"thisaway" poems - Hello Poetry

The fire knows nothing but burning, we know breathing that way, naturally done for our own sake. We old still know sake and grant mean true immaterial things. Sake and granted we take to mean my good, your good, good sake grant me take me con mentis sans carne by golly. Dada-esque wire spoke far writing ease e everything e-literate e-mail --- the boinin' in d'boozum, dat be da ting, da ting con sum in all ya'lifes. be knowin' dat, be knowin' a-dam lie. Jah know y'know, don' be sayin' no y'don' Be happy. Jah know haps be hap'nin' allatime. *** sum, take wha's granted, take all fo' free. You got nothin' t'boin, nothin' to oin, be a bird brain seein' stars fo' no. birds be sleepin' when stars be seen so birds consider nothin', sidereally. Hmmm. Quit? Walk away, say, I got nought to say I ought t' say. No way. Temporary tempt-test-u-us sitchee-ations, suffer it so. It don' hurt t'say no f'now so How'd that that shiny critter know my game? How'd it know, I think thisaway and it is gone, forever. (which has begun, btw) ----- The biosphere is regaining consciousness, Capitan. Shall we continue burning? What's the bullocks count?

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Aug 17, 2018

Aug 17, 2018 at 1:33 PM UTC

kenpepiton

Consume or die (the fire lie)

The fire knows nothing but burning, we know breathing that way, naturally done for our own sake. We old still know sake and grant mean true immaterial things. Sake and granted we take to mean my good, your good, good sake grant me take me con mentis sans carne by golly. Dada-esque wire spoke far writing ease e everything e-literate e-mail --- the boinin' in d'boozum, dat be da ting, da ting con sum in all ya'lifes. be knowin' dat, be knowin' a-dam lie. Jah know y'know, don' be sayin' no y'don' Be happy. Jah know haps be hap'nin' allatime. *** sum, take wha's granted, take all fo' free. You got nothin' t'boin, nothin' to oin, be a bird brain seein' stars fo' no. birds be sleepin' when stars be seen so birds consider nothin', sidereally. Hmmm. Quit? Walk away, say, I got nought to say I ought t' say. No way. Temporary tempt-test-u-us sitchee-ations, suffer it so. It don' hurt t'say no f'now so How'd that that shiny critter know my game? How'd it know, I think thisaway and it is gone, forever. (which has begun, btw) ----- The biosphere is regaining consciousness, Capitan. Shall we continue burning? What's the bullocks count?

30

Thoughts we think we have for no reason we think poor, we think as a slave thinks, we think like a sharecropper. Reaping what our children selves sowed so others may eat it. We forged the chain that chains the wolf, never fear, vengenance has been tamed since shame was shown to be avoidable, flushable biodegradably wiped clean. Beans and corn remind you Chew your food. You can choke. You can die swallowing an untold lie whole. When you choke among those who wish you lived, Heimlich points blame straight at you, you expel the lie as if it were our creation, you're to blame, to shame, to prove you did not digest the story the lie intended to tell, the lying spirit in the mouth of magi sybils and seers and prophets and poets and such, who forgot the origin, the idea of binding a bubble into a being bubblin', bubblin, bubblin' in m' soul m'nordic nomadic hunter soul singin' along mit revinoor disdeemin' relations o'mine, who all dance to Flatt and Scruggs fiddle tunes. 't'sinthe blood, Galacian flutes and Persian fiddles and wooden clogs, mockasin- soft shoe, round the... shhh listen shuffle yah thisaway yaha thisaway hey hey this away ever coom buy ya'll, come by touch, in passing, take my piece, play to win. wink. wink. the one-eyed white man hands you his cane, wanders away as if he had some better place to be.

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Feb 26, 2019

Feb 26, 2019 at 4:32 PM UTC

kenpepiton

Notes to the reader of the hermit's will

Thoughts we think we have for no reason we think poor, we think as a slave thinks, we think like a sharecropper. Reaping what our children selves sowed so others may eat it. We forged the chain that chains the wolf, never fear, vengenance has been tamed since shame was shown to be avoidable, flushable biodegradably wiped clean. Beans and corn remind you Chew your food. You can choke. You can die swallowing an untold lie whole. When you choke among those who wish you lived, Heimlich points blame straight at you, you expel the lie as if it were our creation, you're to blame, to shame, to prove you did not digest the story the lie intended to tell, the lying spirit in the mouth of magi sybils and seers and prophets and poets and such, who forgot the origin, the idea of binding a bubble into a being bubblin', bubblin, bubblin' in m' soul m'nordic nomadic hunter soul singin' along mit revinoor disdeemin' relations o'mine, who all dance to Flatt and Scruggs fiddle tunes. 't'sinthe blood, Galacian flutes and Persian fiddles and wooden clogs, mockasin- soft shoe, round the... shhh listen shuffle yah thisaway yaha thisaway hey hey this away ever coom buy ya'll, come by touch, in passing, take my piece, play to win. wink. wink. the one-eyed white man hands you his cane, wanders away as if he had some better place to be.

40

I left home when I was young To the fringes I was flung And I never wrote a letter to my home, Lord, to my home No, I never wrote a letter to my home I set out for Tuscaloo’ Just my baby sister knew She hung her head and handed me a dime An’ it took me pretty far I hopped on the next boxcar I waved goodbye to her a final time Not a coat upon my frame nor a penny to my name But I never wrote a letter to my home to my home, Lord Lord, No, I never wrote a letter to my home I was settled on the track A cold wind tried to blow me back But I held on an’ swallowed all the pain I stepped off in Alabam’ Boxcar door shut with a slam And I tried to build a house there in the rain If ya missed the train I’s on Count the days that I been gone You can hear that whistle blow a hundred miles Hundred miles, hundred miles You can hear that whistle blow a hundred miles But when it rains it pours When it’s done, there’s always more And it’s hard to build a home out in a storm My Papa warned me, “Son you’ll be sorry when you’re gone” I thought that he was bitter - now I know I left home to chase the sun But it moves faster than I run Now I cry alone the end of ev’ry day I can hear my Mama call “stop your runnin’ ‘fore ya fall” I don’t wanna go home, let me play Not a penny on my name ever since the bankers came I got a letter on a lonesome day Said “Your Mama’s dead an’ gone and your sister’s all gone wrong. Son I need you home now right away” Not a coat upon my back and I’m still livin’ on the tracks No, Papa can’t see me thisaway Thisaway, Lord ya know that I can’t go home thisaway. And if ya miss the train I'm on count the days that I been gone You can hear that whistle blow a thousand miles Thousand miles, thousand miles, Lord You can hear my whistle blow a thousand miles.

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Feb 17, 2021

Feb 17, 2021 at 1:43 PM UTC

Tyler_Matthew

I Never Wrote a Letter

I left home when I was young To the fringes I was flung And I never wrote a letter to my home, Lord, to my home No, I never wrote a letter to my home I set out for Tuscaloo’ Just my baby sister knew She hung her head and handed me a dime An’ it took me pretty far I hopped on the next boxcar I waved goodbye to her a final time Not a coat upon my frame nor a penny to my name But I never wrote a letter to my home to my home, Lord Lord, No, I never wrote a letter to my home I was settled on the track A cold wind tried to blow me back But I held on an’ swallowed all the pain I stepped off in Alabam’ Boxcar door shut with a slam And I tried to build a house there in the rain If ya missed the train I’s on Count the days that I been gone You can hear that whistle blow a hundred miles Hundred miles, hundred miles You can hear that whistle blow a hundred miles But when it rains it pours When it’s done, there’s always more And it’s hard to build a home out in a storm My Papa warned me, “Son you’ll be sorry when you’re gone” I thought that he was bitter - now I know I left home to chase the sun But it moves faster than I run Now I cry alone the end of ev’ry day I can hear my Mama call “stop your runnin’ ‘fore ya fall” I don’t wanna go home, let me play Not a penny on my name ever since the bankers came I got a letter on a lonesome day Said “Your Mama’s dead an’ gone and your sister’s all gone wrong. Son I need you home now right away” Not a coat upon my back and I’m still livin’ on the tracks No, Papa can’t see me thisaway Thisaway, Lord ya know that I can’t go home thisaway. And if ya miss the train I'm on count the days that I been gone You can hear that whistle blow a thousand miles Thousand miles, thousand miles, Lord You can hear my whistle blow a thousand miles.

55

oh, now listen, to that blues man, singin' prayer singin' words in ways we never hoid woids sung thisaway, since Grandma on th Bayou, introduced me, to Mr. Jake, Now mister jake, he was old country, old school He settle a passle of flybit cows with a croon, aimed right at the moon, top o' his lungs, knowin' I am the only voice I hear, my prayers never bounce, they soak down may you arrive, said Mr. Jake where you wisht you were, when we learned of life in Louisiana from an old Siclilian fisher man cook, who knew of Tavasco Inlet, to Bayou Bleu, the real you can feel black mud from the top of the river, carried all this way, to squish between my toes, so I never fo'got toejam spreader was a occupying principle behind any search for pearls once fed to pigs. Mr. Jake taught me to think these muddy thoughts with my toes, wigglin', feel a nibblin' set hook, what do you know?

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Oct 3, 2019

Oct 3, 2019 at 4:01 PM UTC

kenpepiton

Meet Mr. Jake, the Sicilian Fisher Cook

oh, now listen, to that blues man, singin' prayer singin' words in ways we never hoid woids sung thisaway, since Grandma on th Bayou, introduced me, to Mr. Jake, Now mister jake, he was old country, old school He settle a passle of flybit cows with a croon, aimed right at the moon, top o' his lungs, knowin' I am the only voice I hear, my prayers never bounce, they soak down may you arrive, said Mr. Jake where you wisht you were, when we learned of life in Louisiana from an old Siclilian fisher man cook, who knew of Tavasco Inlet, to Bayou Bleu, the real you can feel black mud from the top of the river, carried all this way, to squish between my toes, so I never fo'got toejam spreader was a occupying principle behind any search for pearls once fed to pigs. Mr. Jake taught me to think these muddy thoughts with my toes, wigglin', feel a nibblin' set hook, what do you know?

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