"toms" poems
She loved the catnip
Straight for the hip
She was like an alley cat
With a worn out welcome mat
Her tail rang a chime
And every tom stopped on her dime
Petting was blunt
For all the toms went for the hunt
Affront of the beat
Two cats in heat
Nights played out in false hearts
Howls were off the charts
Brief was the moment
Lost was the fulfillment
Days sagged later
A same old story, bye alligator
Much to the chagrin
Of the alley's spin
When her baby was born
She was forlorn
Like a woman out of wedlock
Dealing with tom's, full of croc
My sister, I watched you fall
My words to you hit a blank wall
You played the game
Without a flame
Sadness as your son bleed
Now years later he followed your lead
Logan Robertson
8/09/2018
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
i am a walking cliche
teenage girl
depressed
rarely smiles
long sleeves to cover my wrists
i have a secret
-roll of eyes-
don't we all...
i wear toms in the spring and
chuck taylors in the fall
my shoes match my moods
when the sun shines brightly and i'm wearing dresses for days
i'm weightless
and then the sun sets and the trees rattle fiercely in the wind and my shoes,
they bind my feet to the ground
i crawl into my hole and start piling on sweaters and blankets it's dark
i'm alone
the sun won't rise for another 6 months
until then i'll shuffle around until i can find the nearest exit
i'm a walking cliche
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
I guess that someone could say
I've got you and you've got me
In every shape and form
Matching scars
Upon our hearts
I shot once babe
And you shot twice
Nothing's perfect, perfectly nice
So grab your sword
And grab your guns
Tie your tattered blindfold
Take your peeping Toms
Find your secret weapons
And
Ready
Aim
Fire!
Jan 14, 2010
Jan 14, 2010 at 12:55 PM UTC
When she sat down,
I was afraid she was going to ask to pray for me.
“I saw you across the room,
and God just told me to come over here to pray for you,”
She would say,
with a smile,
Wearing Toms,
her big toe peeking through a worn-in hole,
all shiny and full of Jesus Christ.
You know how they are.
Let me tell you, when someone asks to pray for you,
it's literally the worst feeling in the world.
You feel like a useless piece of trash,
and of course you HAVE to oblige.
But instead she just introduced herself,
said that she had seen me around
the coffee shop she worked at,
and wanted to say hi.
Her name was Julia and she had strawberry blonde hair,
she was a senior bio major,
and when I told her I was a freshman,
I detected a subtle lift of surprise in her eyes.
She was from San Diego, which she said was her favorite city.
Talking about it, her face lit up and she was excited.
We have a mutual friend, as she pointed out as well.
But,
she said,
I'll let you get back to your work.
I asked for her name again, the first time she said it,
I was too worried about her offers of prayer,
Julia,
she said again,
but if you forget, you can always ask.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 2:52 AM UTC
Bright lights shine a silhouette and show the glowing eyes of dark souls
in a frenzy of rapid motion i feel the pulsing of the bass drum the screaming of the cymbals and the gallop of the toms this is no energy you can escape from it creeps between the crack of every dream and the dark of every nightmare the animalistic ties you have will take you over until the drums stop and show is over
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
Chocolate colored Toms, Cool Blue and Navy, too,
North Face jacket, give me some individuality
I wanna feel ethereal; violently, annoyingly
happy. But the sky is as black as lonely cancer
without a soul mate; I know what it's like
to kiss as you erase her.
Hauntingly, melancholic instances ingrained
into my gelatin mind and
stayed.
And the smolder
from the brand on my shoulder
frayed.
I wish I could alter my reflection,
but the mirror I've bought,
somebody else
made.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
God, I hate 3am!
You make me late for work and grind my mind into bite sized peanut butter cups.
My thoughts are not a drill,
but they ***** me like Debbie did Dallas.
*really? You're doing ****
references now? *
**** off!
YES, I said **** in a poem!
*who are you talking to? *
YOUR MOTHER!!!
always voices at 3am!
Voices like shadows barely perceived on the edge of your ear.
*you can't hear shadows *
No one ******* ASKED YOU!
Sleep is a midnight UFO hovering behind an old farmhouse.
You may have seen something... once, but you can't prove it really exists.
Not at 3am when shadows walk like peeping Toms passed your window.
Not at 3am when your eyes are shot and your skull tingles like peppermint body wash on a squeaky clean ********
What the **** am I saying?
I don't even know anymore.
©Nathan A. Brock 2022
Oct 6, 2022
Oct 6, 2022 at 6:00 AM UTC
She came first in a dream
when I was fifteen. Yes,
she was the fire of ecstasy and her first licks
set my world aflame.
She's a shape-shifter, sometimes
fair and sometimes dark,
but always naked
when she comes.
She often whispers secrets
in the molten, swollen nights.
She even shows me jungles
and raging torrents down
where tom toms throb.
But when the morning breaks,
and I'm alone,
I struggle to remember.
Accordingly, I search the cities,
the far off mists and mountains
and the subterranean rivers
every burning day.
So it won’t surprise you to know
that where I mostly go to find her now
is under the volcano,
the place of endless fire.
It's where us dreamers and those demons
dance with our desire.
Mike T Minehan
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
If hip-hop is the night club of music,
The place where everyone wants to be,
Then, metal, you are the abandoned trainyard,
The gritty reality of close friends,
Bonding over empty cans.
Bluegrass might be a picnic,
With blankets in the park.
And rap might be the ghetto,
Urban streets,
Perpetual fear.
However, you have a different touch.
Sure, phat dubstep beats sound great,
When blasted by waves of bass.
But what of the feeling,
From uncountable bass pedal strikes.
Creating a wall of hard-pressed consistency.
And when the bass drum stops,
You know you'll hear a well-practiced,
Well-executed,
Well-written fill.
From the snare, to the toms,
To the chinas and splashes.
32nd notes all around.
And if punk is a bunch of teens,
Landing one out of twelve tricks,
At the local skate park.
If reggae is a house party,
The place your parents don't want you,
But where you feel happy.
Then metal is where you feel REAL.
A darkened elementary school,
Yours for the weekend,
Reminding you where you came from.
Years and years of practice,
All leading up to a perfectly nailed arpeggio.
You don't even hear the pick as it sweeps,
String to string.
You only hear notes and scales,
Arranged just so.
Pure dedication,
Displayed by the clean solos,
And harmonies,
Which fall back into downtuned chugging,
Rhythms,
Simply rhythms,
True unison,
The brotherhood dynamic,
Of a lesser-liked genre.
And the sounds of the world,
Are the way you go to school,
To work and home again,
And silence,
Is nights spent alone,
Silence is the absence of passion,
Silence is suicide,
Death.
Metal, you are my resonance.
My threshold.
And the words,
Repeated throughout my mind,
Are not shrill notes on the treble-clef.
They are not auto-tuned, worthless.
The words I feel,
The words I live,
Are the common words and phrases,
That no one can understand,
The deep grating and churning,
Of vocal chords that learn not to ring,
But to shout.
To scream.
To growl, like the guttural and primordial calls.
Of our wild side.
This growling echoes,
From throat to mind.
Metal is my flag,
My skin,
My pyre.
Jul 24, 2010
Jul 24, 2010 at 7:51 AM UTC
My spirit opens like a sunflower in snow
i want some more of what you told me I could have,yet you never let it go.
my attic lair I kept to hide away from
peeping toms.
Paper whispers a secret now a blot on my side.
drawn as a lover but with no heart.
sigh
Fall carries sense of self to brain to work
and find the worth of a grainy sand
to the oceans touch.
still a charming writer did my muse
guess better?
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 10:37 AM UTC
bebop, bebop
sway your hips
tap your foot
tap, tap, tap
Cold November Evening
Cambridge, MA
Scarf, Pea coat, Flannel
Hot mulled Cider
Leaves have turned.
Red, orange, yellow.
They clutter the ground.
Wipe your feet.
sing, sing it loud
dance with her
dance with him
one two three four
Body Heat Insulates
472 Massachusetts Ave
Skinny Jeans, Toms Classics
Chilled Brooklyn Lager
Lights on the stage.
Red, orange, yellow.
They warm the atmosphere.
Play one more song.
Don’t let this night end.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
Kristallnacht
The night that was Fought
Jew against Aryan
Filled with sin
No-one had to win
But the **** party
Thought of a race oh so hearty
Emotions ran high
Soldiers were high on ****
Forced to their death
March, March soldier boy
Germany's little toy
So many of you young and coy
They created courage pills
To give you a thrill
So that you could ****
Just until
The dirt was cleansed
Grease guns
No more fun
British and Germans
Toms and Jerrys
A ration on sherry
Line up girls and boys
Off to the front you go
Some will lose the odd toe
In the Russian snow
Stalingrad
Little ones be glad
Most never to see their sons again
Germany full of sin
Allies for the win
Nuremberg trials for the ****
No more of their party
Sentenced to death
Most still high on ****
15 year old boys
Killed for spying
****** youth
Find the truth
14-18 sent to war
The bullets they tore
Too young to fight
But they had the might
Pride and honor
But the horror
For the warrior
It ended
So many dead
Slaughtered in their beds
We took their wives
And the husbands lives
We failed to see the problem
Was us the Human
So repent for our sins
Even though we took a win
Did anyone really win?
All guilty of some sin
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 5:36 PM UTC
I am oatmeal with
two tablespoons of sugar topped with
a strawberry freshly sliced, thin enough to
slip between my lips and slide
down my throat
without me having to chew
I am trying my best not to spit out seeds.
I am a pair of faded shorts
a charcoal cotton sweater
an ugly red scarf and a pair of
frayed black Toms, but
sometimes I am a vintage dress
or camouflage pants, and
some days I am a string of pearls
I am still trying to find the perfect shoes.
I am a Philippine history book
repeating the same mistakes
refusing to learn from those who
now kiss cool marble
but there are days when I take
three steps forward where
I see they took one step back.
I am trying to scrape off towers to read the letters
our grandfathers wrote in the dirt.
I am a missing pencil
that drew lines and traced figures
under the bed and wrote
stories of empty seats being filled
and now that the fountain pens have dried up
I've been found.
I am scared, but I am giving until my lead runs out.
I am a fervent prayer
longing for redemption to win
and for the fighting to end
please, I just want to see
hearts beating to the rhythm of
the stars being breathed into place
I am hope,
or I am trying to be, I am
trying to be a lot of other things still
testing, still throwing, still keeping.
But most of all, I am still
the choices I make and
maybe tomorrow I'll have
some rice and tapa
and a lightly salted sunny side up
instead of oatmeal and I promise,
I won't be spitting out any seeds.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
weathered fingertips in sensual crescendo
arouse blitzing keystrokes to commove
wild Js and Zeds, Ks and Is too.
harmony of the king's three-thousand acre jungle
swallowing the stormy orange cyclical stew
and tantamount to its feral cavities
thrushes whet jagged spinal bones to split
news of the no-rhythm, sambas of new religious canter
infiltrates the **** cavernous walls
This inner ear and greater sound
knew to find sanctuary here.
Lends its awesome craft to the next
And next, and next, and next;
beautiful unboxed melodies
new unused sweet single-reeds
threading that 20s centrifuge.
Saxophone. Incantations unfolding
Aloof in its ***** it unwraps
The veil of green, a costume of black coffees
Cigarette stained curtains exhumed to greet
Thick plumes of albicant sinewy smoke
At the heap of its glorious song
Uniting the funnel of eardom to consecrate
Bliss. Intrinsic and purple
An irrational knot of Portuguese drum
Met over by African toms and rattles
A glue imbued into those unmistakable
Chakras of this spell of mourning and reversed
Names of starlight girls and their other'd selves
These are the weapons of our new key strokes.
And upon the cortex it reveals this lift anew
Where death greeted me to intervene a place
Where sound and silence meet, and new strikes
Put my hands in halves. Pear-shaped birds pecking
At the joints, and where bowl-shaped tones bring
Their impeccable limbs to atone with auburn and cerise soils
Beneath the high ridges of doom- the empowering backspace
Does not exist, only new nothingnesses and their hooves
Splashing into each step into the next, and the next, and the next,
And the next.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
How you know him: Gurung’s label, established in 2009, reimagines traditional textiles with a sportswear attitude. January Jones, First Lady Michelle Obama, and Oprah Winfrey have taken memorable turns in his fiery red gowns.
What’s new: Gurung is teaming up with Toms this month with exclusive designs to raise funds for Nepal’s recovery from the 2015 earthquake. For each pair of shoes sold, $5 will go to Gurung’s Shikshya Foundation to support education and relief efforts.
What does heritage mean to you?
When I left Nepal and told people I wanted to be a fashion designer, they thought I was crazy. I didn’t know anyone here. But I still remember coming up to the Midtown Tunnel and seeing all the skyscrapers for the first time, and I finally felt that I was home. I became myself in America, but Nepal gave me my core. The reason I am grounded and pragmatic is simply that I was brought up this way.
What was your childhood like there?
I was born in Singapore and grew up in Nepal, where I went to an all-boys Catholic school. I was different and made aware of it. It was a challenging time, but I had an incredible relationship with my family that helped me. Trekking became a kind of escape, and I was always inspired by the Patan Museum, near my house. I still go back for the memories attached.
How is Nepal reflected in your designs for Toms, and also your foundation work?
The ikat pattern is called dhaka, a hand-loomed weave that I wanted to modernize as a digital print. Black, white, and red are very typical of Newari women [from Kathmandu Valley] and my favorite colors, which I used in my first collection. Five years ago, when I started getting all this attention, I started Shikshya with a focus on education as a way to give back. Since the 2015 earthquake, we have raised more than $1 million to help rebuild, but the process is slower than people think, and the world’s attention turns to someplace else. So it’s my job with everything I do to keep awareness alive.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
Whining about slushie stains, broken shoe strings, a cloudy tan date, a blender of crushed molding fruit and a couple of misplaced coupons dusty under the bookcase
I listen, I stay. I know I know-so awful, so unfair
Tuesday the tongue red Toms squished into the slip n' slide of a slow-paced coat on the run, splashing in the surprise and disgust but mostly drowning in the wrong point
I listen, I stay. I know I know-so foul, so raw
The pipes ooze liquid, weeping for a fix but the handyman's calloused fingertips were fired for not fitting the bill, mending the rip or driving the speed limit
I listen, I stay. I know I know-so frustrating, so disappointing
Saturday's overlap into Sunday was cramming lyrics and auto corrected notes into the bloated edge of a clicking lens snapping away, capturing a frenzy of wild memories and ibuprofen pills
I listen, I stay. I know I know- so entertaining, so amusing
Begging for top shelf truth, knee stretching for flexibility, pen scratching for a road deeper inland, holding, yearning for a meaningful entry to meaningfully look back on
I listen, I stay. I know I know- so vanished, so fragmented
Each night, the muffled light bulb all tucked into bed shamelessly stares crooked at the nightmares of an exhausted headboard wishing only to shed comfort instead of light
I listen, I stay. I know I know- so sorry, so sorry, so sorry I can't be more for you
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
Keep-A-Breast
Apple
OtterBox
Acu-Rite
Dial Aquafresh
Oral-B
ACT Garnier Equate
Hanes
On the Byas
Rude
Toms
Dakine
Acu-Vue
Ponds Degree
Preferred Stock
Mighty Wallet
Hot Topic
Keurig Dixie
Donut Shop
Domino
International Delight
Peter Paul's
Best Yet Great Value
Instagram
Facebook
Snapchat Yik Yak
Forever 21
Adventure Time
FSC Bic The Poetry Foundation
Staedtler Pilot Sharpie Microsoft
The Norton Anthology
Toshiba Dell Expo
Lipton
Emerica
Anti Hero MOB Shorty's
Bones Thunder
Shake Junt
Swingline
Pandora
Tommy Hilfiger
' Jill Greg Ashley Courtney
Judy
Bob
Janice
Shannon Kelly
Robert Emily Jeremy Darrin Liza
Bill Joe Dominic Sean James
Gav Jordan Tony Eric
Christopher
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
Sitting packed in the back
of a semi-decrepit white Subaru
belonging to the Swedish Harpist
driven by the Romanian Drummer
with a literal car-full
of perfectly tetrised musical instruments,
including:
Four cymbals, two toms, a hi-hat, and a stool,
a Celtic double-Harp,
an electric Piano,
and two guitars
(an acoustic-electric twelve-string and an electric six-string)
with a few days' clothing
and, not knowing where we're sleeping, a sleeping bag,
all the while
devouring Matza and pumpkin seeds
(that we bought at Trader Joe's)
as we barrel moderately safely
down various back roads and Highways
in this car weighted as a truck and driven as a motorcycle
towards enigmatic San Francisco
to play a couple shows,
two days in a row:
one, at a literally underground Theatre
(in which improv comedy is, apparently, king of kings)
smack-dab 'pon the border of Union Square,
and another, for a private birthday party
typified by oh so many avid Burners.
Surely, our Psychedelic Jazz Funk-Rock
will find some empathic ears!
Y'know, last summer,
when I said I wanted
to be in a Gypsy Band,
I sure didn't see this coming:
this is pretty ******* Gypsy,
in my observational opinion.
Well,
here I am,
and I even asked for it.
For us three,
this will certainly be
an interesting few days,
down in the Bay,
on our way to play
wherever it is we may,
and all I can say
is: "Okay,
this is the stuff
books are made of,"
and, "Well,
time to live
one hell of a story!"
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
I'm a sheltered nineteen-year-old
from Northeastern Nowhere,
Pennsylvania. I spent my preteens
worrying about girls and digging
holes in the backyard. I had my friends.
Two or three middle-low class kids
down the street. We rode bikes, played
video games, and occasionally watched **** together.
It seems a lot weirder now than it did in the moment.
We made memories daily and spoke our
underdeveloped minds. At thirteen, politics
were simply, **** Capitol Hill" or "the prez's
a crook." Things change, though.
I still know little about politics, but I'm sure
there's at least one good policy in effect.
Everyone eventually goes their separate ways
and the phone lines between us get damp
or get cut. I haven't dug holes since a landslide
filled in my work. I traded in my bike
for four wheels and a piece of wood. My Nikes
are now Toms, and I don't worry about girls.
Just the one I've been with for almost four years.
Instead of **** I look up synonyms, so I can
sound a bit smarter at 7:30 AM typing my thoughts.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
There was heat lightning as I walked back home that night.
it was Saturday, or rather, Sunday,
5 am, still dark
when I got his text and I wondered this: how far can two strangers go?
how quick can two fall in Love,
and just how quick does it take
for ignorance to come on?
Love is not Love anymore.
but I’ll admit to missing this,
only to you, my reader:
I do sometimes miss the sight of my once lover
walking towards our table with two cups of coffee in hand.
he hasn’t memorized my order yet, and I’m content with this.
it’s moving slowly, we’re just friends that happen
to spend a lot of time together, and share favorite movies,
and favorite songs, and could listen to a newly discovered old album
all the way through
just lying on his bed
and gazing at each other.
we could stare into the other’s eyes till we found our own reflection.
he was in me as much as I was in him.
Love is not love anymore
when I’ve left that part of me in upstate new york, in another land.
Love is being content.
but I am not content with myself
or my others that try to be significant,
like the one who sent that text,
hopeless, romantic, and misguided.
I am not in Love, reader,
not since him.
so when I got this text and he said that he could imagine us together,
holding hands, in a state beyond
nice, simple, naïve, simplistic
friendship,
I paused
stuck in my place,
for long enough that the lightning had a chance
to greet the storm.
the rain pummeled down, extraterrestrial,
and the bag of White Castle burgers I carried
disintegrated.
as the bag narrowed down in size, sliders plopping down onto the pavement
I kept running towards my home, trying to forget that our friendship was in question.
Love is not love anymore.
it scares me more than it should.
I’d rather let my seven dollars go to waste,
than give into love’s blind, bitter taste.
I’d rather my toms be pounded down into the pavement by the rain
and later spend three days drying in the back of my closet
and have the security guard stare at me, confused,
as the last of my sliders fall down onto the sidewalk outside his door.
“That’s a mess,” he says,
as if I didn’t know,
and he makes no move to help me clean it up,
so I choose not to reply to him.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
The world can see them
We’re all peeping toms
We get off on their P.D.A.
How he cups her in his palms
He kisses her nervous lips
And she wails with each touch
She loves how he touches her
She swoons to his firm clutch
They’re on full display
A real live *** tape
They put on a show for us perverts
He’s all over her curvy shape
Watch him grab her golden thigh
Listen to her soulful shouts
The quiver in her tone says she likes it
The people like it even more, no doubt
They’ve made themselves infamous
Cause we like to hear her moan
The man and his girl are devoted
A musician and his saxophone
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 9:56 PM UTC