"stockpiled" poems
the rain sifts through my attempts
to grasp it with mere hands:
one cannot understand
without going through its constant
shift and change of faces.
As to another, one learns
to ask the right questions,
naturally, at the opportune time.
Like in all things
Every conversation
Which pass through us
Were never truly there.
Those that do stay are bereft
of meaning.
What remains often
is the damp, moistness
of the late -ber month showers:
regret, loss, a tactless remark.
They share the same fate in all
of this, the slow, uptake for words:
closure, a second chance, a bad joke
like the heavy traffic we always have
to endure - a cartload heavy
-laden with stockpiled souvenirs
with no particular use except
for reminiscing, a flickering hope
for the last bus ride home.
One day, you will
miss all of this.
And the only thing
that is left to endure,
is memory.
14 October 2017
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 6:00 AM UTC
..
….
…...
….....
…...........
…..................
…............
….....................
…............
….........................
….................
….....
barometric tendrils
psuedo-random and hybrid sets
growing like ivy in the clutches of time
such a
chocking
but actualising
grasp
..huh? what?
oh yes! sorry, sorry
come in, come in,
..you know,
I too, once, like how you are now,
was here too
so
very
very
present.
Aha! Oh yes!
Permit me a mock stifled cry of ostentatious self derision,
'hee hee hee'
aaaaaahhh..
I really was pitiful back then.
seeing you there now, I feel oh so whimsical and overcome
with
ahem
sorry.
..dank and musty cellars,
hashish and a can of beans.
(baked, not fried, -we were really naive enough to believe that?- )
had it all back then though, didn't we?
By which I mean we had nothing,
but the conviction
that obligation was something that actually meant something
rather than a Cryptocurrency in a Ponzi scheme,
(with a slice of lemon)
confidence intervals stockpiled in the stocks of confidence men.
Derivative markets
oh, so very much so
so very
derivative
idiomatic
and *******
asinine.
..Still, it does harken to its era, doesn't it?
'detached and disposable.'
toothpicks
limbs
ideals
all that
goodness!
I was supposed to be offering advice, wasn't I?
Interpolate up some mediated conjecture.
But the kids can look after themselves just fine, can't they?
So our fiscal policy seems to think;
'I wager we shear up the youth
to buy shares in implementing youth wages.'
sorry, I guess it's an antiquated complaint,
“think of the children!” , they say?
Can't they see,
the whole **** market's aimed at the proto-teens??
we do it all for them the little snots.
laissez faire welfare
hedge or double down?
A shrubbery?
Or a bacon butty with bread as ****** chicken and cheese?
(I just vomited in my mouth a little,
(how pastiche))
See, and people ask why I’m trapped in the past;
the future's got me car sick.
and honestly
we're just brimming with history
(the scourge of post-modernity)
like a black moss spewed on the walls
Poisoning visions and Rheumatic fever
tearing up our lovely
lovely
pacified
pay and display
psuedo
proto
posterity
….....
….................
….........................
…............
….....................
…............
…..................
…...........
….....
…...
….
..
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
The last drops have been swallowed,
And the last vestiges
Of post-wage labor
Libationary sorrow
Swagger slowly off
Into the night
Across cracked pavement
Like slugs after rain.
I pick up the chemtrail
Left by my father
And follow it to
A makeshift master suite
Wedged between a
Rundown groundskeeper
Shed and the unkempt
Wilderness beside the
Desolate bike path
In rural Seekonk.
The rest of this comatose
Town in this overdosed
Commonwealth
Are separated
By enough trees
And undergrowth
And small
Night creatures
Calling to each other
In the dark
That they can't hear
The nightly
Rattle of .38
Rounds my father
Sends flying into the trees.
The pistol was my
Grandfather's,
Brought over from France
In 1947.
My father cries
As he pulls the trigger
Over and over
Sporatically,
Like a Sung Tong,
His eyes wild,
Darting side to side
In milky blue trails
Back and forth
And up and down
Across the dark
Chasms of his
Eye sockets.
When the chambers
Of his firearm
Run dry he fills them
From the box
He took from my basement,
In his old house,
Where he stockpiled
Ammunition for
Twenty two years.
I've learned to stand east
Of my father when
I make the visits
Expected of children
When their parents
Are old and trapped
In the recesses of
Their insanity
Or nursing home
Or empty nest,
Because he always
Aims west.
I wait for tonight's
Box to be empty,
Then slowly walk
To where my father
Is huddled,
Clutching the pistol
Like a teddy bear.
He is breathing heavy,
And has **** himself.
He hears me coming,
Turns, and smiles
Upon recognition.
"I got em good mikey,
Got good, not taking
My land from ME
Mickey, never going
Blow south,
See it?"
I pull the pistol I've
Brought from my waistband,
The one my father,
Gregory Bishop,
Gave me on my
Eighteenth birthday.
The weight in my hand
Is deafening,
The illegal ivory
Is seamless
And cold against
My palm.
I raise my arm,
Aim,
And pull the trigger.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
Railroad tracks along the Keystone Line
Gleamed with a copper luster under light
From the Dog Star and the solstice moon.
Those slivers of metal became more valuable
After they were squished by the weight of train cargo
And blessed by the red light of the railroad crossing.
The coins we minted weren’t trinkets
We could spend at the general store.
They didn’t belong to the government.
We created a currency for our neighborhood.
We stockpiled them in mason jars,
Traded them for boyhood commodities,
And made necklaces for our girlfriends.
I can’t say when the others cashed out.
Maybe it was the day they started earning
Bigger coin in the mines and the mills.
I walk the tracks at night, searching for the
Cents we lost beneath the splintered ties.
There is a rusty coffee can in my garage
Filled with distorted faces and Lincoln memorials.
I recognize those weathered shapes
Better than my friends’ faces
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
I know what it's like to wake up every morning
Wishing you hadn't.
I've pressed the blade to my skin,
Stockpiled on pills,
Written so many notes
Explaining how much it hurts
And how I'm not strong enough
And how I'm so god **** sorry for giving up.
You talk about it so casually,
Like losing you wouldn't tear me apart,
Or drive me to that point myself.
I know what it's like.
I've been there,
And sometimes,
Sometimes I still feel that sadness,
The kind that fills your soul and consumes you.
There is a difference between us, though.
I fight the sadness,
I fight for my life.
You let it snake it's arms around you,
Choke you until there's nothing left,
And then have the nerve
To talk to me like I don't understand,
Like I haven't been there.
Well, I do understand.
I understand that you are the love of my life
And that with each passing day
I am losing another piece of you to the sadness.
I want to save you,
To put your broken pieces back together,
But I can't.
I'm just hurting myself in the process.
You're a time bomb.
I can't be around when you explode.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
These lost years of loneliness and social depravity
Have left me with nothing except this written tragedy
I sat and watched as the walls of my life crumbled away
Into this contorted sensation twisting through dismay
These ceaseless rememberance sessions screaming inside
A dead fixed stare on old friends taking cyanide
These bonds have come together in such a swift motion
And, just as fast they've came to their abrubt destruction
Dispersing any tint of mutual belonging from view
Molding a sad landscape of sighs and failing virtue
Watching as the remnants of my relationships loiter
The catacombs of these stockpiled confession letters
If only I could say anything my empathy had to tell me
My skeletal pose might have perched upright in a higher degree
And I would of have grown to a more formidable size
A clear cut aspiration that I never came to realize
Until all that I held grew too big for me to carry
and left me to stumble and sleep at the cemetary
Scratching dead love songs on century old gravestones
Where the forgotten have slept for generations alone
Hoping the crude penmanship might grace a weary heart
Or help a looming ghost feel a taste of love and depart
From the fog filled graveyard parade that it dwells
A final ringing from the synapsis of the greif bells
Sparking the ruin of a memory that doesn't seem real
A fading echo of a brotherhood I wish I could still feel
Detached from a reality that lurks in a decrepit imagery
Reshaping my empty cognition through a fake neuro surgery
I've reached the point where I have no reason to find
A replacement for all these buried pictures astray in my mind
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
Where were you when country music performers did not make political statements?
Did you stand or kneel when they sang, "God Bless the U.S.A."?
If the south would have won, would we really have had it made?
If you don't plan to take a stand, what are all hidden stockpiled rapidfire rifles for?
No wonder you won't talk about current events.
You have been silenced in so many debates.
Seeing how the republican officials are doing, I wouldn't want to talk about it either if I were you.
We hate to say we told you so,
But we did.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 1:55 AM UTC
transitional times
*midst the ordinaries, not paying close attention,
the yet to be baked batter of chatter while driving past the familiar,
a plain pasta with butter conversation,
the human carbohydrates of our racing consuming energy,
she slips me up, by slipping in two words,
her icing on the cake phrasing
"transitional times"
pull over to the side of Menantic Road
in the early of the late afternoon, Saturday's reclining sunlight,
question her closely, CIA taping her words to my brain:
did she mean the late afternoon hours of our lives when
reflection of sun sprinkles on our bay voyages us as voyeurs
past the old longings and into the future recalling?
perhaps, the au contraire, the steady stepping,
sneaking away of the sheltering night so that the earth's
inhabitants and organs may be revived in yellow golden greens of damp grasses and the whiteness of a Sunday's fresh milk?
of course, of course, the times when the horizon calls,
saying come to me, cross the transition to the newness
of everything, in the ages and days of celebration of
unfamiliar entrances?*
No, no, she answers, bemusedly grinning,
not everything is a poem,
you thieving wordsmith, simply did I observe
that having an extra pair of sunglasses in the car for
transitional times
was a good idea!
*pulling back on the road that goes past the
Tuck Ice Cream Shoppe, the island treasure hunt Dump, the ordinary homes on the range, all along the way to the boatyard where are kept and stored and stockpiled each summer colored sunset evening along with the drinkable French pink Rose wines and gleaming yellow Sancerre and golden ales of Nantucket,
I think to myself,*
nuh uh,
*every transition,
every glorious mindless conversation,
even in the town dump,
treasures in each word, in everything, especially the
extra extra-ordinaries,
is a poem*
June 25. 2017
5:20am
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
One nation under assault,
one nation under pressure,
one nation claiming greatness against
an outdated measure.
With liberty and justice stockpiled commodities
and legions of disgruntled youth
left to deal with the atrocities.
One nation under-loved
One nation over-policed
One nation claiming Jesus
wearing the tell-tale mark of the beast.
With hate in the left hand, and hate in the right,
and both hands balled up like we're dying to fight.
A New Day, they call this perpetual night
This suffocating darkness that chokes out the light
And EVERYBODY THINKS THAT THEIR SIDE IS RIGHT.
One nation underwhelmed by the policies they chose
One hypocrisy of a democracy, calling their own stink a rose
One thing after another, no wonder the kids are cynics now,
thinking "You CAN'T make it better, WE don't know how."
Love is lost in the struggle between apathy and hate
America, the beautiful. America, the great.
America, the fractured paragon,
We cling to ghosts of a changing time
We've fallen for the distractions, and
our pedestal is too high to climb.
Oh brothers, oh sisters, what else can we do?
If you'll look out for me, and I look out for you,
just a ripple in this pool of ****
may clear the waters, just a bit.
But as long as there are white votes
black votes
Latino votes
left votes
right votes
there'll be no vote of confidence
in the future of these divided states.
We'll rip ourselves apart,
tear out our own heart
waving our flags the whole time
and claiming no blame for the divide.
God Bless America,
and do it quick.
All sides of this society
are dying or sick.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC
I don’t love you anymore.
I love hot cups of coffee, and cold cups as well. I love feeling summer grass between my toes. I love long showers. I love curling my hair until it frames my face with red vines of ivy. I love my bed in the morning, before the sun peeks through my curtains. I love petting dogs as I pass them in sidewalks. I love eye contact with pretty strangers in coffeeshops and bookstores. I love the echo of an acoustic guitar in a small room. I love trying new food that my mother didn’t cook when I was a kid. I love the one dress that makes me feel beautiful. I love the voice of the skinny English kid in the concert venue. I love fireflies in the summer. I love fireplaces and afghans and good books. I love red lipstick. I love the dozens of empty notebooks stockpiled in my house. I love maps and I love globes. I love doing kind things for strangers to see them smile. I love comfortable sweaters. I love baking desserts. I love drinking more coffee.
I don’t love you anymore.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
Life lessons are stockpiled in my pantry,
I think of them as I look out of my front window.
The sweet smell of tabacco lifts from my pipe,
reminding me of times of naivety.
Laughter, my only defense from most of the deeds I committed.
It comforts me to know that even in my youth,
I knew I would laugh at myself for things I've done
Oh to be blinded by young love.
The strip of grey in my beard excites me,
They say with age comes wisdom,
I would venture to say not all of the old are wise.
For with life comes wisdom, and too many watched it pass.
To be loved right,
I am most thankful for this,
In youth we tried so hard to love,
Neither of us knowing how, these things dont just come to you.
Pain always came of our scholastic journey.
I look forward to what lies ahead,
I have at least lived enough to know,
I never knew,
To accept that, was my greatest accomplishment.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 10:41 AM UTC
*Dear Tears,
How very sorry I am for what you have lived with. You and I have not spent much time together. I avoid you because I despise crying. You avoid me because we are not supposed to cry.
So other than objectives, we have not known much about one another. Sure, I've squeezed out a few tears here and there; but a sob? Not really. And those times that I have needed to cry, you stood by and fought a deluge at much cost to yourself.
Over the past few days I have cried. And when I say cry, I mean real and bitter tears. Tears stockpiled over years of pain. Tears we both did not believe to exist. As this happened I watched you through my blurry eyes, shaking in a corner. You were waiting for him and he did not come. We were both surprised.
No one hit us until we stopped crying. No one ****** us until there were no more tears to cry. Not once was the blood running faster than the tears. In fact, there was no blood at all.
Each tear, it did hurt. Like crying razor blades. But it was a healing kind of hurt. To borrow a thought... it hurts a lot less to rip a band-aid off quickly than slowly. Or not at all. So I sit in my car and cry while I peel the neglected, crusty bandages of abuse away. I do this while I worry about keeping you safe. It's a role reversal of sorts.
Watching you with intent, I see that you are small. You are a skinny girl who is young, about five. And now I am not seeing you through the haze of my own pain. Without the need to dodge his fists, I see that you have glasses and black hair. Your glasses are broken and behind the cracks you have no eyes. No eyes that cry no tears.
No wonder.
I can cry your tears now. And it's OK if you never shed one of your own; that is not your job. It's mine now and you know, tears are not that bad.
And neither are you. So go and rest.*
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
One nation under assault,
one nation under pressure,
one nation claiming greatness against
an outdated measure.
With liberty and justice stockpiled commodities
and legions of disgruntled youth
left to deal with the atrocities.
One nation under-loved
One nation over-policed
One nation claiming Jesus
wearing the tell-tale mark of the beast.
With hate in the left hand, and hate in the right,
and both hands balled up like we're dying to fight.
A New Day, they call this perpetual night
This suffocating darkness that chokes out the light
And EVERYBODY THINKS THAT THEIR SIDE IS RIGHT.
One nation underwhelmed by the policies they chose
One hypocrisy of a democracy, calling their own stink a rose
One thing after another, no wonder the kids are cynics now,
thinking "You CAN'T make it better, WE don't know how."
Love is lost in the struggle between apathy and hate
America, the beautiful. America, the great.
America, the fractured paragon,
We cling to ghosts of a changing time
We've fallen for the distractions, and
our pedestal is too high to climb.
Oh brothers, oh sisters, what else can we do?
If you'll look out for me, and I look out for you,
just a ripple in this pool of ****
may clear the waters, just a bit.
But as long as there are white votes
black votes
Latino votes
left votes
right votes
there'll be no vote of confidence
in the future of these divided states.
We'll rip ourselves apart,
tear out our own heart
waving our flags the whole time
and claiming no blame for the divide.
God Bless America,
and do it quick.
All sides of this society
are dying or sick.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 7:53 PM UTC
One nation under assault,
one nation under pressure,
one nation claiming greatness against
an outdated measure.
With liberty and justice stockpiled commodities
and legions of disgruntled youth
left to deal with the atrocities.
One nation under-loved
One nation over-policed
One nation claiming Jesus
wearing the tell-tale mark of the beast.
With hate in the left hand, and hate in the right,
and both hands balled up like we're dying to fight.
A New Day, they call this perpetual night
This suffocating darkness that chokes out the light
And EVERYBODY THINKS THAT THEIR SIDE IS RIGHT.
One nation underwhelmed by the policies they chose
One hypocrisy of a democracy, calling their own stink a rose
One thing after another, no wonder the kids are cynics now,
thinking "You CAN'T make it better, WE don't know how."
Love is lost in the struggle between apathy and hate
America, the beautiful. America, the great.
America, the fractured paragon,
We cling to ghosts of a changing time
We've fallen for the distractions, and
our pedestal is too high to climb.
Oh brothers, oh sisters, what else can we do?
If you'll look out for me, and I look out for you,
just a ripple in this pool of ****
may clear the waters, just a bit.
But as long as there are white votes
black votes
Latino votes
left votes
right votes
there'll be no vote of confidence
in the future of these divided states.
We'll rip ourselves apart,
tear out our own heart
waving our flags the whole time
and claiming no blame for the divide.
God Bless America,
and do it quick.
All sides of this society
are dying or sick.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 3:03 AM UTC
The hurricane was
bearing down on us rapidly,
windows were being boarded,
grocers were sold out,
water was being stockpiled.
The drunkards
under the burnt-out building
had stolen our goods,
had broken in
& just took all of our stuff.
Myers & pineapple
twisted my thoughts
and I lashed out,
cut one of them in the dark.
The morning after the tempest,
we found no one there,
not even a blood trail,
thought they might
had been washed
out to sea
in the storm surge.
The incident still haunts me.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
Commonplace language
Comfortable impressions
Automatic concrete deadbolts
Stockpiled beginnings
Automatic appearance
Comfortable language
Unlock the commonplace deadbolts
Holding us concrete
In our beginning language
and stockpiled impressions
Appearances automatic
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC
The night is as dark as ever
in a rapidly changing World,
that never changes.
Daylight saving is fine
as far as I know
but what I don't know
is
who is saving it
and why.
Perhaps it's being stockpiled
in case the Sun burns out
and we'll then be charged
for it,
(pay per ray)
Nothing else is new that I know of
not that I know of much,
in dreams
occasionally
genius touches me
that
I do know.
I wonder if performing seals
get fed up,
I don't mean with fish,
but do they ever wish they
weren't so artistic?
If I elect to play 'snap'
is that a snap election
or just
miscommunication?
bundling my belongings
into an old canvas sack
trundling along
not once looking back
as it all disappears,
years ago
I think I did know
but not anymore.
the lights are still burning
and those yearning for hope
can get it for free
from the wandering missionary
who
used to be a minstrel until he
retrained under yet another
government initiative.
I still see the bare bones
of the lacklustre,
with homes enough to spare
I shouldn't be able to.
Harder times
failing visions
blurred lines
the ever changing
always feels the same.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 2:00 AM UTC
echoes of ****** ghost town mysteries
devolving into our lonely synergy
where we can constantly misdemean each other in our gutter schemes
of battling anger with dreams,
never again to split the seams,
never again to be seen
please, hear my plea.
i never knew what we could or couldn't be.
i just wish you could see me
i am what you almost are and yet everything you're not,
tie my tongue, twist my heart, knot it up and let it rot
"maybe i'll get shot" we stockpiled musings on dying young,
seemingly out of all the time we thought we bought
you are an alleyway thought bay,
forever haunting me enough to keep all my other ghosts away
"the world is ending in all my dreams"
i crushed what i had left of you, you'd never let me stay
we were a walking paradox, never nothing,
always but a dream never to be siezed
"we"
what a lonely synergy
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 9:15 PM UTC
and yes along with my other work I write Political Satire. Have some
My Interview with (Drum roll and rockets’ red glare, bombs bursting in the air) The one... The Only........ Donald The Ding -a ling- Duck
Viruses yeah, I know them. We have a great relationship. They love me.
This is the virus, it’s like a wave, it may or may not go up or down like this. Watch my hands, like a wave. The coronavirus is a hoax.
Sir, WHO has said there is no stopping the virus from spreading what do you have to say about that after you said we had shut the door on the virus in this country?
Fake news fake news. I never saw a memo.
The Virus is here because the Democrats clicked their heels together 2 times, said the word Socialist 3 times, sacrificed a chicken and hey the virus was here.
Democrats are bad for the country.
Well, what about the 8.5 Billion you just asked for from Congress to the fight virus and stimulate our economy?
No more questions from you, I don't like questions and you are a bad reporter.
Like I said it’s a beautiful test, like the letter…… perfect.
But it's spreading and you said it was a Hoax?
Fake news It’s a plot by the Democrats, my enemies, the Martians and the kids from the Good Ship Lollipop to make me look bad
I hate that question
Where are all the medical supplies that were supposed to be stockpiled by the Feds in case of a Pandemic?
I don’t know, no supplies here, I don’t know where they went. Its Obama's fault, the Chinese fault, WHO's fault, and the state's fault, and you over there not gazing at me in adoration, it's you're fault
too.
I take no responsibility.
Money? Money? we have lots of money here have some, you and you too, take some and vote for me
God sent me to save you know. (Cue the halo light around his head).
What about the U.S. federal budget deficit for the fiscal year 2020? it's $966 billion before the economic damage from the virus is factored in? You said you would reduce it?
What Deficit????
The economy looks great. (Raise the flag behind him and turn on the fan).
Quack Quack
Tammy M Darby April 15, 2020, All Rights Reserved
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 12:13 AM UTC
After harmlessly crossing your border
you take our friendship hostage
guarding your perimeter with sandbags of arbitrary etiquette
a no man's land of manners separates us
you snipe from your defensive position
so I retreat and start strategizing.
Consulting my generals to discuss your tactics
they advise me to start stockpiling weapons
and to start looking for weaknesses.
There is a counteroffensive to your intentions.
While you were destroying my satcoms
a successful infiltration of your command center was accomplished.
Once your defenses were understood
your flanks appeared vulnerable.
Blind spots were revealed.
You only sign a treaty once your resources start depleting
then you ignore the rules I'm reading to give me a beating.
So I'm building up my arsenal and
enriching my uranium in this centrifuge
where we spin in circles.
My nuclear option is prepared and capable.
Pacifism is more appealing than violence
but when you try to erase who I am I must take a stand.
Armed with an ability to attack
I get a warhead on my shoulders
found from old schematics
you shared with me while I fought your enemies.
They were never thrown away
now they're dusted off and revisited
to make your walls crumble
and incinerate you flag.
Your nation starts hiding from what they were once confiding
after my nukes obliterate your infrastructure.
Rebels and runners fill fallout shelters and basement bunkers
hiding from the radioactivity in the air.
Everyone's death equals success proving I'm best
so I develop a permanent wartime economy
and fire missiles mercilessly.
There's no difference between fighters and civilians
because some insurgents are chameleons
so I **** them by the millions.
The more weapons I get
the more needless death
until the only nations left standing
are those that have stockpiled weapons of their own.
Aug 5, 2020
Aug 5, 2020 at 6:13 AM UTC
Instead of wrestling around here
And chasing my dreams and fleeing from fears
Maybe I'll run out of breath and stop
At a high altitude mountain top.
Maybe instead of stockpiled art
And information, and all these parts,
I can clear my mind for a long time
And work through the stigma in my mind.
The fears, though all are self-inflicted,
Also can name society as their derivative.
What do they think, what will they think,
Will I ever escape society's brink?
Etc...before me, such a plethora
Of options of routes to go down.
And they are just detours along the walk
That many people tread, and very few balk.
Should I trudge on? Should I sulk?
Smiling so much, acting so false?
Or should I just go on and take it all off?
And seek my own personal mountain top?
There's too much invested, too much to lose
But who knows what's worth keeping.
Everyday, I put on my shoes,
And my heart keeps on beating.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 7:47 PM UTC
June 9th-10th, 2020
In the House on Woodland Road – Love Weaved in Many Molds
It Came when Two Little Girls heard a Woman’s Voice Announce, “I Have a Surprise for You,”
And Sitting on the Fireplace – there was a Videotape, and it Showed Tigger’s Smiling Face
The Tigger Movie had Just Arrived, much to the parents’ surprise
It Came Again when the Girls Looked in the Cookie Jar, the one Topped with the Smiling Cartoon-Cookie Man
Inside was a Tower of Oreos, Waiting for the Girls to Pull Apart and Lick
Love was there by the TV-set – Shown with a Stack of Madeline Tapes
Love was even by the Bookcase – with a Bing to the Brim of Hardbacks Neither Child could Understand
Seated on a Shelf’s Corner, there rested a Crayola Box – Filled with Crayons to the Tin’s Tip-Top
Love was in the Bedroom, with Crayola Crayons Stockpiled – and Sitting on the Closet’s Ledge
Love was on the Rounded-Rug Below, as the Child Played out a Tick-Timing Clock while Laying on their Back
Love was by the Twin Seat Cushions, as the Girls Bounced from One to Another – and Played Leap Frog Between Each Other
Love was in the Garden’s Grass – seen when one of the Children Pulled Apart Presumed Pickles from the Tree, and Sprinkled them all over her
Love was by the Cats’ Food Bowl, Awaiting a Stray to Walk in and Take a Bite
Love was when the Child walked into the Family Room, and took out the Classic Game Candyland
She Played with her New Puppy till he Crossed the Finish Line, and Declared him Champion
Love was there as the Children went for a Walk in the Backyard, and Saw all the Birds and Conifers
The Birdfeeder Hung, and the Bathwater Rippled, – and they awaited its famished and filthy Aves
Love was there for many years, long before the Children Appeared
And then One Day, the Children came, but all the Love had Died
They Noticed the Dust, and the Cobwebs, and the Chill Attached to the House
They Noticed the Trees Chopped Down, and their Smiles were Lost
They Noticed the Change, and it Made them Very Sad
The House had Lost its old Charm, the Children Fell into Monotony
and the Gems that Once Gave the House its Glow – Would Never Again Come out and Show
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 6:18 PM UTC
Success entails sacrifice.
People will fight the good fight.
When will it suffice?
When will you hear our plight?
We forge a path to paradise.
Burning bridges to reach the light.
Is it worth it to cut our ties?
Burning just to shine bright?
Stockpiled innumerable retries,
Power on with irreversible blight,
Pushing until one of us dies,
Its me or my dreams tonight...
Husks and ghosts arise,
Ascending like a child's kite.
Living their dream of lies,
Sacrificing their own sight.
Go on and take a bite,
Hear out those distant cries,
Sacrifice your own might,
Be one of the forest fires!
Your dreams may be forthright.
But is it worth your lives?
Everything may be alright but-
Will your life be the sacrifice?
Sep 12, 2021
Sep 12, 2021 at 10:27 AM UTC