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English Jam Sep 2018
The beach smells of tranquillity and salty sea air
The rhythm of the waves gently caresses my skin
The horizon seems elusive, a dream always chased
Yet night foreshadows traumas waiting to be let in

Oh where do I begin?

I love you
I don't wanna be scared of you
I'm waiting in the shoreline
Please don't run away this time


I'm scared of silent reflections, solemn and reclusive
I float futher from myself with each passing day
I have a note addressed to myself taped to a mirror
I'm scared of reading it aloud and being lead astray

And I have to accept that it's okay

"I love you
I don't wanna be scared of you
I'm waiting in the shoreline
Please don't run away this time"


Seashells coated in sand tickle the edge of my ear
The fog carried on the wind sends chills deep inside
The sun will always be there to break the duskiness
Daunting across the sky and waking up the tide

And the breeze slowly sighed

Please don't run away,
       don't run away from me
Please don't run away,
         don't run away from help
Please don't run away,
             don't run away from the sea
Please don't run away,
                don't run away from yourself


Angel wings take me further than I've ever gone before
Time to be in Tune with my own Best Dad
Much would it take to cause Celebration
Sermons apart, yet Insights I just had
Took me some Yards taped for Inspiration
Rarely such Species can just Understand
The Skirted *** most Males eliminate
Still most Sires force their Sons on Demand
To spout their Seeds for Pride to propagate
If you can recall those Sales-Slips within
How Footed and Devote your Presence was
Tri-Dimed Corporate; Or Sea-Tigers therein
Is just the Greeting Card I'll Love at last.
Senior come hither; In Prime Deposit
Father my Mentor; In Wisdom ask it.
Shin Dec 2013
I don't know how to write happy poems
because I don't really believe in them.
I thought angst would die with adolescence,
but alas I can still feel its cold dint.

Perhaps like virginity this goes too;
no longer a creep standing idly by.
Plastic smiles taped to our cardboard faces
and yours alone I felt the need to prise.

That's okay, because the teenaged rosebud
that we claim to be so very unique
is beginning to wither, can't you see?
And now it's the thorns society seeks.

So look out over yonder cityscape.
Your mask shall be shed only by the moon.
Until then, a cartographer of love;
yours that is, we'll still pathetically swoon.
Jen Nov 2018
When here
In "Poetry Land,"
I am traveling
To distant worlds
Of the imagination
Unending,
Mystical and Exotic.

When here
In the "Real World,"
I am a single, childless
Woman.
Mid-thirties;
Two cats.
Misunderstood,
Unconventional.

I lost my glasses
This morning.
Suddenly I'm back
In highschool,
"In my mind."
Remembering all
The times
I taped them;
Tried many types:
Scotch, Masking, Packing.

Luckily, In my adult life
I'm now prepared.

I dig under my bed
For my "back-up pair."

Checked every corner
Of my small studio
To find that my spectacles,
Just like lost socks,
Have vanished
To Neverland.
Your Clouds, judged be it pickled or disdain
Have mostly trained your canaries to think
Whether to ruffle more Feathers; Then feign
Those Truest Notes dipped; And begroom your Mink
For who could solve what your Tampered Mind spies
Then translates such Harvest for a Desert
To Good Sense cheer; From Truth becomes a Lie
With Random Calls ring your Body to advert
And whilst you do, any Cause to forget
Those Taped Pioneers who endured your Phase
Pray for your Interview; And chance to beget
Which Startled Sweets was the Sweetest at base.
Yet still Occupied to that Video owned
Belittle what Possum's Cry now reknowned.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
The passage of time, illusory some say,
is noted quite succinctly
by the ticking of the small electric
plastic clock sitting on the coffee table,
in front of the old couch.

Once in a great while, the battery,
tinier than my thumbnail, runs down,
depleted. The arms stop moving,
and the second hand only twitches,
forward and back again each second,
not making any progress.

My cat purring, perched contentedly, his face
near to mine, rests upon my upper torso.
Part of the couch is duct taped,
Where he’s shredded it over the years.

An emptied coffee cup, lid-half off,
contains a crumpled candy bar wrapper,
which I put in there, most probably,
so the cat would not devour it,
and later throw it up.

There are stacks of half-read books
(The Guns of August, Joan of Arc, Tom Jones, etc.),
an empty candlestick, a crusty dinner place mat.

I’m 45, nearing 46, staying
well, (well, more or less),
wearily waking from a weary nap,
after what was just another day
of so many, many days
of a humble life on earth.

Still, there are a couple hours left of light today.
Outside the big living room windows,
the evening sun shines green,
through the young spring leaves.
Make your time count.
Mortality looms, I tell myself.

So, right now, I will push off my cat,
(he wanders off, not meowing)
get up, dress, stretch,
force myself into the evening air,
before it gets too dark,
and run four miles furthermore.

Be home in time for dinner,
my mother would have said.

What is it, I sometimes wonder,
that keeps me going
through all these days?

I believe, I suppose, that all this ordinary time,
(Le temps quotidien, the French might say)
will eventually lead
to something transcendent, sublime,
forgotten by design,
in the daily crush of work and worries.

I’ve been meaning to fill that candlestick for years,
and finish all those books.
But so far I never have.

And so alone I run away,
inevitably with age,
through the indifferent rhythm
of the seasons passing,
the world, my life, our lives.

And all of us grow more distant
in this passage,
one from another, somehow,
dwindling in each other’s lives,
as each passage narrows, separates,
further away, disappearing, sadly

like the faint and ancient galaxies,
too numerous to name, red-shifted,
infinitely distant,
now scattering their dying stars,
with unkept, dimming memories,
and elapsing towards
oblivion unknown, fading,
their swirling light a mystery,
even to themselves.
Written in Spring 2014, revised 2015-19.
I REALLY Jun 22
are sealed
they're sewn closed
they're super-glued shut
they're taped
they're fastened safely
they're stapled properly
Egaeus Thompson Dec 2012
Turn off the light,
Force my eyes to adjust  
So for a brief point in time
I don’t have to deal with the world.

The roués of an instance
Pressing and compressing
Ideas once held so dearly,
So close to the chest,
Fundamental morals that are nurtured and grown to define who I am, to determine what defines me,
to know what best explains who, what, when, where and why I become ‘I’;


...Has warped.

We are all required
To develop an acquired
Taste of territoriality
Over who we are, and what we have
Or,
Who we have and why we are.

“She is mine. From the second I laid eyes on her I knew.”- The Landlord

That determinism,
That ‘I am who I am, and the only thing that changes is time’
Is flawed.
Time does not change!
Who we are changes!

Change only comes from within.
The unfathomable amount of people I can and will be,
Stems from me and myself alone.
However poignant this is,
The matter arises that,
No question how much responsibility I have for why I am, who I am, and who I need to be;
These people will never meet.

We are told to dream,
That we can be whoever we want to be,
Though we never want to be who we are.
The closer we get to the carrot,
The more we realise
It is dangling from the pole taped to our heads.

Never live for the dream
Just be existent in the present,
For the vision does not exist.
And never will.
It just changes.



*And I am sick of dreaming… But I lack sleep.

…Oh god, what have I done?
Krysel Anson Sep 2018
So this has been where you were
all this time. Especially the kids
that looked up to you.

In between being forced by your intelligence officers
to beat up your comrades
and then *******,
or else die.

This dark uncharted
neglected geographical treasure:
your breathing heart's chamber.

Looking straight out
what is always here with us
regardless of all our lies and grand
machines of escape.

This is the price you paid
for being able to bring life and sustain it.
Until now, we are still trying to see through
this visual masterpiece: another drug mule caught.

Drugs, sometimes as if the sullen reminder of our collective
human attempt at remembering our real treasures
and how we have lost them: A grandmother has 7 packs taped around her body, like a parasite but also like a baby mammal,
or an omen of something else yet to be remembered
and said out loud.

One day or day one, a friend would always remind me
when sober. We step into understanding ourselves better
or we keep making things to express
unresolved fears and anguish.#
dr gabor mate and clarissa pinkola estes works
japheth Sep 2018
i loved to paint using your colour.

i’d go day and night, from one canvas to another, using different shades of you to paint all kinds of pictures.

i never lost any ideas.
i never had to find inspiration.
it all just comes to me whenever i look at you.

one day, i woke up colour blind. and unfortunately, it’s in your colour.

all the paintings, all the sketches, all the canvasses that were of your colour, plastered, hanged, and taped all over my walls doesn’t make sense anymore.

it was all grey. all dull. a colour i know existed but never really tried using before.

i tried searching for your colours in the things you’ve touched. the words you’ve said. i searched everywhere but whenever i do think your colour will come back, my eyes revert to reality.

now you’re just a memory.

your colour will only exist inside my mind.

those shades i loved. the pigments i crave to achieve every time i stroke my brush. it’s all in my head now.

it’s been years now. you’re colour isn’t as bright as i thought my memory would remind me of.

i paint with a different colour now.

actually, i paint with all the colours now except yours.

all those nights i spent painting, it’s with every colour i come across but yours.

now my wall’s full of colour again. all from different parts of me. colours i never knew existed.

now,

i’m happy. i’m content.

i’m colourful.
Lawrence Hall Jul 17
But Yevtushenko...

                      A tribute to Penguin paperbacks

When they
Someday
Take us away
For reading
For thinking
For writing

Those Penguin paperbacks all tattered and taped
Discovered when they empty our pockets
          Will
Be used against us in their courts of law

But Yevtushenko might corrupt our jailers
Today is Yevgeny Yevtushenko's birthday (1932).

Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
I woke up today to find the duct tape running dry,
I had been using it non stop lately, too many things are broken.
The first time I really needed it, was when the canary smashed the window to fly out,
Yes, the canary was adamant, he really wanted to leave,
So one day as I opened the door to his cage, he flew out and with momemtum smashed the window and flew away,
He wasn't hurt, I think, but he left a **** hole in my window.
So A broke misérable like me just went to the store and bought a role of duct tape,
Then drew cross patterns of duct tape until I filled up the hole.
I cleaned the broken pieces of glass and looked at my work with a feeling of satisfaction.
Then, as if antcipating the arrival of duct tape, **** started breaking one by one.
My sink started leaking, so I duct taped.
My radio antenna broke, yes i own a Radio, so I duct taped.
Before realising it I had a house filled with duct taped half broken things.  Though a strange thing started to happen,
The more I duct taped around the house, at night before I shut my eyes,
I would Imagine duct taping things, little cracks in the night.
And then I realised, that there were  no leaks, no holes and no cracks.
In fact, the only thing that had existed was a canary and duct tape.
A canary that had broken a window.
The canary flew into the heavens free of all things earthly.
Then left me with a broken window and a sense of guilt at the extent it went to leave.
So I bought a role of duct tape that is now running dry,
Maybe, thinking of this canary, Ill go and buy another.
Duct Tape
Jim Davis Jun 10
Scrounging local garage sales... near ten years past... I had found a flat, welded iron, rusty seahorse... 3 feet high... with a good seahorse shape and poise... edges welded and cut... after the haggle... twenty-five dollars..... perfectly added to my estate... covered rust in gold sheen... mounted upon a tree... to greet all comers... with a seahorse kiss!    
     Seller said it was made by the same artist... of the turtle lady statue... to be found in Corpus Christi!  Asked if I had seen it... my reply... No, but I liked the seahorse piece! He expounded... the artist... only had one leg... but was a surfer... well known for this trait... in Corpus Christi!  
     After I had mounted the seahorse... upon its tree...I did an internet search... looking for anything about the one-legged surfer artist of Corpus Christi!  Found... nothing!  
     End of May, 2019... visiting my sister, Donna... we were wandering Corpus Christi!  She guided us to the surf museum... not knowing the story... of the one-legged surfer artist... creator of my mounted seahorse!  
     Girl at the front desk... Kyla... real nice and friendly... told her about the seahorse and questioned her... she didn’t know... she never heard of a surfer with one leg or the turtle lady statue!  Looking at us just a bit strangely... one legged surfer???
      Anyhow... Donna and I... started our stroll through the small museum!  Along the right side... stood a long row of surfboards... I’ve never surfed... but I was imagining trying it with just one leg!  
     Anyhow... I didn’t really stop to read or look in any detail at any of the exhibits until I reached the back... there was a glass case... which had a piece of simple letter paper...  8.5x11... taped to the front of the glass cabinet!  I started in reading the last paragraph...

“Welch, 53, and his wife, Chelsea Louise, 23, died September 15, 2001, when their car plunged off the edge of South Padre Island’s Queen Isabella Causeway, which partially collapsed after a string of barges crashed into the bridge’s support pilings!

Thought to myself... Wow... Who is this guy???  I jumped up to the middle paragraph...

     “Welch lost one of his lower legs in an auto accident in the 1970s, but he kept surfing with a prosthesis.  He wore a peg-like prosthesis at first, then got one with a foot.  He won the prosthesis division of the United States Surfing Championships on South Padre Island in 1998.”

     In the glass case was a welded metal sculpture of a beach scene... with waves, palm trees, and all!  The piece did have some resemblance in style to my seahorse sculpture!  Also, there was a picture on top of the case of Harpoon Barry... striking a muscular, no shirt pose... in his tattoo shop... his torso covered in tattoos!  
     It is said... he was on the verge of suicide after losing his leg. In one interview with the San Antonio Express News in 1992 he said;  "I may not make it to heaven, but you can be sure I made no deals with the devil to get where I'm at now, "  Looking down at his false leg stretched out in front of him, Welch said quietly: "It is a real empty feeling when you put one of these on for the first time, especially if you are an adult on your own. And your mama'a not there and your daddy's not there, and the people in the hospital tell you, 'This is the best it's going to get.  I made my first leg myself, out of Hi-C cans. I couldn't wait for my leg to get finished. I wanted to walk. I guess I got the idea from the Tin Woodsman in 'The Wizard of Oz.' That leg actually worked pretty well!”
    
     I had found my one-legged surfer artist!  I walked towards Donna... who was already half-way leaving the museum...  I hollered to her... she just had to come see this ... “I think I found the one-legged surfer!”  She had recently had partial knee replacement... and was hobbling!  She said if I was fooling her... she better not walk back all that way for nothing!! She came back to the glass case... we read through the letter in it’s entirety!  
     Then we went... and told Kyla at the front desk... she again looked at us again a bit strange... but then reluctantly left her post to go with us to take a look... she was then astounded!  Said she never knew about the one-leg... although she had worked at the museum for several years!  Said there were also a couple metal sculptures... at the front of the museum... she thought were also done... by Harpoon Barry!  We took pictures of those also!  

In the letter we also read...

     “Welch had numerous tattoos and body piercings.  He wore a tiny 14 carrot gold harpoon through one ******.  That is how he got his nick name according to a friend, Scott Gangel.”  

     "I am a unique, self-made sensation!” he said matter-of-factly... in the interview with the Express News!  

..... It's been 18 years since eight people died when South Padre Island's Queen Isabella Memorial Causeway collapsed... sending 11 people into the water below... four days after the 9/11 attacks!  A string of tow barges had struck the supporting pilings!  A section of the roadway had collapsed...

     I promised Kyla... I would donate my seahorse piece to the museum upon my death!  I only hope my death... is as grand as Harpoon Barry’s plunge into the Gulf of Mexico with his young wife!  Wonder what they were doing during the plunge... what was Barry doing... yelling Yippee Ki Yay... or Surf’s up... Dude!!!... maybe???  
    
Surfed waves on one leg
Young wife... crazy life... grand death
Harpooned by Barry

©  2019 Jim Davis
I doubt I could ever match his life!  !  Though...  someday... I might get a tattoo... or two... or a harpoon piercing... perhaps in a ******! Also... still looking for the turtle lady statue!
hsyclara Jun 15
before a rope becomes completely cut
those delicate shreds of strings twirled to embrace in union
untwist and gradually untwine
ever so gradually
but know they will separate one day

and once it's cut it can't be undone
the rope itself can be taped or glued
for external fix
but the shreds of strings that absolute its primal state
thousands and thousands of tiniest fractions that bridge the rope
will forever struggle to find its individual continuation
will forever have lost its other half
A five-dollar garage-sale record player
A five-cent-piece Scotch-taped onto the arm
A plastic K-Mart special from long ago
A groovy thing for a junior high kid

But he was a thirty-something day-laborer
And in the silent cell of his solitude
Wanted to spin some tunes in the darkness
Just like he did when he was a junior high kid

A five-dollar garage-sale record player
Wagner, Sinatra, McKuen - and hope
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is: Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA, PALEO-HIPPIES AT WORK AND PLAY, LADY WITH A DEAD TURTLE, DON’T FORGET YOUR SHOES AND GRAPES, COFFEE AND A DEAD ALLIGATOR TO GO, and DISPATCHES FROM THE COLONIAL OFFICE.
Lawrence Hall Jun 23
If the Faith is a Lie (pretend this is centered)

               For if a preest be be foul, on whom we truste,
                   No wonder is a lewed man to ruste

                    -Chaucer, General Prologue, 501-502

If the Faith is a lie, then let it lie
Let’s not make it up as we go along
Waving a fashionably duct-taped book about
And chanting “This is all you need!”

Because some millionaire has told us to
Nor yet the famous ‘blogging priest who boasts
And posts photographs of his gourmet meals
While begging money for his many trips

If the Faith is a lie, then let it be
But it isn’t – and neither, please God, are we
(No armpit-drying during Mass, please.)


Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:

Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
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