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Odysseus needs a job he calls pima community college art department chairperson sends her his resume she does not respond after a week he catches her on phone she says he lacks proper credentials laughs to himself his whole life never worked lucrative or reputable position gets job working at thrift store wacky group of coworkers customers store frequently smells like public latrine job expires after 7 weeks he gets better paying job working at record exchange Odysseus always loved music everyday he learns new artist or band his coworkers are at least half his age they pester him about being slow on keyboard he never learned to type neither he nor his generation could have foreseen future would revolve around keyboard he plods on register keys people smile politely kids he works with fly fast making many keyboard mistakes November 29 2001 george harrison dies of cancer he is 58 years old Odysseus recognizes he is from past world different era of contrasting standards ‘80’s behavior is totally unbefitting let alone ‘60’s beliefs it is 2002 and one badly chosen word is sure to send someone flying off the handle he watches his language carefully co-workers mostly born in 1980’s grew up in 1990’s they live indifferent to hopelessness he struggles to bear none of them believe in higher power music is their religion he wonders what their visions concerns for humanity are? they seem addicted to consumption as if it is end in itself he questions what is hidden at root of their absorption? loneliness? despair? apathy? absence of vision? where is their rage against social conversion current administration? he warns them about homeland security act privacy infringement increased government secrecy power they shrug their shoulders why aren’t they looking for answers? why don’t they dissent? do they care where world is going? he realizes they will have to learn for themselves few coworkers read literature or know painters philosophy their passions are video games marijuana “star wars” most of them are extremely bright more informed than he often Odysseus needs to ask questions they know answers to right off the bat he is like winsome uncle who puts up with their unremitting teasing “hey you old hippie punk rocker get you fiber in today? stools looking a little loose! peace out old man” in peculiar way he finds enough belonging he so desperately needs they tell him stories about their friends *** addictions eating disorders futile deaths he is bowled over by how young they are to know such stuff job includes health insurance which is something he has not had since Dad was alive having some cash flowing in he buys laptop computer with high-speed connection cell phone trades in toyota for truck opens crate of writings he abandoned in ‘80’s begins to rewrite story sits blurry eyed in front of computer screen his motivation has always been to tell truth as he knows it he wonders what ramifications his labor will bring positive or negative results? he guesses his story will sound like children’s fable in stark brutality of distant future october 2002 3 week ****** spree terrorizes maryland virginia  district of columbia 10 people killed 3 critically wounded police believe white van responsible october 24 man and 17-year-old boy arrested in blue chevy caprice juvenile is shooter assailants linked to string of random murders including unsolved shooting of man at golf course in tucson Odysseus mentions incident at work speaks of prevailing terror madness in america co-workers kid tell him he is crazy “did you see a white van parked outside the store Odys?” they seem desensitized to increasing national atmosphere of anger panic or perhaps they are overwhelmed by weight trauma of modern life lie after lie prevailing  havoc slaughter make for dull numbness in world they know suicide is compelling option december 22nd 2002 joe strummer dies from heart failure at age 50 Odysseus’s eyes wet he adored the clash everything they stood for loved joe strummer and mescaleros he plays “global a go-go” over and over listens sings along with first track “johnny appleseed” march 2003 president bush launches attack against iraq united states seems drunk with “shock and awe” zealous blind patriotism many people politicians countries around globe question unproven line of reasoning saddam hussein possesses “weapons of mass destruction” Odysseus gripes “not another **** vietnam” record company allows employees to check out take home used product Odysseus stopped watching movies in 1980’s he has lots of catching up to do particularly likes “natural born killers” “american history x” “american ******” “fight club” “way of the gun” “******” “king of new york” “basquiat” “frida” “*******” “before night falls” “quills” “requiem for a dream” “vanilla sky” “boys don’t cry” “being john malkovich” “adaptation” “kids” “lost in translation” “25th hour” “28 days later” “monster” “city of god” “gangs of new york” “**** bill” list goes on perfect circle becomes his favorite band followed by tool lacuna coil my morning jacket brian jonestown massacre flaming lips dredg drive-by truckers dropkick murphys flogging mollies nofx stereophonics eels weakerthans centro-matic califone godspeed you black emperor magnetic fields fiery furnaces dresden dolls smog granddaddy calexico howie gelb sufjan stevens warren haynes dax riggs john vanderslice alejandro escovedo sean paul elephant man bjork p. j. harvey ani difranco aimee mann cat power sophie b. hawkins kathleen edwards mia doi todd kimya dawson regina spektor carina round neko case fiona apple nina nastasia beth gibbons mirah rasputina dr. dre talib kweli immortal technique murs slug atmosphere trick daddy eazy-e tricky list goes on october 21 2003 elliott smith commits suicide stabbing 2 wounds into his chest Odysseus thinks about music when jimi hendrix stood up at woodstock deconstructing national anthem on guitar it took courage when punk emerged with ugly screechy sounds attempting to divorce itself from melodious harmonies of 1970s complacent crosby stills nash  the dead kennedys and *** pistol did not pander to conventional commercial success what they performed were desperate gutsy songs trying to reclaim music rock’n’roll is no longer about inventing instead it imitates its glorious past hip-hop and rap come nearest to risking rebellion but are caught in gangsterism infantile self-adulation no longer does music offer vision of what is or could be instead it conjures looping escapism from hopelessness of modern life he continues working at record shop for several years store contains every genre of music cinema he grows weary of retail sales weary of higher-ups constantly changing rules dictating what to do head manager is manipulative drama queen thrives on crisis once in private admits stealing from company Odysseus nods not knowing what to say head manager works Odysseus hard keeps him down atmosphere of conspiracy betrayal hang at start of each day assistant manager routinely taunts berates bullies teases regularly calls Odysseus “dumb-****” or “****-up” other times laughs after goading Odysseus to flinch eventually bully backs off and they become friends retail pushes Odysseus to brink of misanthropy corporation requires all employees to exercise overt courteousness while serving a public of disrespectful gang bangers demanding “show me black market brotha lynch mac dre why ya godda keep dat **** behind da counter? dat’s ****** up hey old man i ain’t got all day” it always amazes him when shoplifter is caught with product stuffed down his pants thief blatantly states “i didn’t do it i don’t know how that got there” thanksgiving through christmas to new years is most swarming stressful he feels like automaton greeting customer scanning product looking at screen to see if price agrees with product typing money amount counting money into drawer counting money out handing change to customer handing customer product receipt next customer cockroach capitalism packs of masses line up in endless stream of needs stupid remarks job also involves trade appraising condition value resale probability of cds dvds video games tapes vhs vinyl news of  iraq war gets dismal mounting civilian casualties suicide bombers hostages beheadings beginning of 2004 reports of torture ****** psychological abuse **** ****** ****** of prisoners at abu ghraib prison guantanamo bay white house cover-ups denials growing insurgency increasing u.s. body count other costs he thinks about men and women who are so much braver than him then comes re-election and lavish republican parties parades cheney rumsfeld tom delay and whole regime smirk portentously on tv none of it makes sense anymore “we the people of the united states” what does it mean? the dreams and aspirations of his generation have long since faded away he is citizen of forgotten past current world is barbaric place he barely recognizes there are real pirates with machetes rocket launchers on the seas big drug corporations hiding harmful findings kidnapped children abandoned children crooked politicians corruption at every level of society horrifying stories daily ******* priests slave markets extreme heinous cruelties abruptly everyone is acknowledging society is worsening life is not the same he does not understand people and certainly does not understand america or the world he remembers when all could be so good modern existence has turned everything into madness what happened to lessons of history? it is as if Odysseus fell asleep and when he woke everything is changed he is mistaken about what he thinks he knows feels pity for people america pity disgust sorrow he misses his dog
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
A true story of a chance gathering of strangers in the back room of a Gelato Parlor *** restaurant, two years ago, in a little village near the bay, on a land surrounded by vineyards. Come visit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gelato Nation

There is a place,
location secret,
mine to keep,
mine with which
you to tease,
make you envious,
a back room 'office'
jealous guarded
by a barkeep,
whose chosen invites sweeps
you into a reality that is
what you will it to be.

But nota bene, note well,
remembrances of things swell
from your past be the
only tongue spoken here.  

Code word entry only,
a shared whisper.
Perhaps One Woman,
may reveal its pleasures,
if she so chooses,
which are:

gelato laughs, poetry snaps,
Beatle songs sung ensemble,
by rag tag strangers
self-collected accidentally,
sung de rigeur off key
by voices lubricated by
cognac, laughter, and
the coldest of white wines,
issue of the very soil
upon which we sit.  

Words to value properly,
not in my possess to capture
the few moments in time when;

Strangers transform themselves
into a triple A nation united,
that will never be
S&P; downgraded.

A holy alliance
celebrating July 4th
all night long,
all participants
signatory witnesses to
its gelato conception,
as well as pallbearers
to its last drink dissolution,
the fullness of its lifetime
a vintage of a few hours extant,
a vintage, once drunk, is
a history, forever gone.

Mixologists please record:

One playwright, a psychologist, bond trader and a social scientist
with a dash of museum director,
and do not forget the
Hundred Year Old Woman,
whose Dowager Princess Daughter
(she, a mere eighty)'
from Central Park West
clarifies all of life dilemmas with
the singular analytical tool of:

But is it good for the Jews?

But t'is the barkeep
who is the leavening
in this evenings human
pastry-petrie dish.


He makes the pastiche,        
the ions of personalities,
coalesce best,
guitar strummer,
singer of songs that were our
multiple national anthems
when we were pseudo-rebels
starting out on our
long and winding roads.  

Long the King of the Keep!
Long live the memory of our
Gelato Nation,
may it stay sweet in
our antique collection of
the best moments of
our intersecting lives.

July 2011
You couldn't make this stuff up...it was an Amerian moment....Frank the owner instigator passed away in 2019.  we  take the grandkids to his gelato place very time they visit
B Woods Dec 2009
coffee in the night wakes me for the evening,
sipping as I listen to cool tunes
from the lady strummer sooth,
oh the taste of a nice fresh brew,
potent and dark, the caffeine streams
through blood to the brain,
nice quick buzzbuzzbee
in my head.
reprieve from the shop to the abode no one knows,
down the road curved heavy I strode
and sank deep into muses sweet song,
echo ear to ear soul soothsayer,
calm coffee nerves,
trade lines of rhyme
in a compact black
notebook of wonders belonging
none other to d-bake,
spirit of the sun, wandering peace beast
with worthy words and steady grooves.
come midnight go and its time to depart.
come home to dark demons
seeping 'round corridors and corners,
peeking for a sight of frightened prey
to pounce on invisibly,
startled through and through,
spooks steering to insanity, must
seek shelter ‘**** covers with sleepytime tea.
long discussions over late telephone,
with lady of dreams come true,
of one consciousness such that no puzzle piece
stands apart and one love
binds the confines of it all ,
mind shatteringly simple yet
most don’t seem to see
the beauty of all infinitely one.
kirk Nov 2018
I knew they'd be more sightings, it looks like I was right
The day has arrived once again, where things have come to light
Shinning armour is absent, and there is no gallant knight
Oh Annette, there's only Den, and your chastity's not tight

It seems Miss Tidy has returned, she's covered a long span
**** escapades displayed again, written by a big **** fan
***** heifers filled Cow Pies, diving in like Desperate Dan
I wouldn't mind a go myself, because I am a man

Bus stops and phone boxes, seem to be your mainstream media
Your depicted as a ****, and your appetite gets greedier
Every time that you appear, your antics are more seedier
Be careful of your infamy, you'll end up on Wikipedia

What the hell is going on, you've resurfaced once again
There's no accounting for good taste, with ******* different men
I don't know if it's better ***, than your getting from old Den
Oh Annette if you get judged, it'll be a Ten from ***

Bus shelters are the place, to read about your ***
Showing intimate parts of your life, like the local multiplex
Written words like **** and ****, are nothing to perplex
It's obvious what's going on, its hardly that complex

If **** *** is preferable, if it's not just a passing whim
You can lick my exposed ****, and I'll give yours a rim
A tight *** is just as good, as a nice warm ****
Oh Annette untidy your legs, and we'll go out on a limb

**** *** excites me, but there's just one small detail
Is your *** completely free, or is your **** for sale
If you use lubrication, then it never will get stale
Naked flesh I really like, that's probably cos I'm male

If telephone boxes we're obsolete, if bus stops did not exist
Where would Annette's news be then, from the *** obsessed artist
Would he try a public lavatory, would he have a different twist
Oh Annette If writings ceased, *** stories would be missed

George Formby leaned on lampposts, but I'm not sure I'm a strummer
Unless you count a *******, and you are a heavy ******
I'll wait until you come by, for one hell of a good ******
Outside in the night light, so much better in the summer

Could you be a lovely girl, or are you an ugly *****
**** ***** and ***** *****, are just the local lingo
Oh Annette if you want ***, don't wait too long in limbo
I can do it on all fours, as well as legs akimbo

Softer holes are better wet, **** positions don't much matter
Whether it is *******, or laying a bit flatter
Certain parties can be fun, if your naked on a platter
A very happy unbirthday treat, I'd share with the Mad Hatter

Do you bite as well as ****, be rough and rarely gentle
let passion take control of you, cos I'm not temperamental
You seem to be the kind of girl, to be experimental
It makes no difference if your a ****, it isn't accidental

There's nothing wrong with ***** *****, if they are never shut
Open all hours is quite fun, when you're an **** ****
I hope you have "**** Handles", that are looming round your ****
So Annette relight my fire, I don't want my long wick cut

Come on now be daring, because you seem like an old friend
I hope your ****** preferences, are not just a passing trend
So much is known about you, with all that has been penned
If your into *** ***, then give your **** a lend

Just how many blokes you've had, well I don't have a clue
There's Den of course but now and then, you try someone new
It doesn't really bother me, if you've had quite a few
You could be in fetish films, if your backdoor is blue

Perhaps I have misjudged you, and you are a teachers pet
And everything that has been said, is something you regret
But If the rumours are all true, then I would not forget
To stuff my ***** up your ****, and I'd say oh Annette !
What can I say about Annette Tidy, as you may or may not know, I discovered writings concerning Miss Tidy's shall we say carnal activities in February 2016, there we're further details of her misdemeanours 2 years later. Both sightings inspired me to write a poem the first of which is titled " Oh Annette Tidy" .
After the second sighting I then wrote " Oh Annette Tidy's Back Again " I thought I was done with our Annette until I began writing this new poem, so you might say the Annette Tidy saga has now become a trilogy of **** escapades, I hope you enjoy it and I wonder if this will be the last we will hear from Annette Tidy ?
Micheal Wolf Jan 2013
It's not a person or what she sees that makes a twitch between her knees.
A gentle rub a closet pressure can make her lips rub together
Once she's off a little moist then a thought is uppermost
Where oh where today can mystery man get me laid
In the park or on the stairs
With or without my underwear
From behind to start or end
Imagination is her friend
Of to the loo she must pop
To finish off her sacred spot.
Returns to desk with inner warmth as shes just strumed and now is calm.
Inspired by a rather off the wall conversation I suspect I should A. Not have listened to and B. Probably not written about. If it offends its not intentional. Just an observation
When the night starts falling all too soon
And by 4'0'Clock you can see the moon
And the depression that wracks you to the depths of your soul
Rolls over all of your hope and takes full control
When you just hold your head in your hands
You don't have the strength to take a stand
When you feel like you're at the end of your rope
And you've got nowhere to place your hope
What is there left to keep you strong ?
What is there left to help you get along ?

Well I don't know about you, but I sing a song
Shout Strummer* at the sky as I stroll along
Mutter Dylan under my breath
It gives me strength with every step
These masters of the art of song
Through the years they keep me strong
You can choose your own artists to help you keep going
But to my mind these are the ones you should be knowing
Joe Strummer- singer/songwriter from The Clash.
Dylan should need no introduction
Martin Narrod Oct 2016
In the mountains of winter, hats hung to the west, on the North Star we've ridden into tomorrow instead. The natives can smell the fear that's starving your dog, that keeps the anger inside you bottled up in you alone.

And the acres subside, the girls lay in their shorts, but I hate disappointment. I hate being let down. I say you have the prettiest blue eyes that I've ever found.

In the valley, if they come, we'll read ourselves into history. Rocks for the eyes, and sticks for the knees. Against all that's wicked, inside something strong. We've all had our guts pulled out to a Keith Richards song. And the drums break, the strummer hums back, the words mix and there's a cacophony of wrong.

Even the hero will be our villain before we've come too far along.
Tarryn Mar 2013
In one fell swoop
You made everything right
In one fell swoop
You drove every hurt out
With one deep look, with one light touch
You took down everyone else
I had ever built up
Now all that's left is us
And I cannot believe my luck
You're my effervescent light
Extinguishing every past plight
You are stronger, dance better
Last longer, fly further
Kiss sweeter, sing brighter
You're a better lover, yet no fallen feather
Your gaze is deeper, your soul is richer
You're an avid listener, a better pleaser
You're no miser, nor a greaser
You're a wider reader and a soulful strummer
You're a drug I cannot decipher
You're a drug and all I wanna do is take you in
You're a drug and all I wanna do is take you higher
Trevor Blevins Feb 2016
They say that Angels play the harp,
But I'm coming to realize
That's allegorical *******.

The harp, such beautiful tone color,
(Tied to purity and innocence)
Yet have the Angels no say in the matter?

I've met hundreds of angels shrouded in cacophony.

I'm coming to realize none play the ******* harp,

Each angel marching to their own John Sousa or Joe Strummer, none alike.

Let's throw out the fascist visions of angels and know only that they are strong, and they are numerous...

They may not love you nor serve your God,

But they exist all around you,

And I implore you to know that these are your muses, your goddesses, spirits of all shapes—

Do not reduce them to harp players.
Destiny Fleming Jan 2016
CBW: Broken nails claw hollow eyes,
Lifeless breath gasps slow demise,
Stifled are my solemn cries,
Forever failed, my many tries
To work my way out of this rut, this godforsaken hole, but like dust upon rock bottom are the fragments of my soul.
The pent up pressure, the murky waters of creative flow,
Now soaks the floors like poisoned blood,
A concentrated woe.
Alas, the shadows,
my sunken home,
It's where I'm told I should belong,
And you expect a simple answer when you ask me what is wrong..

DDF: To expect a simple answer
when I ask,
"What is wrong?"
is an accusation burning in rhythm
of songs
For I know depression can be
miles long

Show me the enemy you've
fought for too long
depression
I know is strong

Show me what I can
do just to keep you

Show me the empty shell
you have stuffed yourself
into
For I promise I can mend you

Show me the animal chained
inside of you
Because I have one too

Show me the late night screams
For I can see your sadness ripping
at happiness' seams

Don't be afraid to show
me all of you

Let me help you build upon
this sadness that has consumed
all intentions of something
new

Together who knows what we could
do?

CBW: A crack in the ceiling, exposing a light?
A call from the heavens to let me know it's alright?
This twang on my heartstring,
Resonates deep inside,
Yet, why does the strummer think her good side should hide?
Her music consumed
what once writhed in the shade,
The musical beauty was who my demons obeyed,
Yet my demons are different from the ones some portrayed,
But you can easily soothe them, if only you played.
Although the music is for me, it's played for another,
You're stuck in a sort of limbo for a lover,
And it's hard to hear from rock bottom, to the top of your tower,
The music is faint unless you give it more power.
I'll be here, filling this rut with my tears, wishing that your music could reach my ears.

DDF: I watch you struggle
trying, trying
to pull yourself from the
bottom

I look down in despair
for I know this in itself
is not fair

A god I would never bring myself
to bow to
whispers of redemption in single-
minded tongue
catching my attention

My mouth opens without a warning
spewing out prayers from night until
morning

This is not music, my dear
these are my words laced with
your fear
My friend and I wrote this together. CBW is him.
CharlesC Mar 2013
She waited tables in
storied valley manor..
to a train strummer
she was mated..
fixer of hair with
energy and mystery
just these Lifedots..
revisiting the manor
Jolene since departed
no one remembered
her wispy details..
many Jolenes
only imagination
fills in...
Desires vs. Reality*
4/14/2014

Things are starting to look up a bit.
Or rather, *I'm
starting to look up a bit.
Things are still bad.
There's no changing that.
But I'm beginning to notice that not all the world is filled with such chaos.
I mean, I've always believed that there was good out there.
But I suppose I've never truly believed that there was good here.
In this town.
In these walls.
In me.

However, now I see that I've got potential.
But that's it, for now.
Potential.

I want, so badly, to be able to paint like Millais.
I want, so badly, to write like Sylvia Plath.
I want, so badly, to explore, and be ever so determined and inspired, as Darwin.
I want, so badly, to dazzle and dance across the screen, like Hayworth and Astaire.
But, alas, I can do none of these things.

I am just a girl. Nothing special. Least not to anyone else.

I cannot be what I long to be, and it breaks my heart.
I cannot paint, or dance, or sing-
but I can breathe!
and live!
and write!
Though maybe no good at all, by God, I will write!
For nothing stirs my soul like the dragging of my pen across the page.
And by God, nothing stirs my soul like the heat of those stage lights, and fifty eyes on upon me.

I may not be who I dream to be, but ****** I will continue to be until the stars pluck me from the Earth and dance with me.

Until my feet are lifted off the Earth, and I'm carried on clouds to Jupiter.
Or Venus.
Or Saturn.

And there, I shall sing with Cobain and Strummer!
And I shall laugh with Monroe and Hepburn!
And I shall write with Bukowski and Thompson!
And I shall dance with Charisse and Gene Kelly!
And I shall dine with a thousand queens, and lay in the silkiest of sheets!

But until then, I shall simply live.

I shall live a life devoted to words, and I promise to write whenever inspired, and dance whenever music plays, and sing, as loudly as I please, simply because I can.
And I promise to never promptly believe unknown truths.
And I promise to be kind to the universe.

And lastly, I promise to live,
and breathe,
and be,
because,
well,
the universe does indeed have plans for me.


Copyright © *2014 Scarlet Van Allen
I haven't been able to write like this in over a year now..
It's nice to have finally gotten my touch back.
Hope you all enjoy this.
Dan Feb 2017
~Dedicated to the memory of the brave men and women of the Spanish Republican Militias, who bravely fought in the name of true freedom and a better world for all people~

Are we good enough to see the sun rise tomorrow?
Are we good enough to ever be free?
Can we forgive those who we think crossed us?
Can we ever convince ourselves that some people are worth protecting?
Will I remember to pray to God when I need to?
Maybe for me the revolution has to be personal
I was always more of an Allen Ginsberg than a Che Guevara
I worry that if I don't look like I'm fighting I'll never be taken seriously
They need to see me bleed to know I'm serious
But even when I was younger I acted different than everyone I knew
And I always get to the parties late
And I always have to leave early
My revolution is within me
The barricades are around my heart
This is a bad strategy and I'm getting nowhere fast
My life is passing me by as I count the days until a war entirely in my head
Are we good enough to live in a better world?
Well I sure as hell know we aren't perfect
But Joe Strummer thought we were good enough
And Woody Guthrie thought we were good enough
And Peter Kropotkin thought we were good enough
And maybe that's going to have to be good enough

If you have no windows
No windows will get broken
But then again
How will you let the sun come in?
Morgan Oct 2014
I can hang my research paper
about mini gardening on my
refrigerator and hope that you
read it as you're
grabbing yourself a beer
and notice how thoughtful I am

and I can leave my type writer
next to my paint brushes, where
the tv used to sit in my living room
and hope that you will sit
on my couch and wonder
if I write about you
or if I paint pictures
of how flowers look
right after it rains

and I could hang posters of
Joe Strummer
& Charles Darwin
all over my bedroom walls
so that when
you climb into my bed you
think I'm interesting and smart

and I can compose 500 word texts
about how green your eyes are
then never send them

but that's more work than
I have the energy for this year
so I just won't bother loving you
Rembrin Hawke Jul 2014
Things are starting to look up a bit.
Or rather,
I'm,
starting to look up a bit.

Things are still bad,
there's no changing that.

But I'm beginning to realize that not all the world is filled with such chaos.

I mean,
I suppose I've always believed that there was good out there.
But I've never truly believed that there was good here.
In this town,
in these walls,
in me.

However,
now I see that I've got potential.

But that's it.
For now.
Potential.

I just,
I want,
so badly,
to paint like Millais.

I want,
so badly,
to write like Sylvia Plath.

I want,
so badly,
to be ever so determined and inspired as Darwin.

I want,
so badly,
to sing and dance across the stage like Hayworth and Astaire.

But alas,
I can do none of those things.

I am just a girl.
Nothing special.
Least not to anyone else.

I cannot paint,
or dance,
or sing.

But I can live,
and breathe,
and write!

Though maybe no good at all,
by God,
I will write.

For nothing stirs my soul like the dragging of my pen across the page.
And by God nothing stirs my soul like the heat of those stage lights,
and 50 eyes upon me.

I may not be who I dream to be,
but ******,
I will continue to be,
until the stars pluck me from this Earth and dance with me.

Until my feet are lifted off the ground,
and I'm carried on clouds to Jupiter,
or Venus,
or Saturn.

And there,
there,
I shall sing with Cobain and Strummer.

And I shall laugh with Monroe and Hepburn.

And I shall write with Bukowski and Thompson.

And I shall dance with Charisse and Gene Kelly.

And I shall dine with a thousand queens,
and lay in the silkiest of sheets!

But until then,
I shall simply live.

I shall live a life devoted to words,
and I promise to write whenever inspired,
and dance whenever music plays,
and sing as loudly as I please,
simply because I can.

And I promise to be kind to the universe,
and I promise to never promptly believe unknown truths.

And above all,
I promise to live.
And breathe.
And be.

Because,
well.
The universe does indeed have plans for me.

© 2014 Rembrin Hawke
Performed this as a monologue in one of my class's theater arts productions. It went wonderfully!
Dan Apr 2016
When you write a poem
What do you tell them?
Are you honest with them?
Do you tell them that you believe in God
That, though you are not Catholic, you believe in holy saints in plain clothes
Saints that don't know they are saints
No one can tell until they speak holy words of compassion
Do you tell them you think there is a bigger plan?
A greater purpose outside of passing off genetic material to another generation
Would they ask you what it means to you when someone says born again?
Would you tell them that you feel born again most Sundays but let yourself slip back into comfortable death the next morning?
Do you tell them about your job?
(Do they care?)
Do you tell them about your dreams?
(Do they listen to that either?)
Do you tell them that lately your dreams have been faint and you are afraid that one day you are going to wake up and not recognize the pieces that are left on the floor?
Do you tell them when you are down and out?
That you prefer using the term "melancholy"
Because it sounds a lot more artistic than "like ****"
Do you tell them that you think you sometimes swear a little too much?
That it makes you seem unapproachable
Do you tell them about your struggle to decide whether or not you want to make yourself approachable for love?
Do you tell them that maybe you saying "I don't have the energy to invest in a relationship" also means "I don't have the energy to invest in a heartbreak"
Do you tell them you have never been that great at love and you are afraid you missed every chance you had
Do you tell them you would rather dig the world
(As your heroes say)
Do you ask them if you talk about your heroes too much?
Do you tell them about the tears shed for Johnny Cash that night after you finished his memoir?
Do you tell them where you where when you heard the news of Pete Seeger's death and wished you would have learned it later?
Do you tell them about all the times you look in the mirror and tell yourself "Joe Strummer lived with such power that his heart gave out, how dare you be so apathetic, with such self pity"
Do you tell them that you love them?
Even if you don't know them that well and don't understand exactly what they are going through
That deep deep down you do secretly understand
What should you tell them when you write your poems?
You should tell them that
Grace Apr 2022
I have listened to the strumming of your song
and the way your fingers move is something I'm afraid I will never understand

the veins in your hands are flooding like rivers
like when swords are grasped and ****** into battle

you fight the air with your songs
and the water with your melody

and orpheus might turn, again, at you who plays for the pleasure of the gods -
yet it is not for them you play,
but for yourself.

and that is purity.
Torin Mar 2016
I had a dream about the *** pistols
Which was pretty odd
Because they were playing songs by the Dead Kennedys
I said this be ******,
I would rather jam to the clash
Joe Strummer was pretty cool
Grace May 7
I want to write a song for you but you are the strummer,
the player,
the gentle wrist flicking up and down,
the echo in the cavity,
the vibration of the strings
and the voice that sings.
I believe in the sacrament of art and work
because the guitar grew with you, gave you sunlight
Grace Mar 15
the strummer violently strums,
a glassy stare, and makes it into a graceful nell.
vibrations in the air tell me what she is saying in silence.

— The End —