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Savanna Mar 2014
We always know where our towels are so we can help each other out
‘Cause we protect each other without ever a doubt

Even when one swears the other has puddin’ in their head
We still trust each other, both with guiding and being led

Whenever you have a Hat-and-or-Wig Party, I’ll be there
Because while three’s company, us two is a constant pair

I’ll be the first to reward you with five minutes of uninterrupted eye contact
Because always supporting each other is our unwritten contract

I’ll sit and watch a movie with you, even if it’s Sweded
Because just hanging out with you is all that is needed

Even if all we did in a day was roll in ze hay
I know that we would still have fun anyway

Whether anyone says we were brought together by fate, destiny… or a horse
All that matters is that we are forever family on the same course

Even if there’s no meteoroid, severe loss of blood or death,
We’re there to help each other ‘til our last breath

We read one another’s thoughts and understand code words like oi
Which means we ‘get’ each other more than any girl or boy

I hope we both have enough shoes to last us a lifetime
So we have all the time we need to quote movies and rhyme

I’ll only ask you to hold my sweet potato pie; you’ll never have to wear it
We are always each other’s partner and we’ll never have to split

I would cross The Wall anytime if it could help somehow
Because I would do anything for you that possibility could allow

If you were eating junk and watching *******, I wouldn’t come out and pound you
I would sit down and join you, and just claim I had the flu
Movie quote sources in order: Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy, Swan Princess, Yes Man, Baby Mama, Be Kind Rewind, Young Frankenstein, Tangled, Two Weeks Notice, The Italian Job, Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium, I Robot, Stardust, Home Alone
Nick Burns Jul 2010
She has a presence in this room
that hangs like death in the air;
with scripted apologies,
as if we are unaware.
she swears,
but no one really cares.
she swears.
but, why would anyone care?

Her words, they smell of ****,
like a crooked spasm of a fit
over nothing to be seen;
some imaginary being.
She swears,
but no one really cares.
She swears and she swears,
but she's just a culprit *****
of the ******.

Her words, they smell of ****.
NBURNS 2010
When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue;
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told.
    Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
    And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
Steven J Kelly Nov 2018
There’s a lady in the Methodist Church swears she’s Elva
She’s the lady that gives out the Wagon Wheels and the Tea
There’s a lady in the Methodist Church swears she’s Elva
And to Elva I’d like to thank her from me.

To Elva we give a cheer she’s a fantastic Volunteer
With tea, and biscuits, and wagon wheels.
To Elva it is no big deal

There’s a lady in the Methodist Church swears she’s Elva
She’s the lady with the wagon wheels and tea.
There's a lady in the Methodist Church swears she’s Elva
And maybe she should receive the OBE

To Elva we thank you for your time you give. We are the befrienders boys James, Martin, Jo, Mark, Garth, and Me
And you make such a beautiful cup of tea

There’s a lady in the Methodist church swears she’s Elva
She the lady with the Wagon Wheels and Tea
There’s a lady in the Methodist Church swears she’s Elva
And to Elva you fill our hearts with glee

And from the Befrienders Boys We’d just like to say
Thank you for the Wagon Wheels today
Thank you for the Tea, and The Coffee,
and the time that you give
© COPYRIGHT Kellywood Productions 2012-17 All Rights Reserved.
Even as the sun with purple-coloured face
Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheeked Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn.
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-faced suitor ‘gins to woo him.

“Thrice fairer than myself,” thus she began
“The fields chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature that made thee with herself at strife
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

“Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know.
Here come and sit where never serpent hisses,
And being set, I’ll smother thee with kisses.

“And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety:
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty.
A summer’s day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.”

With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth’s sovereign salve to do a goddess good.
Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.

Over one arm the ***** courser’s rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blushed and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens—O, how quick is love!
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove.
Backward she pushed him, as she would be ******,
And governed him in strength, though not in lust.

So soon was she along as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips;
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown
And ‘gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips,
And, kissing, speaks with lustful language broken:
“If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open”.

He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;
Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks.
He saith she is immodest, blames her miss;
What follows more she murders with a kiss.

Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuffed or prey be gone;
Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends she doth anew begin.

Forced to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face;
She feedeth on the steam as on a prey,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace,
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
So they were dewed with such distilling showers.

Look how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fastened in her arms Adonis lies;
Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes.
Rain added to a river that is rank
Perforce will force it overflow the bank.

Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;
Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets,
‘Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale.
Being red, she loves him best; and being white,
Her best is bettered with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;
And by her fair immortal hand she swears
From his soft ***** never to remove
Till he take truce with her contending tears,
Which long have rained, making her cheeks all wet;
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave
Who, being looked on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave;
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.

Never did passenger in summer’s heat
More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;
She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn.
“O pity,” ‘gan she cry “flint-hearted boy,
’Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?

“I have been wooed as I entreat thee now
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne’er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every jar;
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,
And begged for that which thou unasked shalt have.

“Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
His battered shield, his uncontrolled crest,
And for my sake hath learned to sport and dance,
To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest,
Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.

“Thus he that overruled I overswayed,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain;
Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obeyed,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
O be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mast’ring her that foiled the god of fight.

“Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,
—Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red—
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.
What seest thou in the ground? Hold up thy head;
Look in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies;
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?

“Art thou ashamed to kiss? Then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night.
Love keeps his revels where there are but twain;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight:
These blue-veined violets whereon we lean
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

“The tender spring upon thy tempting lip
Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted.
Make use of time, let not advantage slip:
Beauty within itself should not be wasted.
Fair flowers that are not gathered in their prime
Rot and consume themselves in little time.

“Were I hard-favoured, foul, or wrinkled-old,
Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O’erworn, despised, rheumatic, and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,
Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee;
But having no defects, why dost abhor me?

“Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow,
Mine eyes are grey and bright and quick in turning,
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning;
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve or seem to melt.

“Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,
Or like a fairy trip upon the green,
Or like a nymph, with long dishevelled hair,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen.
Love is a spirit all compact of fire,
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

“Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie:
These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky
From morn till night, even where I list to sport me.
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
That thou should think it heavy unto thee?

“Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,
Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft.
Narcissus so himself himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.

“Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear;
Things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse.
Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty;
Thou wast begot: to get it is thy duty.

“Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed,
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?
By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live when thou thyself art dead;
And so in spite of death thou dost survive,
In that thy likeness still is left alive.”

By this, the lovesick queen began to sweat,
For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,
And Titan, tired in the midday heat,
With burning eye did hotly overlook them,
Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,
So he were like him, and by Venus’ side.

And now Adonis, with a lazy sprite,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight,
Like misty vapours when they blot the sky,
Souring his cheeks, cries “Fie, no more of love!
The sun doth burn my face; I must remove.”

“Ay me,” quoth Venus “young, and so unkind!
What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone!
I’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun.
I’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;
If they burn too, I’ll quench them with my tears.

“The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,
And lo, I lie between that sun and thee;
The heat I have from thence doth little harm:
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;
And were I not immortal, life were done
Between this heavenly and earthly sun.

“Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel?
Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth.
Art thou a woman’s son, and canst not feel
What ’tis to love, how want of love tormenteth?
O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.

“What am I that thou shouldst contemn me this?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute.
Give me one kiss, I’ll give it thee again,
And one for int’rest, if thou wilt have twain.

“Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dull and dead,
Statue contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred!
Thou art no man, though of a man’s complexion,
For men will kiss even by their own direction.”

This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause;
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong:
Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause;
And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
And now her sobs do her intendments break.

Sometime she shakes her head, and then his hand;
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
Sometime her arms infold him like a band;
She would, he will not in her arms be bound;
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her lily fingers one in one.

“Fondling,” she saith “since I have hemmed thee here
Within the circuit of this ivory pale,
I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer:
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale;
Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

“Within this limit is relief enough,
Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain:
Then be my deer, since I am such a park;
No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.”

At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,
That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple.
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple,
Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
Why, there Love lived, and there he could not die.

These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
Opened their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking.
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!

Now which way shall she turn? What shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes the more increasing.
The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.
“Pity!” she cries “Some favour, some remorse!”
Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.

But lo, from forth a copse that neighbours by
A breeding jennet, *****, young, and proud,
Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts, and neighs aloud.
The strong-necked steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder;
The iron bit he crusheth ‘tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-pricked; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compassed crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send;
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say ‘Lo, thus my strength is tried,
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair ******* that is standing by.’

What recketh he his rider’s angry stir,
His flattering ‘Holla’ or his ‘Stand, I say’?
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur,
For rich caparisons or trappings gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look when a painter would surpass the life
In limning out a well-proportioned steed,
His art with nature’s workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;
So did this horse excel a common one
In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone.

Round-hoofed, short-jointed, fetlocks **** and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide;
Look what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometime he scuds far off, and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,
And whe’er he run or fly they know not whether;
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feathered wings.

He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind:
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at his love, and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He vails his tail that, like a falling plume,
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent;
He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.
His love, perceiving how he was enraged,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged.

His testy master goeth about to take him,
When, lo, the unbacked *******, full of fear,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there.
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Outstripping crows that strive to overfly them.

All swoll’n with chafing, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boist’rous and unruly beast;
And now the happy season once more fits
That lovesick Love by pleading may be blest;
For lovers say the heart hath treble wrong
When it is barred the aidance of the tongue.

An oven that is stopped, or river stayed,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage;
So of concealed sorrow may be said.
Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage;
But when the heart’s attorney once is mute,
The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.

He sees her coming, and begins to glow,
Even as a dying coal revives with wind,
And with his bonnet hides his angry brow,
Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,
Taking no notice that she is so nigh,
For all askance he holds her in his eye.

O what a sight it was wistly to view
How she came stealing to the wayward boy!
To note the fighting conflict of her hue,
How white and red each other did destroy!
But now her cheek was pale, and by-and-by
It flashed forth fire, as lightning from the sky.

Now was she just before him as he sat,
And like a lowly lover down she kneels;
With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,
Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels.
His tend’rer cheek receives her soft hand’s print
As apt as new-fall’n snow takes any dint.

O what a war of looks was then between them,
Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing!
His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them;
Her eyes wooed still, his eyes disdained the wooing;
And all this dumb-play had his acts made plain
With tears which chorus-like her eyes did rain.

Full gently now she takes him by the hand,
A lily prisoned in a gaol of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster band;
So white a friend engirts so white a foe.
This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
Showed like two silver doves that sit a-billing.

Once more the engine of her thoughts began:
“O fairest mover on this mortal round,
Would t
redemptioneer Jan 2017
riverboy swears he’s got bees in his throat,
says the cure’s in his bottles
so he’s been tossing back anything that might drown them
and copious amounts of pills he can’t pronounce
just waiting for the buzz to stop

he’s been pacing around the bus stops just thinking of a place to go
smiles softly at anyone who asks
says, “i’m just waiting for a thought to come”
he’s just holding on to the time
trying not to let the bees hum inside him

and riverboy’s eyes could make the rain jealous
even god stops just to hear him laugh
though that’s rare these days
riverboy says his voice’s just
too scratchy

too angry, too demanding
too much of the world living inside him
but riverboy swears he knows the cure
so he breaks himself a little more
as the bees hum inside him
Riverboy, you know who you are.
Logan Robertson May 2017
Lost Love


He remembers that day
many sad years ago
it was sunny out,
but soon a storm raged.

He returned home early
from work,
eager
to rest and nurse a cold.
Eager
to see his gorgeous wife
fix him a delicious soup
and give loving care,
a remedy not.
He caught a surprise.

Was it then a hallucination?
To see her ex's car
in front of their house,
fanning the flames in his heart?
Or to imagine the house shaking,
or to hear love noises howling
from the rafters of contempt,
as her fireplace warmed tempest.
He sure hoped then... it had been a misfire
it wasn't.

He slowly opened the front door,
walking decrepit and sad,
like he was in hospice care.
He could see the final script
playing out,
more so the tragic ending
the trail of clothes,
her ex-boyfriend's scent,
calamity,
and approaching closer
the devil speaking louder.

He opened the bedroom door
to their parts caught in honey jars
and scarlet red on his tainted wife
over bed sheets of shame.
Their eyes catch,
both flush, and tearful,
as breathing stopped,
his melancholy eyes asking why?
Why?
What about the future  lily pods,
our family, house, kids
... and you sell out.
What about being fresh
out of college with our dreams,
passion and honor...us.
What about the bonds,
pinky swears, pricking of blood
marital vows.
Her eyes had no answers.
She cried, loudest
as her ex-boyfriend bolted
not before passing the mill.

He closed her door for good
that mournful day,
dismissing darkness,
opening his wrath for her
in his mind, yet
what words or light can be exchanged?

Uprooted and lost, he walked
scarred over and over
by her promise and lost love.

That was thirty years ago
and he still walks with her
ghosts, and it still pains.

LR-5/4/17
Jamie Lee Oct 2018
Thinking about pinky swears under old trees
Inscripted with the carving of memories
Do you ever think of me?
A seal of forever brought together by blood from a ***** of a finger
Sisters
Disregarding names or blood and made eachother our own
Because family wasn't always there
Life never left us alone for long,
It dropped you into my lap
And I had always been proud of that
Because in a world full of nothing,
At least I had that

It isnt fair
That life is a game of volley ball and it picked you for the other team
After all the apple juice boxes and scraped knees
I never thought you'd be playing against me
Dropping the ball so carelessly
A score for you, as it always is
It has always been
Maybe I was more of a decoration then a friend- a trophey of loyality
A prized possession for the admiration of a life long friendship
Im another swish in the basket
Our friendship only exsists in a casket
Because it is dead and I cant get past it

It was life long, that was what was said
Under a swing set
Pinky swears and truth or dares
Turned to silence and hurtful glares
Its hard to break the ice when you are so cold
I dont want to hear about the hearts you break,
Hearts of gold
For goodness sake-
But none could hurt more than mine
It hurts every ******* time I look at you
And dont like what I see,
The pain your bringing to yourself and me
Hasnt been so welcoming

But I remember how the class bell would ring-
How we'd run down the steps, how we'd laugh and sing
So tell me, do you ever think of me?
I am alone with an empty swing
A lifetime of friendship didnt mean a thing
When the grasp of a a males hand will always be stronger than me
When we said boys would never be a thing that would come between
I miss when we thought they had cooties
***** me, and sue me
For thinking I had the upper hand
I'll never understand

Being the exception of the rule
You made everyone the fool-
Thinking I was special when the only one who was special was always you
I look into your eyes and I am confused
Because it isnt you
At least thats what I want to think
And what you want me to believe
Out of all the things you held to be so important
It was never me

Only when life was young and free,
Without the threshold of responsiblity
But don't come and say you need things from me,
I won't be made to be
A fool you want me to be

Thinking about pinky swears under old trees
Trees that are wilting, and our intitals will be the only thing
That is ever lasting
And all I can hear is you laughing
Overlapping the time that has been passing
And its time for me to move faster
Away from you,
Because you're a distaster
Because a romance, or a fling,
Will only be the thing that is happily ever after
And of course I will never be that
So I will tip my hat to you
I will no longer be used by you
Or used because I've been dared
To embrace the truth

So **** these trees as I burn them to their roots-
Like my roots came from you
Pinky swears were broken
And I DARE you to tell me the TRUTH
If you were lying when you said you would be there,
Or that you didnt really know or care
If you really dropped the ball,
Or maybe it was me that didn't play fair
So why would you pick me
When your classmates wanted better for the team
And I just didnt make the cut

Linked by the arm,
The Bonnie to my Clyde
Our names always stitched together
Always by my side
Your name was always on my tongue and your home became mine,
Our families knew us by name
And nothing could seperate us
Except time..

The tallys on your wall
In your old house have gotten taller
And thats fine, except its not
It went from smoking ***
And climbing trees
To scraping you off the sidewalk
Trying to get answers
When you're too gone to talk
And I am left without clarity,
Or closure,
And missing you a lot

A ***** pickled brain
Maintains the decisons that you make
The toxicity of your life leaks into mine
Because no matter the distace,
Our lives are intertwined
Blood from the ***** of a finger
Sisters
Where the bond was stronger then blood
When do I cut these ties?
When will enough be enough?
Or will you have me back in a strum?
In a musical hum?

Reaping for attention,
But you haven't been asking for mine
A sunk battle ship.
A game of hide and seek,
Except this time you didn't find me.
A game of hooky,
But I was the one being ditched
A game of truth or dare,
But you ran when the truth hit
You won this game of Clue,
But you have no way to prove it
You've hit me with your bumper car,
And I think its time to move it
We're no longer kids-
And its lazer tag,
Except you're using bullets
I have to except you're out of control
And can not control it

Thinking about pinky swears under old trees,
Old inside jokes, and silly things
Our giggling filling up the room when we were supposed to be asleep
Swingsets and secret places
Happy songs and silly faces
Wishing we could meet back here
In these sacred places
But I don't expect you to pick up the phone

A swingset,
And I'm swinging alone
Initials carved in old trees,
Thank god thats everlasting
In a world that's everchanging
But thats all that will be-
For the path your walking is too scary for me, so I will stay behind

Alone

On a swing
ah, christ, what a CREW:
more
poetry, always more
P O E T R Y .

if it doesn't come, coax it out with a
laxative. get your name in LIGHTS,
get it up there in
8 1/2 x 11 mimeo.

keep it coming like a miracle.

ah christ, writers are the most sickening
of all the louts!
yellow-toothed, slump-shouldered,
gutless, flea-bitten and
obvious . . . in tinker-toy rooms
with their flabby hearts
they tell us
what's wrong with the world-
as if we didn't know that a cop's club
can crack the head
and that war is a dirtier game than
marriage . . .
or down in a basement bar
hiding from a wife who doesn't appreciate him
and children he doesn't
want
he tells us that his heart is drowning in
*****. hell, all our hearts are drowning in *****,
in pork salt, in bad verse, in soggy
love.
but he thinks he's alone and
he thinks he's special and he thinks he's Rimbaud
and he thinks he's
Pound.

and death! how about death? did you know
that we all have to die? even Keats died, even
Milton!
and D. Thomas-THEY KILLED HIM, of course.
Thomas didn't want all those free drinks
all that free *****-
they . . . FORCED IT ON HIM
when they should have left him alone so he could
write write WRITE!

poets.

and there's another
type. I've met them at their country
places (don't ask me what I was doing there because
I don't know).

they were born with money and
they don't have to ***** their hands in
slaughterhouses or washing
dishes in grease joints or
driving cabs or pimping or selling ***.

this gives them time to understand
Life.

they walk in with their cocktail glass
held about heart high
and when they drink they just
sip.

you are drinking green beer which you
brought with you
because you have found out through the years
that rich ******* are tight-
they use 5 cent stamps instead of airmail
they promise to have all sorts of goodies ready
upon your arrival
from gallons of whisky to
50 cent cigars. but it's never
there.
and they HIDE their women from you-
their wives, x-wives, daughters, maids, so forth,
because they've read your poems and
figure all you want to do is **** everybody and
everything. which once might have been
true but is no longer quite
true.

and-
he WRITES TOO.
POETRY, of
course. everybody
writes
poetry.

he has plenty of time and a
postoffice box in town
and he drives there 3 or 4 times a day
looking and hoping for accepted
poems.

he thinks that poverty is a weakness of the
soul.

he thinks your mind is ill because you are
drunk all the time and have to work in a
factory 10 or 12 hours a
night.

he brings his wife in, a beauty, stolen from a
poorer rich
man.
he lets you gaze for 30 seconds
then hustles her
out. she has been crying for some
reason.

you've got 3 or 4 days to linger in the
guesthouse he says,
"come on over to dinner
sometime."
but he doesn't say when or
where. and then you find out that you are not even
IN HIS HOUSE.

you are in
ONE of his houses but
his house is somewhere
else-
you don't know
where.

he even has x-wives in some of his
houses.

his main concern is to keep his x-wives away from
you. he doesn't want to give up a
**** thing. and you can't blame him:
his x-wives are all young, stolen, kept,
talented, well-dressed, schooled, with
varying French-German accents.

and!: they
WRITE POETRY TOO. or
PAINT. or
****.

but his big problem is to get down to that mail
box in town to get back his
rejected poems
and to keep his eye on all the other mail boxes
in all his other
houses.

meanwhile, the starving Indians
sell beads and baskets in the streets of the small desert
town.

the Indians are not allowed in his houses
not so much because they are a ****-threat
but because they are
***** and
ignorant. *****? I look down at my shirt
with the beerstain on the front.
ignorant? I light a 6 cent cigar and
forget about
it.

he or they or somebody was supposed to meet me at
the
train station.

of course, they weren't
there. "We'll be there to meet the great
Poet!"

well, I looked around and didn't see any
great poet. besides it was 7 a.m. and
40 degrees. those things
happen. the trouble was there were no
bars open. nothing open. not even a
jail.

he's a poet.
he's also a doctor, a head-shrinker.
no blood involved that
way. he won't tell me whether I am crazy or
not-I don't have the
money.

he walks out with his cocktail glass
disappears for 2 hours, 3 hours,
then suddenly comes walking back in
unannounced
with the same cocktail glass
to make sure I haven't gotten hold of
something more precious than
Life itself.

my cheap green beer is killing
me. he shows heart (hurrah) and
gives me a little pill that stops my
gagging.
but nothing decent to
drink.

he'd bought a small 6 pack
for my arrival but that was gone in an
hour and 15
minutes.

"I'll buy you barrels of beer," he had
said.

I used his phone (one of his phones)
to get deliveries of beer and
cheap whisky. the town was ten miles away,
downhill. I peeled my poor dollars from my poor
roll. and the boy needed a tip, of
course.

the way it was shaping up I could see that I was
hardly Dylan Thomas yet, not even
Robert Creeley. certainly Creeley wouldn't have
had beerstains on his
shirt.

anyhow, when I finally got hold of one of his
x-wives I was too drunk to
make it.

scared too. sure, I imagined him peering
through the window-
he didn't want to give up a **** thing-
and
leveling the luger while I was
working
while "The March to the Gallows" was playing over
the Muzak
and shooting me in the *** first and
my poor brain
later.

"an intruder," I could hear him telling them,
"ravishing one of my helpless x-wives."

I see him published in some of the magazines
now. not very good stuff.

a poem about me
too: the ******.

the ****** whines too much. the ****** whines about his
country, other countries, all countries, the ******
works overtime in a factory like a fool, among other
fools with "pre-drained spirits."
the ****** drinks seas of green beer
full of acid. the ****** has an ulcerated
hemorrhoid. the ****** picks on ****
"fragile ****." the ****** hates his
wife, hates his daughter. his daughter will become
an alcoholic, a *******. the ****** has an
"obese burned out wife." the ****** has a
spastic gut. the ****** has a
"****** brain."

thank you, Doctor (and poet). any charge for
this? I know I still owe you for the
pill.

Your poem is not too good
but at least I got your starch up.
most of your stuff is about as lively as a
wet and deflated
beachball. but it is your round, you've won a round.
going to invite me out this
Summer? I might scrape up
trainfare. got an Indian friend who'd like to meet
you and yours. he swears he's got the biggest
pecker in the state of California.

and guess what?
he writes
POETRY
too!
i just remembered when it all began to fall apart i was in mid-thirties weary of taking advantage of women i wanted to change grow become better person more compassionate find loving respectful relationship maybe marriage i knew i needed to step away stop

chicago 1985 Odysseus is a stranger to himself living someone else’s life does he really want what Mom Dad Chris want? is he lying to everyone else or himself? he snorts another line of ******* moves on to next girl in dizzy way he is having time of his life so much occasion to waste doors to open slam rooms to pass through “In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo, and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions” thank you t.s. elliott his ****** liaisons carry on from several weeks to several months begin with him adoring some girl or she adoring him little fires that burn themselves out for his part infidelity is rarely in question instead typically he or she feels let down by some personal response or character trait and simply stops calling in actuality no girl ever bothers to stick around they follow his lead and evaporate his mind draws a blank he wonders what do girls want? Deep inside he knows nothing in life is greater than the love of a woman he would have liked all those girls to be just one girl but she is missing where is she? occasionally he will run into one of his ex-lovers on street she wears an expression that hints why didn’t you phone me back? why did you stop calling? he suspects she is playing victim in self-satisfying charade in fact Odysseus crosses into new territory it is difficult to go back he hones his edge no longer is he wonder-stuck child possessed by curiosity for girls he requires **** and kink longer buildups then urgent bursts of effort drawn out climaxes nameless girl wearing tight jeans cowboy boots braids whom he meets in drake hotel elevator pushes stop button she ***** him off he has **** *** with tan-skinned french-canadian female tourist in telephone booth on north avenue gorgeous longhaired creole girl from new orleans ***** him on fire escape stairs **** *** with skinny punk girl in dark alley dutch foreign exchange student gives him ******* between parked cars on clark street weird awkward *** with goth girl in graveyard ****** by older blond woman who positioning herself underneath table in ritzy restaurant he has *** with chatty college sorority girl in jet lavatory he goes down on nerd girl wearing thick glasses in criticism section of depaul’s library he gets ****** ****** by perfect stranger in lake michigan each evening before he goes out prowling he looks in mirror wonders what strange female he will have *** with tonight it always surprises him what a person might not admit to or accept but allow or give in to if the right moment or if the right person is there not that he is particularly the right person rather he stumbles onto an astonishing streak there is the paris/milantokyo fashion model with stylish french haircut who possesses astonishing beauty perfect ***** and haughty temper after night of too many ***** martinis and ******* she announces “you and your friends are going nowhere  you’re all second-rate artist losers! and your cousin and his group are obnoxious *******” she flips him the finger then shoves him he shoves back resulting in dual arrests and domestic violence charges there is the tall blond stripper who totally fulfills his ****** desires once she lets him insert garden hose up her **** laughs uproariously as stream of water shoots out on another occasion she requests he *** in her *** he begins to believe he will marry her she insists she is too low class for his family one night she drunkenly hurls champagne bottle gives him black eye drives away crashes her car there is blue-eyed sweetheart with divine ****** loving touch who after months of sleeping with Odysseus confesses she is ******* some other guy and swears she will be faithful in the future she begs for his forgiveness as he loses it pushes her out door throwing her clothes after her one girl lights candles gives him full body massage ******* another girl holds him tight cries pushes him away one girl writes confessions with permanent markers on walls of closet another girl slaps him yells why? why why why! one girl runs to toilet pukes passes out on floor another girl sits up all night talking teasing never relieving him another girl falls asleep snores while he is in conversation one girl makes fun of small left ******* later gossips to her girlfriends he meets girl who will do anything except allow him to enter her ****** he meets girl who is professional escort she offers to do him for free she has lots of toys videos he declines they mess around she gets him off with ******* he meets girl whose ***** hair grows to mid-thigh she incessantly calls for her dog Bertram! he meets girl who shivers moans furiously cries laughs when he climaxes he meets girl with self-inflicted scars on arms legs who only wants it up her **** he meets girl who likes gagging deep-******* him to skull-**** her harder the better he meets girl whose ******* are so fierce she loses complete control drenching him sheets with her fluids excrement he meets girl who wants ******* squeezed so tightly he fears he will draw blood he meets girl who likes to talk ***** slaps his face as he is reaching ****** he meets girl with gargantuan ***** ******* as large as thumb she gurgles hot breaths later tries to steal string of beads he meets girl who enjoys lactating on his thighs while she gives him head he meets girl who knows how to contract vaginal muscles so tightly all he does is sustain ******* inside her in order to reach ****** he meets girl who pees tiny squirts while he penetrates her **** she laughs wildly he meets girl with furry mound who requests he **** on her as she masturbates he declines she reproaches him accusing you’re not nearly as freethinking as you pretend to be in fact you’re full of ****! he meets girl who wants him to act out **** they struggle he meets girl who desires to be ******* whipped he is not into inflicting pain he meets large strong girl who forces him he never tells anyone about incident he becomes mindful many females are more depraved than him women remain puzzle to Odysseus he is repeatedly astounded shocked can never predict about girl what her ******* ****** will look like whether she has eager *** or what are her secret desires he is explorer women are vast mystery he wonders are females as sexually driven as males? are they as vulnerable? is their **** like tiny *****? he speculates if completely unknown attractive woman walks up to any average man grabs his crotch many possibly most men will willingly allow it are women that weak? more than anything what most excites Odysseus is female lust handjobs are test of adequacy distinguishing character having masturbated thousands of times he thrills in having girl do it he delights in watching her arousal just staring at his ******* is captivated by method of her fingers hands revitalized by degree of her determination throughout he needs to ****** her ******* ****** *** titillated as she licks lips after swallowing ***** he realizes if he were female he would be total nymphomaniac yet he finds it difficult to imagine desiring men are all so like him women are so strange fascinatingly different he craves their otherness Odysseus loves women more than they love themselves smell sight of them sends him into frenzy problem is he fears their power over him

it’s been 25 years since those days i live alone for many years in tucson arizona have not been with a woman for long long time last relationship 2001 with crack ***** i hang my head cry wish for love wonder do i deserve to be loved pray to be forgiven
Sally Tsoutas Apr 2015
Banned,
momentarily.
young, impetuous
stubborn and aware,
tac sharp, she merrily
swears all contraband.
trapped by parental snare
in her room of thoughts
she battles valiantly
with screaming demons,
playing cleverly,
her winning
hand.
So good to have you back iz.
Tay Mar 2015
The failing use of my right arm,
Isn't actually the failing use of my right arm.
It's just a way of keeping time.
And time is ticking.

He says he loves me.
He swears on his life that he loves me.

But love, I've come to understand,
Isn't warm like I'm told.
Love is a trap.
A greedy monster preying on my hope
And feasting on my unanswered prayers.
It's take and don't think to give back.
It's pushing until I have nothing left.
Nothing left of even my own.
Love is never looking in the mirror again,
Because you're disgusted with what he has made you into.

Long sleeves and high collars,
No plans on a Friday night,
Warning looks and cold eyes,
Bruised ribs and shattered breaths
Hands above my head and legs pinned under him.
But, still, he swears he loves me.

The failing use of my heart,
Isn't actually the failing use of my heart.
It's just a way of keeping time.
*And my time is up.
JayceeJellies Jan 2015
As she walks through the doors,
So confused and afraid.
She takes a deep breath,
and reminds herself,
Just what to say.

She knows that she can make it,
right through the day.
But she's still afraid,
That they'll see her..

And she knows that they hate her.

Once she gets up the stairs,
She swears her heart is screaming.
She can feel her lungs pulsating,
She's thinking about running out.

But she knows they'd all see her,
So she keeps on walking along.
Sweet liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,

She looks -a still,
                  Young looks can ****.

Oh it breaks my heart…
                     It won’t be mine,

Bottled-up it gets better,
                Just give it some time.

Sweet liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,

Beauty stop, you stand still,
                              Young looks can ****.

I gave my heart and wasted my time,
Let my love out, let go-o-o-o-o…
Woman on woman -my Woe!

Sweet Liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,

Here with a feeble mind,
                                 Now drinking all the time!

Sweet liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,

Plump lips, her curly hair-r-r-s,
                                 Never a boyfriend, -she swears!

Sweet liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,

That body, does it shine?
                                       I’m drinking all the time!

Sweet liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,

Sweet liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,
An Old Timey Timey about man drowning his sorrows in liquor over the loss of his woman to another woman. He becomes elated at the notion that over time liquor gets better while females appearance deteriorates over time so he is in glee thinking she lost him and without those looks one day she'll never get another man which is ironic to place that assumption upon a woman who is not attracted to men.
Sophia Apr 2018
a tear drops from her eyes
and it brings no cause
though it quivers with emotion

and the stars do not shine brighter
when polished with her briny tears
but dim their glow and listen
listen!
to her sobbing
but wait
her capillaries will burst!
stop it!
stop it!

its translucence
its opaqueness
the inherent contradictions it produces
and the images it emanates

so while her eyes may open
they are unfocused
and gone
and the click of their judgements is obscene
because her soul has escaped

where has it gone?
she swears she saw it just a moment ago
just a moment
just a moment
just a moment
To my local chippy - they're Korean-
to order a Kitkat deepfried in batter.
Odds of survival beat Macky Dee's
cold pasteurised faecal matter.
tc Jan 2016
the mid-afternoon breeze caresses her bare skin and goose bumps form as a greeting; she smiles, at nothing and at no one but the oxygen surrounding her.

the blind draped elegantly either side of her window bellows back and forth and she traces her fingertips along the hairs on her arms and she smiles, at nothing and at no one but the sheer fact she’s alive.

it’s enough to make her want to cry, to hear her heart pumping in her ears and feel it in her neck and her wrist and her chest and every pulse chanting a rhythm of approximately 115,200 heartbeats per day and as the breeze gusts in, her eyes flicker to the table beside her and therein a photograph lies your face and her fingertips stop and she swears for a second her heart does, too.

she loses a heartbeat every time she sees your smile.

she remembers the day vividly, you wore that blue checked shirt because she asked you to and you smelled of morning dew and winter fog; she searches for it in every perfume shop she enters but you’re never there.

sometimes she swears you’re sleeping beside her at night, she’d bet her beating heart that you were but she can never tear the difference between reality and fantasy without you.

see, she doesn’t think she’s dreaming but when she wakes up, you aren’t there, but she swears with her beating heart you were right beside her and she raises goose bumps on her arms every morning because you would have caressed them with your own fingertips and she’s not sure if she could almost cry because she’s alive or if she could almost cry because you’re the reason she is.

she wonders, often, too often, if you look out of your window and know she’s staring at the same moon you are and she hopes the shine reminds you of her the way it reminds her of you.

she writes you letters sometimes because for the duration she can hear your voice replying inside her head and you’re right beside her, she swears you’re right beside her but she drops the pen and you’re never there.

sometimes, when she lights candles, she wonders if it’s the fire you caused inside her that lights it and she wonders if you know she’s slowly being burned alive. she wonders if you are, too, if maybe when you’ve both whittled to ashes the breeze that she welcomes every morning will help her to find you again.
Squanto Feb 2014
I practiced my sassing in the bathroom mirror
in all seriousness until a grin and a giggle escaped in spurts.
Watching unfiltered laughter chase after
the string of bad words exiting my ****** mouth.
Lethal darts trailed by curls of silk ribbon.

Insulting my reflection wasn't nearly as satisfying as racing around on my bike
letting filthy words fly into wind that tangled my hair.
As far as I was concerned there were too many things to curse at
outside, where I belonged.
Less spankings, more freedom.

It's fair to say I was an active *******,
never waiting around for reactions.

This was my first time trying on the four letter word sweater.
I certainly didn't know how to wear it. Felt funny,
the way your stomach feels when it drops.
I liked this swearing business.
I liked it a lot.

My days were rich with aimless curses
tasting of cotton candy and I fancied myself quite the sass master.
Telling chattering squirrels that they were "stupid *****"
as they spryly leapt limb to limb.  I was filled to the brim with
pleasure found in profanity.
I rode on towards the frosty haired couple driving my way.
I considered ditching the bike to run laps around the snail paced Pinto
while chanting all of my favoritest swears.
But they were "old *****" so I left them to that.

I continued to grace cats, curbs, and cars with cross words,
smiling all the while.
It felt good
Real good.

I told off every ****** thing on my block
several times a day.
My seat melded to heinous purple bike's.
Handle bar tassels whipping my wrists, shaming me.
Beads on my spokes telling me they were sick
with the click and clack of my wheels turning, covering every inch
of that dead end street.

One day I rode swiftly down a retired grassy path behind my little house
towards the majestic tree that had cradled me in its branches many times.
It's massive leaves had raised the hair on my slender arms
as I hung with my crown
upside down, legs halved over steady limbs.

It had met my mother as well.
Her gentle voice coaxing me from its arms for supper,
sitting pretty on our back porch,
petting our fat grey cat and pondering things beyond the tree and I
in the early evening glow.
Upon my approach I can only assume that the tree was pleased to see me
despite my new found nastiness.
Wise enough to know that it wasn't a "dumb *******"
and that it wasn't going to "go to hell"

and neither was I.

So it moved from an ancient position and proceeded
to lace its twiggy paws into my hair,
yanking me and my deep seated smugness
promptly off the old bike.
Contrary to my prior endeavors mastering the casual cuss,
I opened my mouth finding curses replaced with crying
for my mother, who couldn't hear me,
resting 40 miles away through 6 feet of still soft soil.

Rooted in the same dirt, both my mother and the tree.
Silently vowing to love me well. Keeping each other company
in sediment whispers, echoing.
Jay Feb 2014
There once was a man whose name was Moonie
He was a very handsome man
His skin was sun kissed, dark like a brown bears fur, soft like a baby's curl
And oh, the way his hair curled
Moonie had hair that grew outward instead of downward
His smile was as white as the snow capped mountains
His heart as warm as the coast of Australia, all year round
He smelled like matches and Dark Horse cigarettes
Like everything warm
He dressed like a professional troublemaker
His laugh came from his stomach when he laughed real good
And I've never heard him laugh bad
He loved like a father
Protected like a brother
Teased like a sister
And worried like a mother
He cursed like a sailor
But only when he was angry
Moonie had a fuse so long that if you lit it in January, it would take a whole 365 days for him to explode
But by the time 365 days past it was a matter that didn't really matter anymore
He had a mind like a turtle
He thought thoughtfully, slow and subtle
But he spoke like he knew every wonder of the world
He kissed babies and broke bottles on the backs of ships carrying soldiers off to war
Even though he was confused about what they were fighting for
Moonie spoke of peace and of hope for future souls
He loved everything from the edges of the universe
To the coral that grows in the deepest of the oceans coves
Moonie met a girl, who brought a whole lot of sunshine to his world
She made the lips of his mouth curl
Upward, it was a beautiful sight, especially with teeth that white
Moonie met a girl, he swears by the stars that she is incredible
Magnificent
Wonderful
Beautiful
Terrific
He says she makes his heart 10 times larger, like it's flowing out so much love that it makes his nose runny,
He calls her Sunny

There once was a girl named Sunny
She was a very beautiful girl
She had curly brown hair that fell just short of her shoulders
Skin that was kissed by the angels themselves
If you believe that kind if thing exists
She dressed like an artist
The kind that like to paint masterpieces
With every curve of the brush
She smelled like summer, like home, like sunshine peaking through rain clouds
She planted roses for those she lost,
In hopes of continuous growth and beauty
She spoke with the authority of an officer
But also with the gentleness of a butterfly
Her personality was layered like a Russian doll
And as you opened up every part of her she grew so very small
But not small in the bad way,
She was wise like an owl
But she was happy like a child at play
She cared like the ocean cares for sea creatures that swim in its depths
She cried like it was always rainy season
She laughed with a sadness in her eyes that was easy to detect
But she was happy
And she loved a man named Moonie
And he made her happy
And she swears on the rings that circle Saturn
That he is the most beautiful man on the planet

Sunny and Moonie lived together in a cozy home by the ocean
Where it was never too hot or too cold
They had a beautiful garden, that sprouted all different kinds of things,
Pumpkins that grew tomatoes
Watermelon that grew on trees
Potatoes that grew above the ground
Flowers with yellow stems and baby blue leaves
Beautiful birds flew around, bluejays with mocking jay wings
Their family was the world around them and they wanted and needed for nothing
Moonie was so happy
Sunny was so lovely
The things that they did, how incredibly they lived
How wonderful life had become
When moonie and sunny both lived as one

Then one day when Moonie was down by the beach
Sunny was in their little green house, fast asleep
Moonie slipped on a snail shell and fell into the pretty sea
When it got late Sunny worried and went to see
She called and she called
Moonie was nowhere to be found
He had fallen asleep forever, in the ocean's underground
The sharks and the octopus found Moonie and buried him deep
The sea urchin said we must bring him back!
But the turtle insisted that we must let him sleep
The flounder found Sunny by the shore and they brought her the news
The look in her eyes was as if her heart had been bruised
She look to the sky as dark clouds rolled in
The raindrops dropped to the rhythm of the tears on her skin
Her Moonie was gone forever in the ocean blue
She threw herself into the ocean saying take me with you
The flounder, the turtles, the mer-people and creatures of the sea
Tried to stop her from suffering the same fate as her dear Moonie
But she would let them save her as she fell into the deep,
Whispering, I love my Moonie and my Moonie loves me
She sank and she sank
She fell and she fell
She floated right next to her love
In the oceans pink sand
The most beautiful death in all of the land
Moonie swore by the stars that his Sunny was magnificent
And Sunny swore by the rings on Saturn that Moonie was the most beautiful man on the planet
They died together but they're souls rose separately
Moonie rose for the night
His love rose for the day
Sunny became the Sun
Moonie became the light that snuffed out the darkness of that day
And as they lived in their respective spots in the sky
They saw each other from time to time
They might have been punished for loving too much
Or they might've loved so much that the universe needed them to take care of us
For the Moon now takes care of the oceans tide
And the Sun takes care of you and I
I think Sunny and Moonie had it right
Even though they no longer see each other everyday,
their love is something you don't have to look so far to find
Maybe that's why you sometimes find the Moon and the Sun in the same sky
They're so close to finding each other, but they have so little time
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
'Oh, when will you return, my love?' wondered Kourê,
   as she lays on the daybed, in the cradle of                        
          Spring's clime; how the nights and days make                        
her so weary, as the yellowed flames sway idle              
So many flowers sent,                                            
each rich with memory.      
Violets coiling around the triumphal arch;              
His smile after their first kiss under
the flushing dawn.
Starlings who sing ever so sweet;                              
the song of him preaching of her being
                       a bright glory before others.
Crystal chandeliar that hangs from the ceiling;
                            Her on a small bench, his hands massaging
                              warm oils between her fae-sculpted
      feet and toes.
The roses; a rouge kiss in the light of the shade
          The harp; a white daybed draped
                            with a scarlet sheet.
She yearns for a hug from him, bathing ****
          in light, as their hearts beat in sync
                              and reach the sky.
All she wants is a sweet rest, his hand on her
fine head;                                                
            stroking, sighing, eyes shining,              
                  water that trembles between fingers,
happiness linger!
A feather drifts earnest, the glittering of stars,
And now she cools, recalling their sweet        
goodbye as he rides his mare,
            snow cloak shines eternally.
'Yours is a beauty that will never wilt,' he cooes,
placing a rose in her hair.                  
A rose.                      
A rose...        
Her eyes falls on the white rose in the vase,
              lonesome, thornless proud...                  
We marvel its beauty, its earthbound performance                       
 She holds the rose in her hand, staring at its                    
its crowning glory; petalled virtue
By her ivory velveteen fingers                                          
long finger,
               slim thumb-
She plucks petal by petal by petal by petal
as she looks to the day-sky
                      with a dreaming mind
And when the crown is gone,                            
                       her face is touched by a frown                        
                and the naked stem,
                                    marred by her sensitivity-
                                            ***** of its own beauty-
                                                    for her hand's sake,
her yearning for her lionesque lover,              
                                         and aurorian prayers?          
The stem falls, naked and bald on the ground
    as she closes her eyes, saddened...
She cannot bear the sight of snow-kissed            
flowered bays without the sun,
                   her hymn-
                                  her shield-
Know the true secret behind the red, red rose  
As none know of its venomous mantle    
this Rose lingered in the vase only to be
defiled.
Taken advantage of only to
                            be dumped-
A laughing stock as another more beautiful
                            flower will take its place
Boiling with vengeance, the stem is hale,
jade with envy-
                                               barbed with thorns, a poisoned desire
                      to shield its body,
Its pride, its crown stolen-
                                     From snow to blood-
                                                    its pain turned crimson,
No longer will tears of dew fall!
'It matters not,' Kourê thinks, 'another rose will bud.'
For they, like many perennials and sentient life,
                          are conscious of its limited beauty!
'Mine own beauty and his will last forever.'
From the light beyond,
she sees him.
                                       Her sun that rides the mare!
She runs into his embrace- a pair of happy doves
Her fingers in his gold curls
as he bends the knee,
The air lovingly cold at this display!                  
Ever so content!
                                          Blessings upon the lily in the snow!
Upon her hands, the blood of a rose,
that swears vengeance upon her
for it will be the catalyst!
Blood for blood!
                                  The rose will rise and curse
them with pain ten-fold...
Final part of the free-verse!
Hope you enjoyed it!
I came up with a little sad myth behind why the rose has thorns. Why the white roses are truly red. What did you think? I have roses in my garden but I don't pick the petals, they're too pretty!
What did you think of Kourê? Do let me know!
Love you guys! Thanks so much!
Lyn ***'
Jenny Gordon Mar 2016
(sonnet #MMMMMCDXXXII)


How rain's nigh ghastly light haunts vague suspense
Ere darkness yield to after.  In the pale
Note follwing, whiter morsels chase th'exhale
Which moves atwixt these firs as if pretense
Could not decide oer snowbanks' worn intents
And newer puddles thinking of betrayl,
This fragile romance in surreal tones' bail
Lost in the flurry of just whither hence.
I want to ask you what you're doing fer
All we have overnight made me and you
Erm, us and we.  And scared but driving, you're
Not one bit daunted either.  What'd we do?
I've heard of whirlwind stories.  Aren't such poor?
You'd kiss my tear-washed face, and say we knew?

03Feb16
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=srzjOJjBHmc]Mebbe when we can do it tangled up in each other.  *needless to say, he likes this one.
Helen R Mar 2014
She was born to love the moon while
his songs hailed to the sun.
Twins, twins, twins, twins, the words sound.

Her hair is short and dark when
his is long and light.
She hunts and swears and shouts,
he sings and dances and laughs.
Twins, twins, twins, twins, the words sound.

Frost covers her mouth and
his lips are warmer than the sun.
Her kisses are harsh like winter and his
are soft and sweet like midsummer rain.
Twins, twins, twins, twins, the words sound.
MJ Aug 2017
there is
a           mess
about her,

fluttering
towards  open

    space.


writhing

below pale
skin,

refusing to sit

so structurally,
so secured

in flesh.


wildly
           bending
and      swelling,


becoming

the
           savage


she so calmly
swears

isn’t there.











*-MJS
Tommy Randell Aug 2018
For the penniless man
Who begs a coin - No grub today
You're lazy

For the tourettes man
Who swears today - No patience here
You're crazy

For the homeless man
Who asks for a bed - Find another town
You're an eyesore

For the foreign man
Who seeks to work - Move on, move on
To another shore

For the LGBTs
Who look for acceptance - No! No! No!
You're not invited!

All you pariahs and freaks
Get with the message - This is Eden and
You are the blighted

All you so called Messiahs and creeps
How else can we express it?
There is a castle of priviledge here
And we don't want you inside it.
t Jan 2015
I wondered if I was too soft, too pliable, to bendable, to breakable

I wondered if my sensitiveness would be better served on a censorship list

if it would be better to weather my own emotions until they eroded

a road not known to be so gentle

because when you're always spoken to like a mistake

it starts to be the only thing you can taste and you end up feeling less like great and more like pain

my mother swears that I am the air that she breathes

so when they diagnosed her, I hope the doctors didn't blame it on her environment

and when my friends would talk about that chick and wanna bone her

 bone would carry me back to the skeletons in my closet

while they were only concerned about getting in between that girls hips, when they ***** her

              I wanted to be that girls hips, the bones inside of her

                    because without me she couldn't move alone

                                   and without her heartbeat

                                           I'd just be bones

I can't tell you how many times my friend Maddy was battered up on   homeless plate

but we still dug out love

she was rocked quite often, but was one hell of a mountain climber

she payed a hefty price to wear his fists, and they were the most expensive eye makeup I've ever seen

when my friends would brag about how many lamp shades they would look under in their room, how many metaphorical lamps laid on the nightstand surrounding their bed

my mother always said if I let them shine in my mind, I wouldn't need not even one night stands

    I hold them high

                   spell a woman

                                a woman is a
                         man
                   on
            wo

and you can still be fly if you land on one

disrespect them, and we're kicking dirt on the land from which we all grow

while most guys are treating the inside like a candy store, I found that all the getting inside in the world don't matter until you feel like you've found your golden rapper

while most guys are wishing that girl is blind enough to see their ulterior motives

they've forgotten most women have super powers

all they see are invisible men, and I wanted to make her feel my words like brail to the unseen

I wanted to bring life to those frozen in time words once told to her

because those 'I love yous' and 'I miss yous' from her exes were paralyzed from the neck down

they were just trying to get ahead, and once alive, need oxygen to live

and sooner or later she was only living to breathe life into those words, and I wanted to breathe life back into her

my mother taught me things

she said, just because someone before you  

                             spent time in her boiler room
    
                                 doesn't mean they turned

                                              the heat on

she said, no matter who smashed you make sure you love that girl to pieces

a girl's past is like cremated ash, it's been lived already

my mother said, kisses are like stitches, they heal all wounds as long as they don't remain hidden in a bottom right corner of special occasion birthday cards

       because every kiss does not begin with k, they begin with lips

                                         and so does every life

                       It's time for us guys to start

                 respecting where

         we came

    from.
She walks the woods
Stays the night
Everyday at her Grandma's house

He knows the path
Walks with her
Silently he stalks her

"It's not me, it's the wolf"
She swears to her Granma's ghost
"He dug my skin up for treasures"

Found the bones of a pretty young girl
Hiding behind her bright blonde curls
Shed her skin on the side of the road

Picked up her coat and put on a show
"I will go to Grandma's home
And eat her heart out like a wounded soul"

She uses the last of her dying breath
To call out to the lumberjack
"He went all the way to my Grandma's cottage

He wears a disguise, my great red cape and hoody
Don't
Mistake him for another hooligan
He's the big bad wolf and he'd eat you in an instant"
Artistical Jun 2019
Let’s start this with some counting
One, two, Three
One, two, Three
One, two, Three
Three
One in three girls
In this room will
Suffer at the hands
Of the one who swears
They love you
The one who swears
They’ll never hurt you
Again
But it happens
Again
And
Again
And
Again
And
Again

Again
We pretend
It only
Happens to us
Let's do some more counting
One, two, three, four
One, two, three, four
One, two, three, four
One, two, three, four
Four
One in four of you boys
Will be affected
By the words she said
By the cuts and bruises
She caused
You have no clue
How they happened
Because it's embarrassing
To admit you got your ***
Kicked by a girl
Only due to the fact
You refuse to
Hit her back
Because you respect

More counting
One, two, Three
One, two, Three
One, two, Three
Three
Three
Three
Three women will have died today
From Domestic Violence
It's such a strange paradox
Domestic is calm and tame
Violence is a force that is intended to
hurt, damage, or ****
And from where I
Stand there is
Nothing- Nothing
Domestic about Violence

Knowing these Facts
It makes me afraid
I am afraid
to be a
Lover
To be a
Mother
Because when I look at my past

When I look at my past
I am afraid it will repeat
I am afraid
I’ll choose a man
Who beats me with an aluminum baseball bat
Like my own mother did

When I look at my past
I am afraid it will repeat
I am afraid
A man will choose me
And I’ll abuse him with my words
And he’ll take it
Like my father does

When I look at my past
I am terrified it will repeat
I am terrified
My children will
look for an escape
Like the five million children do
Like I do
This was just a topic that was on my mind...
A Mareship Aug 2014
A boy in jeans,
A boy in trousers,
A boy in braces,
A boy in blouses,
A girl who smells like summer sweat,
A girl whose makeup hasn’t set,
A boy who swears,
A boy who doesn’t,
A girl’s shoulder,
A second cousin,
A girl who smells of **** and beer,
A tattooed boy with a silver sneer,
A skinny girl who’s got T.B,
A boy who daintily sips his tea,
A girl’s left leg – bare or stockinged,
A boy so cold his knees are knocking,
A nasty ****,
A suede-head killer,
Kate Moss,
Sienna Miller,
Vivienne Westwood’s crazy teeth,
Bow-legged loons on Hampstead Heath,
Blue eyes, brown eyes, grey eyes, green,
Cold eyes, big eyes, sad eyes, mean,
Darling sweethearts in flirty skirts,
City-Boy ******* in well-pressed shirts,
Elbows, throat, wrists, knees,
A consumptive girl’s chainsmoking wheeze,
Blonde girls with their hair in plaits,
Skinny boys, short boys, muscular, fat –
Girls with pink lipstick like strawberry frosting,
I’m telling you man,
It’s ******* exhausting.
an oldie
Anonymous May 2013
Come and hear the tale of a falling
This failure of a king, his story appalling
Come and hear of his last moment's calling
This man whom we once called our king.

A mad king anointed with power in mind
Crowned by desperation, crowned by the blind
A tyrannical king; No worse will you find
For this man is a servant of Hell.

He comes and he swears in God's holy name
To cater the people and lands that they tame
But it's I who knows of his little game
The political regime that he runs.

He sits on his throne and barks at his men
Demanding the whys and demanding the when
Slowly but surely he wears the string thin;
For the people may tolerate so much.

He works through the town, donning his crown
A hat that is envied by all in the town;
For the man is rich, the man is renowned!
This man whom all call their king.

Beneath him men die, but criminals don't pay
Put them to death, that's what I say!
This kings way is in no way the right way
But we the people can do naught but pray.

But good men exist, whom jail the unjust
Good men who work to earn the town's trust
And these good men speak out, shaking out the dust
And speak out against their king

The king starts to fear, his gate is now closed
And he starts to regret the options he chose
And now by good men this king is deposed
By good men this king is denied.

Now we call him a tyrant, we call him a fake
We spit on his image, his throne we forsake
We take up our arms, pitchfork and rake
And march to his door to knock.

Some killed by guards, but good men prevail
And blood rains down like late Summer hail
And in the end we hear the king wail
His death is announced the next morning.

Good men cheer and king's men glance back
Wondering what it was the mad king lacked
Though who didn't expect his castle ransacked
For was not the king of the wicked?

It matters not in the end, you will find
Good men un-knotted this terrible bind
They laugh and jest at history behind
And cast themselves to a new king.

But this ballad of history will soon be repeated
For in the halls of recurrence it is seated
This tragic comedy of rulers so heated
This tragic tale of a king.
More at www.poetboi.deviantart.com
Frank Sterncrest Oct 2013
'1. my father told me that cedar branches thrown in the campfire crackle like strips of bacon on the griddle. as the eldest son in a farm family of nine, he made the Sun bacon every day until he was eighteen.

2. my father told me that his father said he is from the only place in the country that doesn't have an accent, and in the same breath, called that place “Warshington.”

3. no one told me that bridges burn from one end like a cigarette.

4. no one told me that smoking gets old. no one told me that one day you crawl out of your tent and throw the crumpled pack of smokes you slept on into a campfire. no one told me that every cedar tree talks to you, voice crackling in the falling ash, saying 'he is home; he has returned to the cedar and the fern,' and then swears that it doesn't have an accent.

5. my father told me that we all return to cinders. i was too busy burning from one end to listen.
Three times in my life I failed to deploy my armies on time,
failed to unstrap my armor and lay down my shields,
expose my chest, honest.
Take me.

Three times there has been an eclipse for which I wasn't equipped to see.

Sometimes I'd mistake your occurrence with that of a natural disaster.
I'd take cover.
Not willing to pardon my fears for a chance to dance with a hurricane
who identified himself as a tropical storm.
They say the difference is miles per hour.
We all know the difference is in how they allow themselves to be perceived.

On the days you touched down
beneath my armor
your aftermath was a smile that broke my face.
I was born with a need for earthquake scars but you
came to my landscape with conquer chest
convinced my natives to dance different.
You showed up with hunting, soil aggregation, and medicine.
I laid down my virgins for you in sacrifice.
In silhouette.
In your presence all my armor turned to tent sheet
transparent in the moonlight
until the fire went out.

Three times in my life I failed to peel back my Band-Aids fast enough.
Offer up my wounds for healing.
Yes, there is blood beneath these words,
there's a man on the other side of this voice, clutching
on a stone he soon realizes- his heart.
He's done slain the last of the dragons,
come back to a vacant cave, weeping
he talks to the skeleton that surrounds him,
swears the sky is as thin as his flesh,
swears he hears a voice on the other side
talking in terms of confession.

Three times in my life I can say, you're married now.
We speak to each other through veils.
It doesn't matter how much liquor we drink in tandem
or the size of the table between us
or the volume and shape of the laugh
or the impression that's left by the hug,
you're married now.

I was right to feel like a farmhouse on the wrong side of a tornado warning.
Where everything weighs nothing.

In the midst of a drought I retrofit my barnyard with castle walls,
pine over how I'm perceived,
pray for rain,
and practice my best impression of a storm cloud
because there's a man on the other side of this wind tunnel
and I'm tired of letting him down.
Faces of two eternities keep looking at me.
One is Omar Khayam and the red stuff
     wherein men forget yesterday and to-morrow
     and remember only the voices and songs,
     the stories, newspapers and fights of today.
One is Louis Cornaro and a slim trick
     of slow, short meals across slow, short years,
     letting Death open the door only in slow, short inches.
I have a neighbor who swears by Omar.
I have a neighbor who swears by Cornaro.
                                   Both are happy.
Faces of two eternities keep looking at me.
                                   Let them look.
there now is a graduate from Yale
who lies boldly
               getting red and then pale
when asked about girls
and high school beer swirls
he swears he never drank too much ale
Apropos Brett Kavenaughs very unconvincing statement before the Senate Judiciary Committee.
Mymai Yuan Sep 2010
It’s been a decade and a half that I haven’t returned back to my little home in that far away magical place. Fifteen years- exploring and travelling through the world. It was always my dream, ever since I was a young boy. Living this life is lonely. No one ever belongs to me, nor do I ever belong to anyone. Seeing a million things is marvelous, but it could be twice as marvelous with a companion to express the feelings over instead of my usual, battered black log book that never talked back but was filled with entries from all over the world. One day, I’ll publish it.

I guess the fact that I was always alone was the reason why the little home and my little mother that I use to take for granted became more and more part of me as I stayed away. The land, the gently curving hills and glassy lake grew clearer and clearer in my mind until sometimes, it was all I could see when I shut my eyes at night after a long day of work. Sometimes I would smell the soap on mothers’ skin acutely and played her voice in my head like a radio.
A blur of bright brown eyes.

I’ve been to almost every country in this world: Japan, France, America, Denmark, China and all the different continents… almost a hundred different countries. Each country held such a different (but slightly similar if they were in the same continent) flavor in the air and never failed to teach me one new thing. They all held such distinct character. Beholding the stunning sights and noticing the heart-wrenching small details of a new place was my passion. It captivated me, but the calm, steady love of my heart remained still.
Nothing touched me like the memory of home and my mother. Not the women who flickered through the chapter of my life, appearing in explosions of lust and never meaning more than ***, though some begged me to stay. My loneliness would sway my path of thinking for a short one or two week before I realized it wasn’t what I truly wanted.  
My lovers reminded me of cookie crumbs fallen from my mouth down onto my shirt- there for a brief, brief moment- sometimes picked up to nibble on or brushed away and forgotten.

Oh Love; Love never found me. Perhaps all the travel I did made it harder for Her to find me. I was never at a place for long. Perhaps She, Love, grew tired of trying to catch up with me as I crossed the seas and vast lands. Maybe She got lost one day in an Indian market with the exotic, fat fruits and glittering bangles- fading off into the air with the aroma of powerfully rich local dishes.
Or maybe I travelled away from Her, and She got left behind.

2 a.m.- On a train: the train is brand new and the metal is still yet glossy and innocent from hard rains, thick snow or fiery heat as the Southern part of my homeland is so prone to. The window is surprisingly see-through, unlike all the muddy windows covered in dust, grime, bird droppings and smashed insects (especially squished mosquitoes) I have looked out of in the past fifteen years. I think I’ll read a few chapters of that book about Cambodian culture to distract my impatient mind: sitting on this cold train that will take me home is all I can possibly think about. Hurry, you ******* train, hurry!
There is something about a train that calms me down and makes me feel all starry-eyed. It is the memory of the only girl I ever loved. A little girl I grew up with. Such thick dark brown hair, big round bright chocolate eyes and the loudest, most obnoxiously boyish laugh I have ever heard from a girl. Hmm, I recalled the small rounded chest and bottom.
We lived so far deep in the country side and one day, on an overnight school trip, the school we attended at took all hundred students on a trip to see the city for just a day. Flashes of her eating a creamy white ice cream sprinkled with tiny candies of the rainbow and standing in awe of the huge library made me smile to myself.
How when everyone was tired that night back on the train, even the teachers exhausted after an early morning and keeping a hundred thirteen-year-olds under control for a whole day, fell asleep. My eyelids were just drooping when she appeared- I smelled her first, sweet like honey with a tinge of something sour like orange or lemon peels. My senses have always been sensitive- especially sight and smell. She carefully peeled back the curtains around the bed, crept into my bunk and cuddled with me, curling her tough plump legs.
My mind flew in many wild ways- for as I said, my senses were sensitive and the curiosity and thrill of an inexperienced young boy did not help to make them any paler- and try as I might to quiet the thoughts, they leapt at her every movement.
I suppose it was her way of telling me she had fallen in love with me. Her cold monkey-feet pressed against me and whispering the night away: her tousled head as she kept sitting up to look out the window on the side to look at the stars. I sat up with her and held her against my chest. I remember wondering how my heart wasn’t bursting from the enormous love I felt for this creature in my lap, watching the dark silhouettes of trees rushing by and the black swaying fingers of rice patties illuminated by needle-point stars and a full, silver moon. The beautiful creature turned around, placed her icy finger tips on my hot neck, and gave a little sigh of relief before leaning in and kissing me.

My skin was covered in goose bumps.

Oranges are my favorite fruit.
I left her, my little home and mother at nineteen. The darling was mine till then. I wrote to her, but when she got around to replying I had already moved. And there my love became my once-loved.
The heart ache didn’t last too long. There was too much to see, I was young and full of cravings and impossible to satisfy hunger despite the countless number of women. I lived in the moment, the fiery moment of passion and life, and the memory of her were blown to wisps.
A ray of pink sunlight broke me from my thoughts and as I rushed back from the past to its future, I wondered in a haze whether she had married or not.

Five a.m. – the sun was up. The sky had streaks of dark blue, so dark it was almost black. A ****** red of a newly-cut wound ran through the sky, arm in arm with royal purple and a pink the color of a child’s lips.

Six a.m. - twenty-two or so students milled into the train chattering. The younger ones have neatly combed hair, slicked down with mousse and parted so aggressively the comb lines are visible cutting the hair in hard chunks with a paper-white hairline slicing through the scalp. The smallest one would be around thirteen and the oldest at eighteen. The oldest-looking one is very pretty with slanted gray eyes and chestnut hair- very matured for her age. A puff of powder to conceal any imperfection of her skin, and the first two buttons on her school blouse unbuttoned to hint at a cleavage of well-developed large *******. Her gaze darts over me frequently. She looks like a lover I had in Holland. I give her a small smile and she returns it, batting her lids to reveal matted dark lashes and shimmery pale blue eyelids like the wings of a butterfly. No child, only if I was much, much younger and had just left home as you will so soon.
A stench of too much perfume emits from the girl beside her. So much that I am momentarily diverted and glance up at her from my log book. I will be relieved when they leave. If there’s one thing I find extremely unattractive in a woman is an overload of perfume- it becomes a stench that is a reminder of gaudy prostitutes.

Six-thirty a.m. -  The train jolts to yet another stop and they clatter out but not before I heard the words, “That man on the train near us was rather handsome, wasn’t he?” I cannot help but chuckle.

Seven a.m. – the train has stopped at least five more stations. This is going to be a long trip. Rummaging in my packed bag for a pair of dark sunglasses I push them on, waiting for the fact that I haven’t slept all two weeks in excitement (and travelling at the speed of light half way around the world at the same time) to kick in and hit me unconscious with sleep.

Two p.m. - the dark glasses cannot block the glaring sunlight of the sunshiny afternoon. We have almost finished passing the city. The rows of buildings, large houses, one-story apartments are narrowing and shrinking in size. I know the railroad tracks have remained unchanged in destination and twenty-so years ago I took this exact same ride but everywhere is unrecognizable.  
I check my wristwatch once again even though I know the time: around nine more hours to go before it reaches the very end possible station and I take the long walk back to my little home.

Six p.m. - I talk amiably to passengers on the train. It is beautiful to hear my home dialect again. The words I speak have grown quite clumsy and my accent is rough. No matter, in two weeks time I’ll be fluent and chirping along with the same fluid accent as the old man beside me is.

Eleven-thirty p.m. – I am all alone on the train. The old man just got off at the station before. He shared a portion of his sandwich with me and a swig of beer from his water bottle (naughty old man), seeing as in my anticipation I forgot to buy any food for the day. A very interesting old man who was delighted to know I travelled just as he use to in his earlier days- quote to remember from him: “Too many people go on about this ******* of a ‘fixed’ home: Home isn’t where you live, son, it’s where they understand you. I’m telling you, that’s something so special in this crazy world.”
It is horrible to be sitting here alone counting down the minutes without a distraction but after all, it is near the last of stations and no one ever comes here anyways. There’s nothing here that could attract visitors. If I were a traveler nothing about this place would excite me very much. Yet for this first time in fifteen years, I’m not an outsider and this land promises me much. My hand shakes from fatigue- but mostly from eagerness. Little home, darling little home, I am coming!
It is a chilly, chilly winter night. My breath pants out in short white puffs. I wrap my scarf more securely around my neck, capturing the warmth as I step out from the warm train into the cold air outside. I can barely notice my environment on the way home except the path has remained unchanged. It is as if I am travelling back into time itself. After a while, the coldness turning the tip of my ears and nose pink is forgotten. All I know is each step is taking me closer and closer to home.

I finally see it. The small little house with a small brown door standing quietly alone next to other identical houses comes into my view. The little homes are clustered on the edge of a river bank, surrounding by dark green trees. The crisp rustling of the leaves in the winter breeze brings a melancholy happiness so great it makes my chest throb. I cup a tiny bit of snow from the ground in my mitten and taste it: oh the same sharp iciness on my tongue.

I wonder if she still lives in that one with the indented steps, the stairs worn out by the thundering saunter of her and her five brothers. They still haven’t bought a new flight of stairs?

The river’s surface is smooth and serene, its surface looking like molten silver rippling in the slight breeze. I remembered in the summer when we, the children, danced; splashing in the water and the elders watched lovingly.

Mother’s carefully watching eyes on me as I swam to and fro, my laughter mingling with everyone else’s. She was especially careful after that near-fateful day when I was six and foolishly went swimming in August without telling mother as she made us her special clear chicken broth. I had inhaled gallons of water before she fished me out, both of us soaking and sobbing. How wonderful it was to hold onto something warm and solid: something breathing, full of life, and I clutched onto her and she clutched onto me and my life.
Up the wooden steps… how surprised mother will be. The ghosts of memories come running to me, pounding their way towards me to greet me first as I open the wooden door with the key slung around my neck as always: mother with her hair curled in soft mocha *****, mother making an ice lollipop in the hot summers in her flower-printed summer dresses, mother swishing around the house cleaning in her blue apron, the hot fire with hot chocolate as we told stories, all the different cats we had purring in a soothing melody… Amalie and her laughing figure spread over the sofa chattering away, Amalie’s quick, hidden kisses in the corners when mother was out of the room or pretending not to look, Amalie’s long hands creeping towards mine… Amalie and mother gossiping together and mother declaring Amalie was the daughter she never had and mother eyeing me knowingly, expecting me to settle my ways and marry Amalie…

Oh little home, I am back, I am home.

I shall go lie on my feathery bed and in the morning I’ll wake up and have no idea where I am before the thought comes back to me that this morning- no, I am not somewhere around half the world away- but in my little hometown.
As sure as the sun will rise, Mother will wake up at her usual eight o’clock and I’ll be downstairs in our sunny-tiled kitchen making a bowl of porridge for her and me.
After her tears and hugs, we’ll sit down by the fire with hot chocolate despite it being early morning and the skies aren’t yet jet-black. I see in my mind’s eyes her dark eyes huge as I unravel my colorful carpet of stories and treasure box of tokens from all around the world.
Maybe after that I’ll ask her whatever became of Amalie…
I hear the tread of footsteps on the stair case. They are heavy sounds. Has mother gained much weight in her old age? She was always a lithe little woman when I was here.
A burly shape appears in the shadows.
For one ******* blindingly stupid moment I think it is mother much fattened in a fluffy night gown, her hair curled up in soft ***** yet again. Perhaps I saw what I wanted to believe despite my senses and instinct suddenly prickling up in one jolt through the spine.
And the shape emerges holding a bat and the outlines gains focus to become a bear-like man with dark brows furrowed and a mass of curls. He starts yelling at me and slashing his bat dangerously.
I raise my arms up in defense and the world swirls around me. From far away I hear my voice shaking in fear and fury, “Where is my mother!” I yell her name and I yell my name to let her know I am here. I am insane with fear for the safety of my mother. No, it cannot be that I come home on the day a demon decides to rob the house of a frail gentle angel. If he has killed her, I will- “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?!”
“What?” he asks in a tone quiet from extreme bewilderment, his grip on the bat loosens and I am quick to see this and take advantage of it.
With an explosion of violent swears I leap onto him to throttle him to death. “MOTHER?! MOTHER! WHAT HAVE YOU ******* DONE TO MY MOTHER?! I’M GOING TO ******* **** YOU, YOU *******!”
A fast pattering of feet sound down the stairs and my mind registers them to be female before I am wrenched of the man and we are separated. I am about to clutch this woman safe from the hulking beast before I notice the skin on the hands pushing my panting chest away from killing the beast are too young to be mothers’. Her hair is a dark mahogany brown, not mild coffee like mothers’.
I stare at her, silent in shock. All the fight drains out of me.
Those eyes that were once so chocolate-brown and bright have lost their sparkle in her tiredness and appear almost… dull as she turns to me.
She says my name three times before I can reply. “Sit down here.”
It is strange that she has ordered me to sit down on my own sofa in my living room. Her frosty hands guide me. “Amalie… where is mother?” I manage to stutter, all the time keeping an eye on the monster of a man.
“Listen to me” she took a few shuddering breaths, “I’m sorry to tell you this way, I wished I could’ve told you any other way but this… your mother is dead. She died five years ago.”
She watched me with an exhausted expression, “In her will she left this house to you and me because she assumed one day-” she shot a cautious glance at the man who towered in the shadows next to her, nursing
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world...  Moby ****, Herman Melville


Call me
Ishmael.

I hail
from
the clan
of Adam.

I am the
beloved
child
of Hagar;
unbowed son
of an upright
Ibrahim.

I am
the older
half brother
of Musa,
cousin to
Isa and
father to
Muhammad.

I work
in a bakery
that
overlooks
the roiling
waters of
the Nile.

It’s
owned
by an
Egyptian
General,
managed
by a
platoon
of his
hand picked
lieutenants.

I fire the
ovens,
roll the
dough
and pack
the loaves.

We bake
all day
but it seems
we cannot
quench
the hunger
that grips
our people.

My
brother
Musa
says
I bake
the bread
of tyrants
and serve it
to a people
starving for
freedom.

Musa
likes to say
if we wish
to feast at
the banquet
of liberty
we must
refuse
to eat
the bread
of fear.

In winter
our hunger
blends with
the misery
of living
in frigid
apartments.

My
dilapidated flat
in Darb Al-Ahmar
is one of a
thousand owned
by Cairo’s
most notorious
police chief.

The roofs leak,
the plumbing
is broken,
no heat in winter,
in summer
it’s a sweltering
furnace.

My home
is the
handiwork of a
cold blooded
landlord’s
indifference
to the freezing
rooms they
force us
to live in.

In their eyes,
our sole purpose
in life is to feather
their nest.

They demand
that the rent be paid
on the first of every month
and will make our life miserable
if we’re one day late
or a half a pound short.

Do they
actually
think
that we
live
only
to assure
the
warmth
and comfort
for them
and their
children?

In winter
they freeze
us into
inaction;
while
during the
summer,
swirling
ceiling fans
fail to relieve the
oppressive heat
of fire they
breathe down
our necks.

The batons
of the police
freely swing to
crack a head if
we fail to bow to
their authority
or grease
the extortionists
palms with
tributes to their
*******.

They never
shake down
their friends
that drive
the fancy
silver
Mercedes.

The big guys
roll wherever
they want.  

They
roll over
anything
they
choose.

They take
up parking
spaces in our lives;
leaving less room
for us to park
our tiny scooters.

I’m certain
the name
on their
drivers license
says privilege
and impunity.

Yet
somehow
we
always
get stuck
picking up
the tab
for
their
tolls.

Some slavishly
put coins
in parking meters
for them and get
compensated for it
by being offered
the opportunity
to wash their cars.

I’m glad
that I get
to bake
bread.

I was talking
to my friend
Isa at the
coffee shop,
he said,
“We needn't
live in a constant
state of
want and fear.”

A young man
sitting at
the next table
was a zealous
believer from
The Muslim
Brotherhood.

His name is
Muhammad,
he hands me
The Holy Quran.

My dear
Muslim
brother
exhorts
me to
submit.

He says that is
the way to a
fearless life;
free of any
need,
save
Allah’s
salvation.

My  
Muslim
brother
is firm
in his
belief
that
all
the answers
to
all
my problems
and
all
the answers
to
all
Egypt's problems
were
breathed on to
the pages of
The Holy Quran
with
The Prophet Muhammad’s
-(may peace be upon him)-
own breath;
his tongue
inscribing
the holy pages
in Arabic
squeezed
out by the
loving
embrace
of the
Angel
Gabriel.

Mubarak also boasts that
he too has all the answers to
alleviate the ills that plague us.

He’s
been ruling us
for forty years;
while the
Holy Quran
has been
with us
forever.

Our  
impatience
grows
as we yearn
for these promises
to be filled.

Mubarak swears  
he knows what is best
for the children
of Egypt.

Mubarak insists
that the way to
freedom from
want and fear
is submission to
his perpetual rule.

I get uneasy when
someone suggests
an infallibility.

I accept the
supreme dominion
and divine knowledge
of the Quran and Hadiths
but I’m not too sure
that the Imams,
politicians and
generals who
swore by its
truth really
understand
it themselves.

I am left
to question
if any of them
even see me?  

I am more of a
person then a
Muslim;
and
sometimes
I wonder
if even
Allah
has forgotten
the peril of
Ibrahim’s
children.

I wonder have
I disappeared
from Allah’s
unblinking eye
as well?

Sometimes
I look into
the mirror
to see if
I am real.

I am relieved
to see my image.

I have not
become invisible
to myself.

I am
emboldened
to know
that I am a
real person
of flesh and bones
with a mind
full of conviction
refreshed
with the blood
of a warm beating
heart.

I remind myself
I am a man,
not a faceless
subject
to be ruled.

I am an individual
not just another
submissive being
under the control
of a pious Imam.

I am Ishmael.

I recognize the fire of
life in my own eyes.

I can see the scars
of my decisions,
that my life has
etched upon my face.

I am not invisible.

I am not a casualty
of the twists of history
or the events of fate.

I take
responsibility
for me.

I am not a fish
swimming within
a giant school
trapped in an
ocean current
propelled
to a
predetermined
destination
of a well
laid net.

I am a man.

Let it be known
that I claim
responsibility
for my manhood
and I will
command
respect from
those who now
lord over me.

Like my father
Ibrahim, they
will recognize
me as an
unbowed
upright man.

They will
call me
Ishmael.

As I stand
I will raise my voice.

I will not remain
voiceless.

I am one voice
of many
who like me
have not
been heard.

We were once
grovelling dogs
that have been
transformed
into free range wolves,
set free from its cage,
we now form in packs
howling for justice.

We
will raise
our voice
in concert
so all
may hear.

We
will
make
them
listen.

They will
know who
I am.

Call me Ishmael.

Music Selection:
Muddy Waters
Mannish Boy

Oakland
2/9/12
jbm
this poem is part of a series on the Arab Spring
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
i.
The twilight moon peeps
from behind the brazen grey cloud.
Chill air coalesces into a light fog
creeping nonchalant along the street.
Orange lamp glow cascades around
dancing with the fog in osmosis swirls.
Ice blue eyes of fire and malevolence
trace a pathway through the dirge.
Zoning out and homing in,
a huntress stalking unknowing prey.
A black kitten dashes from the hedge,
across the street, up to a front door,
leaving tiny prints scattered on the lawn,
and the ice blue eyes of fire drip pleasure,
as a primal sound emerges, guttural,
but unmistakedly … a cackle.

ii.
Feint, feint sobbing punctuates the night.
As she lays curled foetal clutching her doll.
Her other hand between her thighs,
seeking in vain to reclaim her violated body.

“ Daddy made Mummy go to sleep
with sweeties from the little brown bottle
and the drink from the grown-ups cupboard,
and then he played horsey with her.
He told me Mummy had been a good girl,
and it was my turn to be nice to Daddy.
He always scares me at night
but its his way of saying he loves me.
Daddy Loves his little girl, he always says so”.

The sobbing slowly fades into … nothing,
And she knows. She doesn't Love Daddy.
Now he is watching tv and drinking beer.
Daddy hears the doorbell and swears.
He goes to answer, opening the portal.
Too late, far too late, to stop …
… the Judderwitch.

iii.
He woke. And tried to scream,
nailed spread-eagle to a wall.
Throat, dry, unable to make a sound.
And in his head he screams.
Pierced flesh with sanguin scabs
ripping agony through his very fibre.
Ice blue eyes of fire dance hooded
before him with torture and brutality.
His face erupts in pus filled cysts
to burst and seer pain on his flesh.
And in his head he screams.
As the face in the hood morphs into
the face of his little girl as he rapes her.
And he screams, in his head he screams,
and screams and screams,
as the blade slices slowly, so slowly,
and his manhood falls flaccid floor-ways.
Eyes bulge in horror,
and in his head he screams ...
And screams … and screams,
as his ribs crack, break, in his chest.
Pushing through and up and out,
like flint sharp spears of rancid bone,
and in his head he screams …
and screams … and screams ...

iv.
“Mummy. Mummy. There's kitten on the lawn.
Can we keep her Mummy. Can we? Please?”
She walks out the front door
and smiles at her daughter, the kitten meows.
She watches her little girl play,
the cat enraptured with little plaits.
“Mummy. Why can't I remember anything about Daddy?
He only went away last night”.
“I don't know sweetie. I can't remember anything either.
Not even his face. Its very strange indeed”.

A breeze chills their skin as they look
toward the Cherry Tree on the lawn.
Its leaves whispering their sylvan symphony.
But all they heard was …
… cackling.
And the feint, feint sound
of somebody
still
screaming.

© Pagan Paul (04/04/17)
.
Anna Mendes Dec 2013
She's got that air of innocence about her
Untouched, untainted
Draws all the bad boys in.

The bad boys? You know the ones,
Motorcycles and leather jackets,
Cigarettes and black ink tattoos.

And even worse than that
A fickle charm they possess
A good girl they desire, in a pure oh so white dress.

She swears she's not naive -
I know better than that, she says.
The motorcycle stops outside her house.

The leather jacket rings the doorbell
The black ink reaches for her face
And nothing happens.

But he held her gaze for the longest time.

— The End —