branching, distant
expansions.
but you're here,
no mind.
ok, so:
you're a forest fire in my
eyes when
I simply glaze through
your
al-
a-
ba-ster domain,
where your heart sits,
still,
contorted,
left, chinese-puzzled, by a boy you, still,
could never hate.
{nobody ever hates anyway, truly} maybe.
{nobody ever loves anyway, truly} I guess I have proof, otherwise.
And I, well,
I could never not love everything.
Whatever it is, makes up you.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 7:27 AM UTC
Tap, tap, tap on the tray
I take another long drag and exhale slowly,
filling my lungs with noxious pleasure
as I stare out the window
legs akimbo
looking at the poisoned sky.
What a life I've made
with the downbeat rhythm
of something exquisite
that's too far gone to name
Hip, hip, hop, hop
Hip sterrr
hip ster
my breath catches; on
a weird phenomenon
and I have gone
to reclaim it.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
He Don't
want me but he loves to **** me , cover it up with words of love, Words &promises;, like I'll do better& we can start again.Sorry.
He Don't
want me but as I grow and my body swells I laugh within myself,I lead my self down this destructive road knowingly, given in to my own self needs, My want to be happy wasn't meant to be hiss imprisonment, The words thou the Way he said em ,The ways he feed them in to me,Left me feeling Unique,Special,Like a Queen, & him then The king of all kings, His subjects groveling at his feet.
He Don't want me
and no matter how much I want to do this all over again Knowing the results in the end is already evidently clear, I wont win,Not him,He's not up for grabs, not a treat to be had, Just the trick-ster playing on my lonely heart, When it comes to the Man I want yeah He came real close ,closer then most for me to still be dwelling on past Re living it as I see myself leaving in stead of spreading wide for him..
He Don't want me
No matter what we say or do, I know this to already be true, like the declaration's and amendments set forth for something better, protection was better,
How funny I'm the only one paying the price in this life time, Man Oh Man I can count past my hands how many times I heard "girl you know I only want you" or "be my wifey"
& lets not for get he says over & over again "I'll take care of you".
Funny the caring and all the rest He's said to the lil' no ones- like me plus that wifey thing He's been spitting to them other Chicks he calls queen,
I've now seen him with so many, So many times since claiming me His queen
& its been long since know that He Don't want me.
So I'll LEAVE!
Always Me Ayeshah
Copyright © Ayeshah K.C.L.N 1977-Present YEAR(s)
All right reserved
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 8:17 PM UTC
A new Tunisian poetic genre is born.
What is a "Kasserine"?
Structure:
A Kasserine is a new poetic genre created on July 9, 2017. In it all is condensed in two lines with a sum total of thirteen or fourteen syllables. Its first line cannot exceed seven of them.
The title of a Kasserine must be an integral part of the poem in terms of interpretation. The number of its syllables must not exceed seven.
Subject matter:
In a Kasserine nature and imagination perform the same poetic activity. Nature ceases to be a mere mirror reflecting the feelings of the poet, the political or social situation, etc., and becomes symbolic in the very moment it renounces representation as a one-to-one correspondence . Nature in a Kasserine has no existence prior to the pricking into action of the imagination by the self of the poet. For, even though it is groundless (it does not belong to the self), the imagination has no intentionality of its own; this is why it needs the intentionality of the subject in order to be operative.
Samples of a Kasserine
Ruby Sun
Among amethyst silk clouds
She flirts with the sapphire sea
(c) Paula Swenson, USA
Tunisia
A fair island of light
in my imagination
(c) Jeffard Ster, USA
Red Giant
A star inside her implodes
Heavens of chaos unfold
(c) Stefan David Sederscog, Sweden
Voyeurism
The sea kisses the sky
Imagination beholds.
© LazharBouazzi, Tunisia
Note: Friends and acquaintances are cordially invited to start writing sublime (marked by repression of meaning) Kasserines.
(c)Lazhar Bouazzi, 9 July, 2017.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
I remember: a sloping hill backing up to a fence
that separated us from the criminals—a small
“lake” hidden behind some houses
days filled with cartoons and summer ramblings
—never in the lake though—no one played in it; except
for when it was frozen, everyone glided upon its surface
the City of West-min-ster—NOT West-min-i-ster
as most people wrongly pronounce
for some odd reason I will never know—
where the southern part of the city’s grocery stores
pose as if they are the supermercados of Mexico
two libraries: one academic, one more frivolous
are where I was able to find material to bury my head
hiding in fictional worlds or hiding from crushes
I observed from afar creating my own narratives
about how we would share and create memories,
together, that would never be realized
wandering shelves to escape the overbearing
urgency set by my parents regarding schoolwork
seeking freedom from the monotony assigned
every night, which had to be “perfect”—no time
for procrastination—“earlier is better” was the motto,
but this motto was never shared by my peers
my free time was their work time and vice versa,
but the library was a place of freedom—for us all,
which is why we chose such an unlikely place
as our adolescent stomping grounds
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
https://youtu.be/fZSiBj4vCiY
My Carona,
Don't u know we've come a long long way
I've been fearin' that you'd come
When u're around u take our breath away
Bad Carona,
The symptoms surely hurts bud-gets
I'm a part-time worker at a ho-tel here in town
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Oh bad Ca-ro-na!
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Ca-ro-na go a-way!
Bad Ca-ro-na
u've caused some sad
& scary times
Just the thoughts about u brings back an-xi-e-ty
Gyp-sy vi-rus
You're a my-ster-y for doc-tors
U got har-bors locked down so ships can't sail out to sea
U cover sun-light when the times r good!
U treat us so bad-ly we want u gone now!
Bad Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Oh bad Ca-ro-na
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Ca-ro-na go a-way!
Bad Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Oh bad Ca-ro-na
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Ca-ro-na go a-way!
Bad Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Oh bad Ca-ro-na
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Ca-ro-na go a-way!
Bad Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Oh bad Ca-ro-na
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Ca-ro-na go a-way!
Bad Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Oh bad Ca-ro-na
Ca-ro-na!
Oh Ca-ro-na go a-way,
Ca-ro-na go a-way!
© From A Poet's ♥️
3/17/20
Viruses r
Minuses
Bacteria causes
Dilerium
Even a cold
Can wipe out the old
U came down w/ the flu?!
We should quarantine u!
© From A Poet's ♥️
3/17/20
Pray more
Stress less
And my life won't
B such a mess
© From A Poet's ♥️
3/18/20
Homeschooling?!
Who r u fooling?!
I know u!
And that won't do!
That's y u work!
And and chose public school!
So they deal w/
Kids who act like fools!
I'm not stupid!
And you're not Cupid!
An arrow to their heart
Won't make things restart!
© From A Quarantined Poet's ♥️
4/29/20
May 23, 2020
May 23, 2020 at 9:02 PM UTC
Start. Tripp-ing your
sneak-ers on black-brown
alley corr-i-dors fast
you’re stum-bl-ing boy
and you gotta go fast
Go. Go. Go. breathe.
glance your hip o-ver
that dump-ster on the cor-ner
and keep go-ing.
bare-ly touch the grime
boy, bare-ly be fly-ing.
Shut down. don’t ev-en
listen, be-cause if you
hear ‘em you are gone
you don’t ev-en gotta
see a thing go by. go boy.
but then you did-n’t see
that blank-damned cat
and you’re stum-bl-ing
flat on your fore-head
and cutt-ing across the buzz.
you hear that horn honk-ing.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
do you remember our little corridor
that blackish floor between two and three
where dreams were made and staged and broken
where we were free and still made eleven
your voice echoes along three black walls
and your laughter, along the green
i still remember what you said about your sister
and how i held you as you cried with me
it's three months over, but i see you still
dancing through a building in the sky
i hope you're smiling, where you are
free from the dark stage you chose to leave behind
it's funny how it all comes back in waves
maybe you miss it too - all the fun
maybe you're up there, smiling down
maybe you're somewhere, saluting the sun
and when my turn comes, i'll look for you
in another space unscathed by time
i'll embrace you tight in a fresnel light
and softly sing you lullabies
but for now,
i'll just keep going on
i'll keep you where time cannot erase you
and where no one can ever hurt or break you:
i'll keep you in our little corridor
the blackish floor between two and three
where dreams were made and staged and broken
where we were free; where we'll always make eleven.
-c.t.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 6:26 AM UTC
She — she sees the stars
in eyes — in eyes that
shield the sun and yearns;
She burns to complete their constellations.
She — she learned the world
through the vacant gaze
of those — of those who’s
love is born out’f manipulations.
She’s ill — ill from the
colors, noise, the emp-
-ty reflections in
the mirror of social masturbations.
She feels — feels the shift,
tectonic plates — the
weight of souls — souls which
drift to shape the soil;
The weight of them bends the Earth’s vibrations.
She shares her fate, with
those souls — souls which shape
the face of Earth —the
fate of which to walk
the plank of their own civilization.
She sees — sees the mess;
How Mother bares the
brunt with body stripp’d,
bruised chest and ruptured
hips from the disease
which wears the crown of her own creation.
She smells — smells the depths
she’s in — it stinks like
old neurosis’ sweat
and spirit mold — taste
cosmic rust on tin
tongue; She’s cold inside her contemplations.
She has visions — vis-
-ages of prophet
flames, let them scorch the
deserted planes of her meditations.
She hears — hears the crash
the Thunder sounds, the
Boom! The children glow in radiation.
She wants to cry — to
cry revolution,
but can barely mu-
-ster up the bones to
demand for some damn-good explanations.
She who knows — knows her
needs but without will's
wit will feed in-to
those who live and breed their condemnation,
is not without creed,
and she knows — She un-
-derstands that to be
freed by the seed of
Nirvana is not —
not to be free of those obligations.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 7:41 PM UTC