"trisha" poems
Shakespeare’s Dog
in the theater tonight, the notion of a poem-potion
courtesy of Shakespeare's dog came unbidden
So when home arrived, was unsurprised that this
very peculiar pug was farting before my own front door.
get lost, I announced got what I need from your boss,
but before I could kick him across the floor,
the pug spake thusly:
*this dog knows the boot too well,
it is parcel of this dog's life of no quality,
but if you give me shelter tonite, I will provide,
share some of Speare's un-Published Works
and you can claim it as your own!*
kicked that dog across the room,
(having pity earlier I let him in and enter)
told Jim, (that’s what I called him)
he can stay the night, or long as the sun rises up
and goes down unbidden, but, if I ever
caught him plagiarizing, selling sonnets on the side,
I would report him to the ASPCA and the Poet’s Union.
The American Society for the Poets of Conscience Alive -
might have his low hanging ***** cut off in retribution.
he laughed out loud, rhyming funny, pontificating:
*well mate,
thanks for the soliloquy,
me ***** long time gone,
but what I know and what I’ve seen
if tale-told you, and you were to listen,
you would keep me around as fodder
for your artistic soul.
in return chappie,
you need only provide me a rug, a fire,
A/C for the languid summer eves,
fodder for me body, and your boots,
far removed from my hindquarters.*
We spoke much thereafter,
turns out he served his poet-masters
in many ways, more than a mere footstool.
his snoring keeps me awake some twenty years later.
his love for country music makes me put him on nice days,
outdoors, his headphones securely strapped round his double chins.
ugh that pug. became my best becoming love, old friend,
one of us will pass someday and an elegy composition,
the other devotee will furnish sadness utterly becoming.
so if a farting pug before your door you’ve found,
take him in, give him water, an amply supply please
of Carrie, Trisha and Chaplin-Carpenter for his immortal soul,
but beware, he might try to sell you
some of my words, as your own.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 1:31 PM UTC
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.
My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.
Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.
She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.
We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.
Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.
The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.
"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".
"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
The Creep that loved you
Dani Chase
Jinxxed For Life
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ
Ena Alysopriono
Unknown guy
Rex Forté
Jimmydon
Janine
LeeAnn Rose
Musfiq us shaleheen
Elle Tat
maha salman
Concrete Angel
Carolin
wolf spirit aka quinfinn
Death is living
Ally
the helper
patty m
Yung Wifey
Gabrielle Cox
Heart Broken
Kayla-Lyn Searle
Dark Rose
Jason Cirkovic
Midnight Writer
LittleFreeBird
Richard Barnes
Trisha Anne Chi-Young
Thinking Out Loud
AD Mullin
Devon Webb
Hannah Jade
Deborah Brooks Langford
Winter Frost
Jeremy Boyd
Starry Night
caitlyn walters
elsa angelica
Sarah M Gillihan
Sweetheart
Andre nalin
DC raw love
Charbear909
Thomas A Robinson
chainedwhore
PerfectTruths
Worldeater
John-Chris Ward
Ember Evanescent
Kitty Lam
LJ Chaplin
Just Melz
Jae
Just Jean
The Girl Who Loved You
Vanessa Gatley
StayStrongILveU
tamyon lawrence
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC
They were young high school boys at the time
Too young to know what they wanted to do with the rest of their lives
An ill fated night of fun and games with friends in the park
After the street lights had just turned on and it was starting to get dark
Unbeknownst to the boys, a female jogger was out for a run
An unknown man had come out of the darkness and knocked her unconscious
He committed horrific acts of physical violence and left her for dead
After police at the scene first discovered the woman bleeding severely from her head
They put out a call that “black and Hispanic teenagers” were out in the park “wilding” and up to no good
An order was given to round everyone up and to bring them in for questioning
At that point the young minors were beaten, terrorized, and coerced
By the very police force that had promised to protect and to serve
Family members were confused, separated, threatened, and lied to
The boys and their family members were tricked into signing false statements
Framed by police and convicted by the media even before their hearings
The boys didn’t stand a chance despite having the support of their community and good legal representation
There was no true peace of mind the wrongful convictions could have provided for Trisha, the jogger
There was no true justice that could be served in those two courtrooms either
Five innocent boys were convicted and served long sentences for a crime they did not commit
Korey, Kevin, Yousef, Antron, and Raymond now use their experiences to help others who should have also been found innocent
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 5:16 PM UTC
if he were to leave like
a passing storm,
tracked by a team
of experts,
but, swept out to sea,
forgotten by forecasters
but remembered by fish.
if he chose to
leave on terms
gathered,
saying goodbye in a
short note of giving:
“Heather,
Your pretty face wasn’t enough,
I saw the *** marks and
I actually feared them.
Mike,
You ****** at soccer,
the idea it was better than
baseball disgusted me,
Gail,
Your younger years made
my whole life whole,
remember that,
Trisha,
I always loved your pies,
blueberry, pumpkin,
who could leave out apple,
John,
I leave to you my
knuckleduster,
Fred,
to you my ’69 chevy,
Uncle Steve my
Who Pinball machine,
Helen,
my distasteful character.
Mary,
my married heart.
Jesus,
you know.
and my putrid eyes to a ****** of magpies”.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC
Rich
The place where America tells us to go
Rich
The golden flute blaring the joyous lie
Rich
The side step over a dead *** in diamond studded shoes
Extravagence over originality
Mummified dice rollers whose only thought
Is where to go and what needs to be sold
The fold of the deck the break of a neck
Rich Rich Rich
The human race is oh' so rich
Swimming in a sea of deadening shallowness
Hovering from the Earth by choice
A smile only brought to a child
When they have enough cash for that
Conveyor belts of broken down bodies
Headed to the incinerator
This place is not my home
I am just passing through
Headed out
Here I am constantly disillusioned disappointed and dismembered
A black dot on and all black screen
Age no longer matters love no longer cares hate spins on the tips of his high heels
Even poetry goes along for the ride, even this place I write on now
The need for richness in life used to be real
Used to be a smile from a girl from across the way
Some money here for her and maybe she'd have something to say
I feel as if I have missed out on what it meant to be human
And now
I am trapped in a maze where no one
No God
No Devil
No Man
No Woman
No sentence
Can truly set me free
Here in this place of raining fire frog dented horror
Alleyway murders where ****** named Trisha wished they woulda' kissed yah
Dank fire places with the wood all wet n' Uncle Jeff's trying to make a bet
Holding fear in the eyes of the one's that say they believe but lie
We are all animals with suits ties papers shoes laces and pressed socks
We are all animals with skirts heels purses eyes that glisten as the squeal
We are all leaf eating meat dripping cave furnished mutants
Who think we are better then the ones who have come before us
We aren't
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 8:54 PM UTC
Life at 21, do you remember it?
Things rush at you, hit you, from all directions.
Any small decision can turn into a major plot beat.
What are our lives anyway but the sum of our decisions?
Opportunities contract and expand around us, like breathing—
and what fills those lungs are our test scores and faculty opinion.
College is a land of dreams—we’re all dream catchers—on our own paths, but the paths are mazes shrouded in haze, tumblers in need of combinations, variants that we must learn and memorize though it drains our communal blood.
At test times, the silence in libraries and coffeehouses is deafening,
full, as they are, of hunched-back phantoms toiling on books or blue-lit screens. If it sounds stressful and dramatic—it is. It’s not a time to get raddled—it’s all a big test.
Your world contracts to the sterile and dry— the facts and the moments needed to gather and order them.
That’s why we love breaks. Fall, Summer, Christmas, Thanksgiving—any flavor—break.
In fact, Lisa and I are on break now, I’m typing, on a MacBook Air, in a helicopter, screaming towards Manhattan.
If we don’t die in this shaky, 250mph, 3000-feet out-over Long Island Sound, cricket-like contraption, we’re going to have a great time—if we do nothing but sleep, hug our families and eat turkey—a great time.
.
.
Songs for this:
Little Hercules by Trisha Yearwood
Constant Craving by k.d. lang
Nov 21, 2024
Nov 21, 2024 at 2:51 PM UTC
Hindi mo ako dapat gawing catalyst
Para maparealize mo sa kanya
na mahal ka niya
Sabihin mo sa kanya
Kung mahal mo siya
Wag gumamit ng iba
Para ipaintindi ang nadarama
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 8:45 AM UTC
Trisha and Danny,
With your love so sure.
Sometimes love is like
A whirlwind in the trees.
Sometimes love's a while,
Then scatters to the seas.
But your love,
It shines brightly in your eyes,
It's there for all about to realise,
It's there in both your lows and highs.
Yet you well know that love is more,
It's universal,
Eternal,
The kernel -
It's so old that nothing came before.
Love is the joy that makes us whole,
Love is the truth that fills our soul.
Love is the light that burns inside,
Love is the flame that you can never hide.
Trisha and Danny, recall this day,
Your family, your friends,
Even far away.
Danny and Trisha, recall this time,
May its blessings ne'er end,
May your love be sublime.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 5:21 PM UTC
wondaland verses, 3 am, sliding thru fog
don't judge me, us, dem goons, eazy legs
mikey, coba cobrahead, **** 13.8, trisha
young are our martyrs, hyped my moves
burning shoes, raging thoughts, mad luv
veni, vidi, vici, viciously beatin em down
brothas and sistas, thank you all for coming
dusk creates nights of lambos and revenge
hihaho, the drumset drowns in dark water
monica matadora, deal, trance disciple
as glossywhite as onyxblack are the rocks
and gems in the voltgreen bottega bag
wondaland verses from the gp heritage
roots and boost of gangsta poetry, yeeeah
Jul 26, 2021
Jul 26, 2021 at 2:54 PM UTC