"taping" poems
I write my identity in gluestick and markers
I am a lamb raised by wolves
swaddled pulsing cosmos girl-child
My limbs are rebuilt like a 7 year old birdhouse
with garish colours and bubbling pride
I am pouring glitter onto my future
the kaleidoscope cannot exist inside
In the end I think there would be
no nobler cause than to
have a life worthy of taping on
the refrigerator that I can
swell with ever-young joy to know I
have created with
trial and forgiveness.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 2:26 PM UTC
I am softly treading...
on newly sown soil
where the seeds I've planted
are just starting to grow
I'm quietly listening...
to dreams that are awakening
letting me know
I have so much to do...
I'm carefully watching...
my intentions unfold
yesterday's hopes, desire, beliefs
are now
tomorrows realities...
I'm gleefully gathering...
all the tools That I will use
to build my life anew
and finally discover
my true self...
I'm whispering to myself...
affirmations and intents
re-taping my inner voice
finally becoming
my own best friend...
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
I try to cry
but I can’t
I mute my tv
so I can hear
the pain reverberating
from my nostrils
like I am being
clamped together
in the fetal position
until blood squirts
out my ears
I try to cry
but I can’t
I mute the dog by
giving her a bone
I mute the sun by
drawing the shades
I try to cry
but I can’t
this muted pain
it’s locked in the attic
deteriorating
I mute my neck by
taping it to the fan
I mute my breath
with my belt
roll down my eye
to my lips
I want to taste
this ******* stupid world
for myself
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
When you go camping,
and the world lifts itself from your shoulders
and the problems back home seem silly and irrelevant
human life, and
what you may have been trying to achieve
in your leather black ergonomic chair
and your dark polished wood desk
seems silly and irrelevant
The world is here, in the wood-pecker’s tap-tap-taping in the trees
the checkered calculated lines of the water being pulled to shore by the wind,
viewed from above
like the birds that push themselves into the tide and float
back to shore then push themselves out again.
the world is here,
forgotten by the city, and the construction worker’s crack-crack-crack of the hammer
the calculated system of traffic guided by flashing lights, turning signs and abrasive horns
from behind the wheel
where the man sits in a satin black suit and smooth leather car seat
sipping at his morning coffee, purchased for $2.25 and cradled by spring-loaded cupholders,
until he reaches for the silver handle of his glass office door, and stops
looking down at his brown-leather shoes that cut into the rounded bone on the side of his ankle
and decides,
time to go camping
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC
You wonder why she loved you
Deceit lust and betrayal
But she did,eyes blinded
Till truth unfolds with time
Love it fades in the face of reality
Bitter but real
Let her flyaway
Let her breakfree
Listen,the sound of drums
Toes taping in rejoicing
Hear the the laughter of freedom
She is no longer your prisoner
Let her walk with her head held high
She is beauty,elegance and dignity
You wonder why she loved you
Toture disrespect and hate
But she did,Ignorance
She held on though her blistered palm
Knowing not her worth
But she knows today
See she smiles at her reflection
She is beautiful not because you say
Let her flyaway
Let her breakfree
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
You went undercover
Only to discover
That your big brother
Was watching you
There’s no escaping
Cos he was taping
Now you don’t know
What to do
You’re reaction
To this distraction
Has you packing
But they’ll be trackin
Where you are
Use your cell and they can tell
Whether you’re walkin
Or in a car
Nineteen eight-four
Came inside the door
And Orwell had it right
Like a doting mother
Your big brother
Is clockin you day and night
You feel trapped
Cos your phone is tapped
And your TV’s watchin you
The places you shop
At every store you stop
Has information too
The time and date
What you bought and ate
Nineteen eight-four
Is inside the door
And Orwell had it right
Like a doting mother
Your big brother
Is clockin you day and night
You feel trapped
Cos your phone is tapped
And your TV’s watchin you
The places you shop
At every store you stop
Has information too
The time and date
What you bought and ate
Nineteen eight-four
Is inside the door
And Orwell had it right
Like a doting mother
Your big brother
Is clockin you day and night
You’re reaction
To this distraction
Has you packing
But they’ll be trackin
Where you are
Use your cell and they can tell
Whether you’re walkin
Or in a car
Nineteen eight-four
Is inside the door
And Orwell had it right
Like a doting mother
Your big brother
Is clockin you day and night
(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
I know you can't talk to me because you're busy
Packing all your things into your boxes.
I have to know, though,
Are you packing us
And the memories we shared too?
Are you trying to forget them-
To restart completely?
I can feel you putting me in a tight box,
Taping it up,
Never to open again.
I know you want me to ship me off
Just like everything unwanted you ever had.
No wonder there's so much space between us.
Because you left me in a box, sent me away, without I even realizing it.
I guess I was too much to carry along with you.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
With the nickname glow worm
A jingle jangle jungle flunky
Experiment gone completely wrong
Radiation Monkey
Ran out of the backdoor
This monkey on the lamb
Glowing footprints across the floor
Running fast this lab rat
See him in the hills at night
Swinging wild amongst the trees
Don't get too close cause he might bite
Radiation Monkey
With the strength of 20 men
He started robbing grocery stores
They say he has the brightest grin
Banana smudges left on doors
Where they lift his fingerprints
Taping off of the crime scene
Geiger counters loudly tic
Radiation Monkey
A menace to society
This florescent ape that's escaped
A radiating personality
Waiting for you to make his day
Wanted posters all over town
Doubling up the bounty
They'll take him live or in the ground
Radiation Monkey
Lessons lived are lessons learned
Latch the windows, bolt the doors
Mistakes are made then hard earned
For stupidity there is no cure
In the lab behind those doors
Is where genius and crazy meet
They might lose a few but they'll make more
Radiation Monkey's
Jan 23, 2020
Jan 23, 2020 at 12:59 PM UTC
I have had two opportunites to meet Muhammad Ali, once in Oklahoma City(1972) while working for KWTV Channel-9, and the second time in 1975,working for WAVE-TV Channel-3, Louisville, Kentucky, which is his hometown. On each occasion he was in town for some type of benefit appearance. At Channel 3, the sports director was Ed Kallay, who was to do the interview, and who just happened to be Ali's mentor when Ali was much younger and involved with "Golden Gloves", a youth boxing organization. I was a 'director' in the production dept. and it was my job to set up and direct the cameras, etc., during the taping.
He was a fascinating man, eloquent, extremely intelligent, charismatic, approachable, with a great sense of humor. When I introduced myself, he looked at me and said,"I've met you before, in Oklahoma City." Needless to say, "I was stunned!"
During the 'pre-taping' conversation, the three of us were having a cup of coffee. I made a comment on the size of his hands. I placed my right hand flat against his left, thumb to thumb, finger to finger.. He curled his fingers over mine, nearly hiding them. I sure wouldn't want to get hit by him.
He was, admittingly, also a 'bit' of a 'self-promoter.' During that conversation, he made the following comment: "A few weeks before a fight, I start shooting my mouth off, make a lot of people mad, but come fight night they really lay it down, (then took his thumb and swiped it across the open palm of his other hand, simulating the money bets being placed with the Vegas bookies.) let the 'show' begin!" And, did it ever!!
He was also a great humanitarian, donating to various charities, youth organizations, and never forgetting his roots.
A remarkable man! God Bless You, Muhammad Ali!
richard riddle: 06-05-2016
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
tap my bones
tamper my temper
tempt me on Tuesday
love me on Thursday
shut my rusty trust
trap my soul
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 11:26 AM UTC
Christ Rules Everything Around Me
C.R.E.A.M
Keep the Faith
Grace upon Grace falls
Let them fuccbois come
Ahem,
We call'em chicken where I'm from
Home of tha guerrillas because they the reallus
Goin harda than the Cannibal Holocaust thrilla
I'm a Jigga from the Van Isle Villa
Of Nanaimo, I give props to Hova, tho
When I say Jigga I mean a Jewish *****
Though you may say I'm whack
Because my skin ain't black
I ain't racist when His love be my basis
Life's quaint outside of time, hyperboelic stasis
See this wordplay is my forté go figure
These Psychedelic flows are my signature
I am Holy at One with the Inner Nature
Skin young drapping over a soul more mature
I hope that you're taping
This flow so yo' can be sho'
Of the Good Lo' Jesus' divinity
Drink of His waters and He might make a saint of thee
Gettin drunk off His waters and you might just see three of me
You know I pray to the Father you don't greet me as deity G
Do not mistake what you see as me for purity
Only the Christ is sinless amen that is my only surety
Lord forgive any vanity
Christ Rules Everything Around Me
C.R.E.A.M
Keep the Faith
Grace upon Grace falls
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
The title is simply
a culmination of my whims
like the whim that keeps me
glued to my screen
tap taping away
tap
tap tap
While my room looks like some monster's den
And I engorge myself on those chocolate almonds
My eyes grow hazy
As my waistline grows larger
The yellow light pierces my eyeballs
As I be tap
tapping
away
Dec 29, 2021
Dec 29, 2021 at 7:19 PM UTC
I spend all my time,
All my money,
And most of my remaining sanity
To stack together this perfect house.
Little pieces all fit together perfectly,
But there are thousands.
It feels like I could never, ever
Count that high.
I strain to hold it together.
I didn't think to get glue.
I'm about 1/4 of the way trough.
These matches break so easily.
I start to think I litarally brought the ********* matches available.
One wall falls.
I want to shout as loud as I can.
But I imagine what the finished product would be.
I'd probably have your name in books.
Multiple ******* books.
I rebuild the wall.
I push on, I don't stop until night fall.
I'm about half way through.
I take a cigarette break.
I look back on the hours.
I mainly remember the ****** parts.
A few cigarettes later I push on once more.
I build until late morning.
At this point I'm are about three quarters of the way there.
I again take a break,
Only this time to stay in what I have built, but not continue to build it.
I think back.
Why am I making this house of matches.
Why am I even here?
I remember your vision of the house.
I see you still have hours of work,
Easily stretching till dinner time.
The question is do I finish and stay at the house, or do I go home to make a nice meal for myself?
I went home.
When I came back the house was burnt away.
A frail, blackened frame remain.
No amount of good duct taping could fix it.
No amount of new matches could clean it up.
I still see the ash pile in my mind from time to time.
Next,
I tried a house made of fuses.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 3:52 AM UTC
He kinetically arrived
with 1973.
Night is the longest day,
here come the warm jets,
served on a cold plate.
Play it back at half-speed
and you've got auditory wallpaper,
it must be as ignorable
as it is interesting.
His own world spins within a device:
cacophony of sound
mixed in a blender
and xeroxed;
a little snake guitar,
a little Leslie piano
— music to resign you
to the possibility of death.
Then came 1983
and beyond just him.
Tamper tantrum hotline,
amplifiers on the balcony,
secretly taping Edge
and Adam Clayton
on a 4th of July.
The numbered streets
and desert rain
add soul to this heartland,
it's the gospel truth
he wiped the deck clean.
(sort of and maybe).
His device spins within its own world:
manageable hums,
danceable drones,
welded into night;
daytime variations
held together
no better (and no worse)
than a cloud.
Then there's sfumato:
music without lines or borders,
in the manner of smoke
— theatrical fog
— a different kind of blue.
Densely layered,
so impossible to track,
this being lost in
the magnetic hush
of airports and
other strange kiosks,
it all falls into a creative lull.
Guess it's time for
Oblique Strategies...
Jul 9, 2022
Jul 9, 2022 at 1:43 PM UTC
I'm afraid too
I afraid that the only thing
Holding me together
Are all the broken pieces
I have spent so much time
Taping the smashed splinters
Into place
I have spent so many hours
Balancing all of the dust particles
On top of each other
Wedging them so carefully
So that each one supports another
I'm afraid that if I pull one out
And show you
They will all come
Tumbling down
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
If anyone told me when I was little that when I was older,
when the leaves fell down I would be so sad
I wouldn’t have watched them spiral down with such wonder.
I might have even taken the liberty of climbing to the tops of them
and
taping them to their own branches.
The younger version of myself loved me more than I do now.
There are a small collection of us fighting for our lives,
as extinguished lights all we look for is more darkness to hide with.
Among empty red seats of an all but abandoned theatre I found my reflection.
A mirror in the shape of a girl.
Cries of help can be only mere whispers if need be
and
I have many secrets I do not wish to shout.
She spoke to me more with her eyes than with her mouth,
in turn I found that we spoke the same language.
Maybe I was too afraid to ask her where home was
but
she did tell me that she went to bed early
“and not like 8 pm early, like 6 pm early”
I wondered if that was because she was in love with the darkness or her dreams.
You don’t ask questions like that unless you’re prepared to answer them yourself.
What I can tell her is what I know:
We are electric.
My lips aren’t quite frozen
and
my battery is not yet dead
and
if igniting one another saves both or neither at least we tried.
I will use my words as a defibrillator,
shocking you, shocking you, shocking you,
until I once again hear the sound of fire, keeping you alive.
I won’t give up on you so you better not give up on yourself.
I will bring you back to life.
Illuminate the darkness for me darling
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
The excitement builds before the show
Appearance anticipated, let's go
Out comes 2llen with applause galore
Crowd won't quiet, stoked for what's in store
Must say Ellen is such a **** dude
Whoops, oh...she's a she, I'm extremely rude
Ellen dresses with such casual care
Not a piece out of line, her fancy hair
Ellen completely involves her crowd
The silly shenanigans make them loud
She dances to the music everywhere
Famous for her moves, she then heads for the chair
She straddles the table with practiced skill for her advanced age and without a pill
She moves on to a famous brilliant guest
Uncommon talent to bring out their best
Music for the show picked eloquently
Ellen and staff almost always agree
The gifts she gives, the audience adore
Generosity leaves them wanting more
Cute that her mom's at every taping
Even stays awake and keeps from gaping
Ellen is actually my favorite host
Please forgive me, this little roast
If you're in the mood for a real good time
Tune to Ellen at three, on channel nine
You won't be disappointed, far from IT!
It's world wide known that Ellen's the ****
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
I am outside a high school party with a cigarette in my hand and my sweater trailing on the ground. I belong to the night; to the teenage desperation you find right through the front door inside every single one of those boys and girls eyes. It is dark outside but I can make out everyone's faces simply by the light of cigarettes. I close my eyes for a second and inhale. I can barely make out the silhouette of the person I wish was in front of me. My eyes open. You are not here. To my left there's an alley and a short boy is throwing up the 22 shots that are tallied on his forearm. His best friend is video taping it. I don't think I'm really here. Is this the alcohol speaking? I didn't feel this attached to you 3 hours ago. My mother thinks I am at work. I don't feel bad at all. After everything I have done, lying is simple. I've become accustomed to being a lie. A boy is trying to get two girls to make out and that offends me. I'm not here. I'm not anywhere. I'm with you. I matter to you. I matter to someone. I am something.
I open my eyes.
A guy is handing me a beer, so I take it. I should be going home but that girl looks like you. There are four boys to my right free styling. One of them is actually really good. I try to weave through the people to find a familiar face. I find one, and he's handing me a bottle. I don't know what it is, but I drink. It burns.
I'm outside again sitting on the curb. The streetlight that shines above me is a dark shade of yellow that glows off every wall. It reminds me of the night. The moon is looking at me with an intensity I've never seen before. I have a text from you on my phone but I don't want to open it. I don't want to be able to feel this much. I go to find the bottle again.
I'm laughing a lot now. I found the bottle. The familiar face is laughing too. Her boyfriend broke her heart last week.
Your silhouette is standing in the corner. It's beckoning me. I open your text:
do you need something?
I close your text. I close my phone and my eyes and my arms and my heart and I throw my empty beer can at that silhouette of yours.
I'm outside again. Familiar face is going to take me home.
The cigarette is glowing orange and I'm dancing to her car.
You don't love me. I don't care.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
Flames behind me
the smoke blinds me
the fall in front of me
don't wanna jump, not for the life of me.
We've all hit our expiration dates
Johnson dangling, entangled in a wire
he's 68, he was about to retire
a burnt child dreads the fire
and he's a lump of charcoal.
Up many storeys
the planes hit precisely.
News helicopters flying and taping
there's no escaping,
the fire's approaching.
I need to jump,
no slow death here.
Here we go,
Geronimo!
Fire caught me in my fall
God's doing his roll call
pain in my legs as the ground comes closer
I move quick, I cannot breathe, my lungs are squished
Did I tell my kids I love them?
No, but I wish.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
Tomorrow never comes.
Tomorrow morphs into today, growing tentacles of pressure and deadline slinking round precious time.
Tomorrow is the myth that keeps us going into the hazed purple dark, only to vanish in bleaching daybreak.
Tomorrow is the pipedream we search for in bedsheets, neglecting the canaries of impending doom, the warming abolition of plague civilisation.
Tomorrow seems detached, pushed into the outer orbit like the catastrophic bombs hailing and howling in Syria.
Tomorrow hates us today a mongrel race but yearns for yesterday, the tender embrace of tinted times, always better
Tomorrow feels the wound of every hour passing by and sets feet into erratic stuttered taping heart breaking out of caged chest, passive but untamed,
Tomorrow is sitting waiting for all of us, unsure when we're to arrive, shaking stripped down in a naked hot mess seeing the damage we've done today, fearful of more pillage and ****
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 12:41 PM UTC
exhaustion
drifting through our days
taping eyes open
shaking ourselves awake
all this starvation and deprivation
of today's nation
yearning for another minute of shut-eye
while staying up staring at screens
late at night
Nov 15, 2022
Nov 15, 2022 at 1:45 PM UTC
I’ve been struck down again,
fully aware it’s my own doing.
Do you have a heart you can lend?
Mine’s drying from the taping and the glueing.
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
oh my sweet Clementine,
are you smiling or are you snarling,
more importantly are you mine?
Outside the window seasons blend,
the temperature holds no meaning.
I notice the change and the trend,
to ignore the withdrawals from weaning.
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
oh my sweet Clementine,
you’ve been avoiding and been barring,
but you can’t severe this line.
The stronger the initial fear
usually means the most is at stake,
and trying to prevent a single tear
can lead to the worst heartbreak.
Those who leave the best memories
usually leave us with the most hurt,
you know we can’t just live life with ease,
there needs to be some blood on a white shirt.
You can try to completely forget someone,
but putting that effort in means you’re actually fixated more,
and after all is said and done,
honestly who do you wish to be behind that door?
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
oh my sweet Clementine,
is it cleansing or more harming,
to live in denial all the time?
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
oh my sweet Clementine,
when it’s finished it’ll be starting,
and I’ll stand under the Montauk sign.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 7:07 AM UTC
1. Plant yourself in his mind, the smallest, hidden seed,
slowly growing roots, winding noiselessly round his arteries.
Begin to sip from his water supply, soak up his minerals
become another branch of his being.
Eventually he will cling to your cancerous leaves like your roots cling to his soil.
2. Send him on a scavenger hunt for the many shards of your heart.
Forget to give him the map so he stumbles through the coils of your past,
ankles sliced open by jealous thorns, neck gnawed to bits by unseen insects.
Grant him a thank-you kiss for bringing them back to you;
watch him as he’s taping them gently back together.
Don’t tell him that he is nothing but an aspirin
swallowed to aid in healing a gunshot wound.
3. Keep him grasping at your vagueries.
Withhold comforts of ‘yes’ or ‘no’ even as he shivers in the downpour of your cynicism
instead slip in and out of his arms like silk sheets.
As his weak trembling hands try to pin you to reality once more,
remind him that you blew in like summer, and leaves have begun to rust.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 12:33 PM UTC
Flutter flatter flit flip flap
Clap chat chapped lips
Leaking secrets
Speaking softly
As the world whirls by
And faded faces blur together
On panes of plate-glass windows
Strolling silent streets and
Dreaming of anywhere but here
Pitter patter pretend
We’re on the
Tip top of everything
Taping together
Our own reality
Far removed from truths that
Could tear it tear us apart
Flash frame freeze forget
Flit flap free-bird fly away
Fast fly far from
Tick-tock towers
Click-clack-clocked lives
Empires encircling
Pretty-please prepackaged people
Dipper dapper dressed-up doves
With withered windless wings
Locked-up longing lost
And just
Looking for anywhere but here
And their
Haunted hollow heartbeats
Wind between our whispered words
Weaving these tangled tapestries
Tying together all the
Maybes memories melodies
That we carry
All the struggles and scars and
Shatter-glass shiny bits of
Hope-light heart-love
That we call a human soul
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 3:54 PM UTC
The feeling is never mutual. One person does while the other is responsible. A heart that is mendable because of its tenacity, knowledgeable of the fact that utopia is less than fantasy. Yet, to do it alone.. is nearly impossible. Finding that one is highly improbable. An explanation that will never be audible, so instead we listen to what is. **** the "norm" and **** people, I am tired of hearing mumbled curses. Ridiculous verses of what it truly is, and where it truly lies because it is so difficult to love without taping ones pride. My everything has already fallen, and I am without pity. **** the old and **** the needy. All individuals are entirely too greedy, having gratitude for barely bleeding. I am me; and if you do not see me, it may be for a shallow breathing. Heaving from hallows whilst gazing from clouds, so strung out but highly aroused. Questing for exchanged vows, told to be better off by myself. I have heard to listen to your brain for your heart will stray, though my heart is decisive when my mind is arrayed. Stay, go... Stay, go, stay is how the story goes. A beginning with no close betrayal by those never suspect of foes, yet a wolf in sheep clothes.. Always building up anticipating the blow. Continual drinking, refusal to grow since I would rather not remember the feeling at all.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC