"tenders" poems
Heat beats down upon the street
Birds too hot to fly,
Blistered sand you cannot stand
Drenched with sweat am I.
Cows collect in shadow deep
Panting sheep hang head,
Goshawk flies in cobalt skies
Hills of grass stand dead.
Whisp of smoke, a puff of breeze
Sirens scream in air,
Running men in squads of ten
Emerge from everywhere.
Now the rising wind takes charge
Runs with leaping flame
Into crown of eucalypts
To rage across the plain.
Too late the tenders hoses pour,
Too late the fireman’s shout
Inferno hot has run amok
And all control a rout.
Generating mighty winds
The fire charges forth
Spiralling in furnace air
To incinerate for sport.
Vanquished men exhausted stand
Watch with useless eyes,
As raging flames consume their truck,
Inside a good mate dies.
A live thing in the burnished night
It writhes and spirals high
Across the flaring treetops
Hot, red smoke fills the sky.
As sudden as it starts, it stops
A wind change in the air.
Ravaged forest stark and black
Hot ashes everywhere.
Hills of cinders smoking now
Stock in death’s repair,
Homesteads rendered charcoal like
Farmers in despair.
A silence in the ravaged hills
Birdless in the sky,
Bushfire horror, death and smoke
Enough to make you cry.
Marshalg
In support of my Australian brethren and their torched nation.
30 January 2013
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
They weren’t all cut from the same cloth
*vilified tenders of the iron *****
some were lovers
(or lucid dreamers)
stage romantics
hidden behind jackboots
and skull caps
and switchblade seams
Caste members of a forlorn pack
counting their patchwork and deeds
conjuring up demons
around the console
filling their dreams
with radio reds
and dusted quarries
and faded sepia prints
Brass knuckles
and marches of the few
lightening bolt cracks
from a chilling blood moon
death’s dark specter
cold and ominous looms
the cobalt sea swells
near the nestled, and lost
Clubhouse at Kiusta
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
beyond Montana’s yellow lines
there is a field
~a field of painted soles
and laces rubber tread
~a field of ****** curls
and fallen headlights
where kaleidoscope lenses
look onto twisted frames like origami halos
where teddy bears hug stop signs like pickets
fringed in anger
runaway childhoods sleep cautionary tales
beyond Montana’s blushing acne
there are red cup melodies
blasting from blacked out tints
weaving blues notes through Rock & Rap
distant cries are drowned by Bass
or maybe Bud (light)
a haze of teenage eyes
they might as well be ghost riders
whip game copped from GTA
these pubescents are a Vice to their City
blooming sidewalk sloths
like flowerbeds
beyond Montana
is a country of bar stools
where bar tenders play therapists
and therapists play coroners
precedents are shots of whiskey - taken to the head
and reflected in flooded eyes
beyond Montana
is a country of MADD mothers and SADD students
beyond Montana
is a country of unexpecting pedestrians
beyond Montana
is a field
~a field of wing-clipped snow angels
That field is Mariah's home now
and she challenges you to change
yourself
your friends
your country
she challenges you to
STOP DRUNK DRIVING
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
This place was once God’s pious station.
Humanity is the song we sing to him.
The leaves praise him with peaceful African breeze, the breeze of our God.
The children of our mother earth were not left out of the feeling that planted oneness in the minds of the ******* Stone, that was what their minds were known for.
Life was then a simple sphere but now complicated and shapeless.
Life was then soft like unwithered breast but now a
granite. Then hearts was glaring but now, Africa and their black hearts.
See them,
They are crucifying humanity in the house of our God.
They are crucifying humanity in the court of law.
They are crucifying humanity on the matrimonial beds.
They are crucifying humanity on the aisle of power.
They are crucifying humanity for legal tenders.
They are crucifying humanity to be a god.
They are crucifying humanity in the struggle of religion.
They are crucifying humanity to calm the raging stomach.
They are crucifying humanity for thrones.
They are crucifying humanity in front of humanity.
They are crucifying humanity everywhere.
Now humanity is on the verge of death.
See them as they are whipping him.
See his skin as it swell to burst.
They are punching him, they want to punch him to
death.
Can you see those barbarian as they merry with the melody of crucifixion. Humanity is their scape goat.
Humanity is dead in theirs
but it is still alive in your heart,
It is still alive in your words.
Humanity must be alive in our home.
Let humanity live in Africa as free citizen.
If you are guilty of his death what do you gain?
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 4:37 PM UTC
ponces! nancies! veritable egrets of men!
people pleasing anti-charismatic animals
philistines, every one of them,
everyone else
a curse upon their forebears and a curse upon their goings-on
terrible business, that
the world should be filled with boundary pushing eccentrics, that is progress!
a plague upon normalcy, a plague upon stagnancy
uninteresting, dying off, done
ugh!
greatness can not be expected of all but at least an attempt should be made
how else will we overcome, will we build our utopia?
what use is MY struggle when others are defeated in making a move past the remote
television is for swine
rots your brain and morals
I've swell morals, just look at them
my morals reach to the moon
my morals are so swell I should run the country
my morals aren't two millenia old scriptures written by the seers of goat-tenders
my morals are modern, they are sleek and well dictated, they represent the future
my morals defy the past, my morals create new paradigms
why, you could say my morals defy all of traditionalism
and a curse upon tradition!
who ever learned from the past
history is rife with naught but sufferance
forwards is the only direction
forwards is revealed only to me
my ideals aglow with the lumine of the future
they are entrenched in idealism
me and mine, we are ideal
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
She whispered to me "Be good to me and I will be bad for you"
i smiled at her
generously it seemed
She blindfolded me
With scarf she has been wearing
She had her **** neck in my lips
I could feel it
The motion slowly increased
My hands were now tied
with the shirt she wore that night
She sat on me
giving me a little tease
Un buttoning the remaining
She had my mouth shut
I accepted her order
I felt dominated but
she was doing it better
I,on the other hand
Learning to catch her
That pace, that trick
She used on me to lure
How did she got it all, I wonder
every little joy she tenders
She was my first
I tried my best to hold her
I failed, she giggled
I could not see anything except for darkness
& her soul that loved me at very best
Every time she holds that thing of mine
I forgot every single dime, I paid her to be mine
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
Don't be fooled.
I don't woo with words.
I don't woo with actions,
Either.
No, I am too much of a novice.
My intention,
Intended,
To release these tensions
Intensified by the cloud
Of tense living.
In tensions with no spa,
No relief,
No massage,
No pedicure,
No manicure
To calm them.
Ever wondered
Who masseurs
The masseuse?
I don't wonder.
I know.
No one.
Intending
To untensify
The tender
Tendencies of
Tenacious living,
The tenders of
Untended flesh
Relieve your tensions
With no intentions
of receiving intended returns.
They take your tensions
With only intentions
To leave you intense
In the freedom of life.
Meanwhile fragile tensions
Tend to rend them,
Causing trouble and strife.
Feel relieved.
They are in tension,
Don't worry about
Giving attention.
You weren't going to anyway.
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 3:20 PM UTC
Trains at the bottom of the garden
metal dragons breathing out smoke and steam
huffing and puffing, waiting for the signal
some compact with tanks affixed
others larger, more grand
pulling colour matched tenders
sometimes bearing shields and names
beginning with 'Duchess' or 'City'
mostly black, some rusty
deep reds or greens
with contrasting lines edged in gold
Once one came in matt pink
and I wondered why it didn't gleam
like the others, perhaps pink
was a colour not to be given
it's equal due with other
less feminine shades
it had to be denied vibrancy
yet I loved the pink one best
later I learned somehow
that the colour was that
of the primer used
to inhibit the rust
and my pink engine
was just an unfinished paint job
pressed into service
prematurely to give cover
for another that was broken
I wrote down the numbers regardless
it was a ritual that one performed
though I didn't understand why
yet it was exciting
to record a new one
that hadn't passed before
Behind the business end
came carriages laden heavy
with the visitors of summer
come to fill our beaches
and our town with their loudness
their raucous laughter
with strange accents
brummie, scouse, mancunian
faces pressed against glass
expectant, excited, impatient
almost there now
anxious that this last delay
pass quickly and the half mile
remaining be completed
We would lurk beneath the bridge
like adopted troll children
it was cool there in the summer heat
darting out from behind pillars
or in my case watchfully, cautiously
edging my way forward
to place pennies on the track
or sometimes nails
then to retrieve them
flattened, thinned, squashed
once the train had passed
sometimes we'd wait hours
or so it seemed
sometimes no train would come
and we would trail home
for tea and bath and bed
leaving our offerings
to the gods of the rail
for rediscovery and inspection
the following day.
Cynthia Pauline Jones 17/10/13
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
at the end of the pier
no one is fishing
a couple from Jersey
leans out over the
rail looking down into
the brown swill
rolling under the
weathered boards
The wife remarked
“Belmar's water
is much nicer.”
on the Gulf’s edge
unhappy gulls convene,
plaintively gazing
over gray waves
ebbing at their feet
Brown Pelican crews
fly in long
ordered formations
incessantly circling
in widening rounds
seemingly reluctant to
plunge into the
endless depletion
of this aquatic
dead zone
I speak with a
Jefferson Parish employee
working a shovel
to regrade disturbed sand
boasting a consistency
of moist drying cement
“How did the Gulf oil spill
affect this place?” I ask
“It took evarding.” she said
With a slight Cajun accent,
“dig down a foot or two in da sand
you hit earl. It nevar goes away. Nevar.
“I live down bay side
near forty years.
Had’nt been in de water fer
twenty five. The ******
******** took evarding.
They should go back
to Englund”
She went back to
tilling the sand.
Deepwater Horizon
yet festers a short
forty miles out to sea
is now covered by
an advancing storm
swelling in the Gulf
standing at the end
of the long pier
my hands grasp the
sun bleached lumber
straining my eyes
peering into a
dark avalanche
the serenade
of bird songs
have been replaced
by the motorized drone
of tenders servicing
offshore rigs
sounding
a constant refrain
filling my ears
with a disquieting
seaside symphony
the taste of
light sweet crude
dances on my tongue
the pungent sting
of disbursements
climbs into nostrils
rends my face
prickles my eyes
grandeur is a
conditional state
never permanent
forever temporary
Music Selection:
Cajun Music:
Hippy To-Yo
Grand Isle
2/20/17
jbm
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
Oh by all means
Please do go on!
When I asked how things are going,
This is how I hoped you respond!
I wanted to know your recipe for chicken tenders.
No **** Coconut flour, huh?
Well I’ll. Be. ******
I wanted to know that you’re just trying to get through the doldrums of Day 11 & 12.
I’m just trying to get through this conversation!
We have something in common!
What I wanted to talk about? What I wanted to talk about was Weight Watchers.
I only have 13 more points left this week!
Have I told you my recipe for air “fried” cauliflower crunch bites?
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC
Never give up on what you want ,on what you wish for..always stay true,and always believe in yourself. Life can sometimes be hard,but be strong like a rock, be strong like an unbreakeble rock. Believe in what you do an be positive on what you believe never stay under the tant while athers buzy getting tenders be brave and be strong and always beat your weakness and try to change em to be your strenghtness never give up on your passion, your dream and your future ,beat and destroy every bad thng that stand on your way ,always open for the brightness and the Goodness be the star of yourself not athers never let anyone to make you feel down an never allow anyone to succed through you and trust me they will try and if you let em ,,they will take what you believe or wish for so fight for your dream and never give up
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
This town is too small for secrets
The sidewalks are adorned with names and dates
Of couples whose love dissolved twenty years ago
While moss oozes out of the letters.
This town is too small for secrets
Through windows at night
The citizens play out their dollhouse lives
And dysfunction is locked away in grandmother’s armoire.
This town is too small for secrets
Where bars close at seven in the morning and open an hour later
And the tenders are purveyors of free psychiatry
Who put advice in bowls between stale peanuts
And place them on the counter.
This town is too small for secrets
Every hour the two churches compete for the loudest bells
But the protestant one always wins
And the Catholics having mass ignore its pleading voice
But whisper politely in each other’s ears
About the scandalous protestors out on Main.
This town is too small for secrets
With its coffee shops littered with youth
Who deny their wealth through coffee steam
And discuss the state of countries they can’t place on a map
And slowly leach out in to the frigid rain
Back to new cars and million-dollar homes
Where daddy pays the bills.
This town is too small for secrets
The college students drink their scholarships in red plastic cups
And scuttle towards their shared flats
Collapse in to bed too tired to sleep
Stare at the ceiling and wonder why they didn’t transfer
Three semesters ago.
This town is too small for secrets
With its gated communities of retirees
Where the homes are manufactured
And the walls papered with the smiling faces of clean-cut grandchildren
And the rebellious ones packed away
From the neighborhood gossip’s prying eyes.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
Frail demeanor of library index cards
packed with Dewey’s decimals
stared upon so many times
some of you stigmatized with graffiti
“Read This” and “Don’t Read This”
as if the vandal knows
I wish to ****** each one of you
good precise direction you give
care in punctilious hand print
of maimed athenaeum tenders
all with long stretched noses
bridging reading spectacles
eyeing out naughty gigglers
stigmatized themselves by
rolled up quaffs
with pushed in pencils
or retractable ballpoint pens
writing implements held so delicately
while you were ascribed
O index cards of my shielded youth
how you protected me, informed me
Guided me on treasure hunts
where my imaginings still take me
away, in isles of knowledge
information coded in numbers and letters
Yours is the power
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 8:21 AM UTC
midnight, floodlights
purse seiners packed in tight
anchored on the fragile shoal
shadows play on the white wall
dune grass, needle, leaf of tree
gallows rising from the sea
back and forth the tenders run
salmon gathered one by one
the struggle and the toil
the silver flashing fins
leaping from the net
slipping back within
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
*Walter, I just want to sit on my *** and **** and think about Dante.*
—Samuel Beckett
All this fractures the Wolf. The ancient leaves
amid the ancient woods, wind riffling wind
in eddies she can see but she can’t hear,
the braying of a fatted calf which she
could eat, if she could hear thy call, O Wolf.
The tympani pretend to be a thunder roll,
the crashing cymbals mean to simulate
the distant lightning, all the strings—cello,
base, violin and viola—play the
pizzicato of rain commencing…
The Wolf sits to watch—what?—the floodlights fill
the stadium? the baton poised? the crowd
about to have their daily dose of not
quite silence served up yet again? She hates
that they have come to watch a prophecy.
It’s raining full blast now, the Wolf’s exchange
for music, how things balance out, how rain
fornicates in the forest, with its pools
and puddles, how it tenders lakes and rivers
and shadows… It can’t be! Ahead she sees him.
She sees Dante, the poet of the prophecy,
the one she has to drown. It’s why she’s deaf.
She will not hear him wail. **** him so he will rot
in hell before the other poet comes. **** him
and spare the world another poem about
another world. The rain and music grow
so dense around her soul. She is so quick,
too quick for him to flee. She drags him still
alive, drags him to the lake of his heart.
Sink and die. In Paradise only bubbles rise.
The tympani pretend to be a thunder roll,
the crashing cymbals mean to simulate
the distant lightning, all the strings—cello,
base, violin, viola—play it soft,
so soft, as if the rain is about to start…
The Wolf and I walk the slopes of hell.
When Farinata and Cavalcante
rise up to ask her, ‘Who were thy ancestors?’
and ‘Where Is ***** she howls. O Wolf.
O Tuscan. She howls.
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 5:51 PM UTC
Daily I listen to wonder and woe,
Nightly I hearken to knave or to ace,
Telling me stories of lava and snow,
Delicate fables of ribbon and lace,
Tales of the quarry, the **** the chase,
Longer than heaven and duller than hell--
Never you blame me, who cry my case:
"Poets alone should kiss and tell!"
Dumbly I hear what I never should know,
Gently I counsel of pride and of grace;
Into minutiae gayly they go,
Telling the name and the time and the place.
Cede them your silence and grant them space--
Who tenders an inch shall be ***** of an ell!
Sympathy's ever the boaster's brace;
Poets alone should kiss and tell.
Why am I tithed what I never did owe?
Choked with vicarious saffron and mace?
Weary my lids, and my fingers are slow--
Gentlemen, **** you, you've halted my pace.
Only the lads of the cursed race,
Only the knights of the desolate spell,
May point me the lines the blood-drops trace--
Poets alone should kiss and tell.
L'ENVOI
Prince or commoner, tenor or bass,
Painter or plumber or never-do-well,
Do me a favor and shut your face
Poets alone should kiss and tell.
1.9k
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, this is my revival:p
this time I fluctuate
I breathe annihilation
what got rid of me I got rid of liberation
the hurt carried on the pearl as seen before
makes me moon the past a perfect doom not ignore
more I find reckless but in good tenders
bile arisen comes to a chocolate cake remembers
something for me for once and all
the apart rejoined from the great unregretted fall
said suffer time on the twentieth last of year
a June not ought for my happiness not dear
not a remnant
since then but not worth the resentment
other than a rapid eye above buried graves
let be dreaded for my save
mentioned a one to hurt one to dream
a revival knows the uniqueness that beams
now one to petty one to go
one to memory one to soon
my compass is to be found in dune
-----ravenfeels
Jun 1, 2021
Jun 1, 2021 at 5:22 PM UTC
In the darkness,
Reverberation
… empties silence.
… tap; … tap; … tap.
The tapping?
The pendulum‘s grandeur;
A passive state… to time.
Low, slow,
… distant echoes
A bid
… to serenity’s seduction.
Sweeping circuits,
Lap …long,
Against a pebble filled beach.
The tide calls;
Whoosh;
…whoosh;
…whoosh;
…whoosh;
Such foreboding waves
Call.
Surrender;
Approach,..;
Remember…;
Return…,
Taste …
The salty- sweet
… water’s sway.
Ache for desire;
To expose
… forbidden love’s impoverished tears;
An enchanting lure,
… hearkens
Come; … far
Beneath the rocky cliff.
My heart;
Wanting … ;
But no… !
Sanity holds…
It’s… not time.
A snare’s line rings;
Time moves…;
… tap;
… tap;
… tap.
Time, waives protest
… to this recital’s longing embrace.
Home,
Simply composed;
A love’s submerging refrain.
A door,
… stills, open.
A room;
The keep;
Through a corridor’s long shadow,
The silence speaks,
Pride’s measure
… ticks.
… tap;
… tap;
… tap.
Old tatters
Curtains dance.
Soothing drifts
…cool salty air.
… tap;
… tap;
… tap.
A calm state;
Moonlight.
Relics of a heart;
Composing drama plays to shadows;
Cracks on old plaster walls.
Glimpses return
… where waning movements hide;
The essence of sound and silence
Intertwine.
An old window-seat
… gives audience to the stars.
In eyes of youth;
A young girl‘s heart… lives
Once more.
Time falls
Moments recede.
Ah, my love;
I hear the Harp’s comb play
As gentle as a sigh,..
Rolling Home…; Rolling Home…;
Rolling Home across the Sea
A vow, misspoken;
To wait…;
Still…
… tap;
… tap;
… tap.
Golden hair;
Your fancy to heather’s yielding flow.
A hundred long strokes;
As… soft tenders weep.
An altering hue;
… fades of time.
Gold;
Silver;
Now, twists shimmer of soft white pearl.
Time combs these long old satin strands.
… tap;
… tap;
… tap.
Youth now spent; To wear once more
Soft lavender, love-knots.
Ribbons flow…
Aging wrinkles where once
Plump lips reach desire;
Now, the gentlest breeze
… plays prey of a beating heart
Memories.
Take to flight.
… tap;
… tap,
Yesterday is almost here …;
Years abandon
… to the dew scent heather;
Eyes close
To such need
… to touch.
To…
To…
… tap;
… tap;
… tap.
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
One full bowl of chilli,
at least two dozen saltines,
one hot dog, and
two handfuls of chips later,
I vow not to eat tomorrow.
I had two small chicken tenders
and a bottle of carbonated orange juice at lunch,
and half an hour later
I was hunched over in a bathroom stall
and my mouth tasted of stomach acid and regret.
I ate once yesterday
and the same thing happened.
I know it's unhealthy,
I know it can **** me,
but all the same the only thing on my mind
is how much I regret eating so much.
I know it's unhealthy,
I know it can **** me,
but all the same
I find a strange sort of comfort
in knowing that I'm at least strong enough to control my appetite.
I know it's unhealthy,
I know it can **** me,
but all the same I can't get enough
of this self-hatred
spilling out of my mouth,
tinted with the taste of last hour's meal.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
No one tenders their own opinions anymore,
They just succumb to a majority.
Seeking enlightenment,
Punishable offenses of opening eyes.
Everyone is a vessel,
Filling themselves with the "right words,"
Rhetoric chains them in ignorance live on television.
They've snuffed out the flame,
We let them,
Because you listen and never speak.
Because you fear thought,
Fear isolation.
Free thought as a weapon,
Free speech as a banner,
Free people as a rebellion.
Challenge me then,
And challenge each other,
That we may more respect one another.
Not that they agree but that they contribute,
To a nobler enterprise,
Of living to offend our brothers.
If the world is moving forward,
But we are all still the same,
Can you call it progress?
It's a regress to nothingness.
We're void of conviction,
Apt to choose sides,
But not to make tides,
When we create a new one.
At chaos is peace when we disagree,
Seek peace in discord,
Seek agreement,
But never resolve it.
Dissolving ourselves,
And what we should hold dear,
Is when we lose ourselves,
When we dwell in fear.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 5:53 AM UTC
I. Cotton candy streaks painting an indigo sky
Behind streetlights, sitting on a red sidewalk curb,
Next to paper bags of thrifted clothes
With your best friend
Outside a coffee shop
Her laugh on the ride home
Your favorite song on the radio
And she remembers the way back to your house
Without having to ask for your address
II. Eyes closed and
Your heart beating a little bit too fast while
You hope no one notices the way your hands are shaking
As you clench your fingertips down rosewood frets to 9 gauge strings
And pray you hit the right note
The drums behind you to the tap of your foot
Where you can feel the bass from beneath the floor
And the voices singing along
And you think to yourself
that maybe its not magic
But its the closest thing by far
III. Walking what feels like way too far to go to a grocery store
Because there’s nothing to do after school
With your friends
And your backpacks are too heavy and
The road stains your socks because your shoes hurt too much
believe me when I say a gas station sign can look like the gates to heaven
Safeway chicken tenders and boba over bio homework
Sitting on a metal table and waiting for the world to pass by
Or at least until you can drive
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 7:29 PM UTC
I guess the spirit never really dies-
Words help me remember
How everything was a rainbow.
And the spectrum -
A variety of freedoms,
A clumsy learning,
A horizon ending with friends,
A stick, a ball, and a soda.
I'd write the summers,
The humidity's tender sweat
Which I guess became a cloud just
For me whose shape would stir
My imagination as the sky fell for me.
I'd write the best of friends
That never turned away adventure,
The forest in our neighborhood
With the wind rippling trees as
Autumnal tenders blew memories
To the future.
I want the words which are forever,
Immortal kids running like flames
Over ripples of time,
Hearts that never aged and innocence
That never failed,
I'd write the poem of a little boy
And candy wrappers surround.
I'm a little boy poet,
I want to write every joy,
Every new sorrow with a veil
Of child like mourning,
To write the light in my eyes
As I saw my first crush,
A fathomless rainbow to remember indeed.
This poem is pointless,
I cannot experience them through
Words,
I think I'll go play with my daughters
And drift away into spectral grace.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
the problem with overusing sarcasm is that
nobody takes you seriously, even when you need to be
like for example
when i ask you if you have a boyfriend
it isn't just out of curiosity
(but then again, just because there's a goalie...)
or when i ask what you're doing tuesday night
it isn't to mock you for replying "nothing"
(that's MY usual plan anyway)
the unusual enthusiasm i have for washing down red wine
with chicken tenders is just code for "i want to welcome you to my world"
with its quirks, pros and cons
and maybe i just feel a certain level of comfort with you
that is usually reserved for when i am immersed in my solitude
aka the creature's natural habitat
maybe i should stop waiting for the perfect moment
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC