"vanderbilt" poems
Friends are special and always have been,
But certain ones stick out just a tad more.
Less like a nail in wood, capable of pain,
More like a tree near a seashore.
Always the coolest, best-looking, funniest, awesome-est,
He’s also a good guy.
He befriended the lamest, smallest, weirdest kid,
Helped to make him less shy.
Thankfully, through the beginning of a friendship,
Blossomed a great one between us,
With broken mirrors, blanketless nights,
Crashed weddings, Ying Yang Twins, PC bound bus.
You came with, actually convinced,
A little Vanderbilt kid to get a tattoo.
A permanent mark of friendship and love,
Who better to convince than you?
How you care about others, and always love to laugh,
Being with Ian is infectious,
How could it not be?
His eyes and “that look” are just soooo precious.
I’m thankful to have you,
My lumberjack friend.
Here’s to many good years to come,
May the good times never end.
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 7:46 PM UTC
So we get needled,
nickle and dimed
all of the time,
people chinking away
at our armor.
Wanting to scream
at the top of our longs
to **** off,
but instead acting
prim and proper,
a residual of the Vanderbilt
school of etiquette,
******** political correctness
ruining the spirit.
Can you hear it,
see the blight,
the lack of courage
all over this land?
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
I could pretend, I'm a Vanderbilt.
I could pretend, I'm a Rockefeller.
I could pretend, I'm a Roosevelt.
All names associated with wealth.
I could pretend, I'm a Kennedy.
I could pretend ,I'm kin to the Gates.
Except, I rather be me.
Yes, I rather be me.
And yes, it's a personal thing.
For as much as I pretend to be wealthy.
Reality will eventually set in for me to see.
That my world is so much different than theirs.
No mansion.
No expensive cars.
No hire help.
Nothing even close to that.
Except myself.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 7:49 AM UTC
Gloria Vanderbilt died today
princess Diana, was on the news
beautifully dead,
walking the dusty trails
of Angolan land mine fields,
without protection
of any shields.
"I cried the day that Bowie died"
(and the world cried with you)
we shed our tears
our sighs & why's,
when a famous one dies,
but what of the good human
who slips away
without any voices,
without any words,
to say?
The one who gave much more
than they could spare
passes away, shown no care
the loved yet forgotten,
once fine
the downtrodden.
The mother who sang lullabies
dried millions of tears,
hushed thousands of sighs
with warm embraces,
with loving care,
slips into the nothing,
exits an unaffected world.
The lover once lovely
dead in an alley a ditch,
too many hits,
too many scars,
unseen unfelt unmissed(sic)
by hundreds of
passing cars
Beauty rotting
cold blood clotting,
passersby passing by
unaware,
would they even care
that she was broken
long before dead,
by a world callous and cruel
undid her lovely head?
I understand fame,
I understand célèbre,
I understand shame,
I hang my head.
J.C. honey-baby 18/06/2019
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 3:42 AM UTC