"volley" poems
I don't know much of anything about life or love or the grand "meaning of it all," but this I know: I hate the constraints society places upon us, ropes gathered up to knot relationships, tie them up and place them all in nice neat little packages with a cute presentable bow on top. We're supposedly in the "honeymoon phase" right now and we joke about how we'll know when it's done, when the real stuff has begun. But sir, the way I've spread my scars open, reopened all those old wounds for you to discover, evaluate, and assess, I refuse to believe none of this is the "real" stuff. Sure, maybe one day we'll have an actual, honest-to-goodness argument where our mouths become cannons for the shots we volley back and forth. But I can't believe, stubbornly refuse to even consider there will be a day I'll look into those emerald eyes of yours and not fall utterly in love all over again. I can't imagine a morning of waking up and not being grateful to have you next to me. Maybe love isn't constant perfection, and there's no way that every single day will be a dreamland fantasy, but maybe, just maybe when you've found a forever kind of love there isn't a "honeymoon period" at all. Maybe it just is, and that's enough.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
It’s a beautiful game of back and forth,
showing me life is merely a game too,
winning or losing may have me trying,
so long as you have fun on the court, playing!
On occasions, I couldn’t get through you,
could you lower yourself for me,
Or are you asking
to raise the game within me?
Serving me a volley of ups and downs,
making me come to the net,
playing it on the rise,
taking risk down the line,
but, alas, life doesn’t give you an HawkEye.
Opponents may be many,
courts may be different,
conditions may be new,
keep that passion within you,
for you never know when the match point is on you.
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 1:35 PM UTC
Silver blade makes me feel nice.
The only thing I trust.
As the blade slices through the ice.
The blade turns to rust.
Years and years.
Of practicing and falling.
Of sweat, blood and tears.
Sometimes all I want to do is play volley.
But I would rather skate.
Skating is my best friend.
I am never late.
I am in the rink until the day ends.
Skating.
Ice Skating.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
“Congratulations
You managed being five feet above the ground”
Said a man who
Can’t contain a slight, sardonic sound
The situation:
He’s reading eating magazines from the coast of Spain
And yelling himself blue
For the jeepney won’t hurry in the pouring rain
He smashed his head on the glass
Wishing for a train
It nearly cracked / but his
New cadence sounded quite sane
“Congratulations
You took five before you smoked the first one down”
Said a man who
Complimented me for sinking above the ground
“It’s estimation
I might trip before a wheel enters our lane”
I yelled the truth
At this moment, his presence started to stain
A boat that had already passed us
Yelled, “All aboard!”
We weren’t sure it would float
But it had a great deal of cords
Then we clambered on
There was a myriad of golden spades
Two for every buried fool
That was forced to stay
The stench was concealed
By the satisfied old man
A woman muttered
That she was headed to Queensland
A driver viciously flung his arms
Into the air, in apt alarm
The intersection’s volley
Aimed for the starboard
Everyone reached for the mast,
Hoping to soar
“Congratulations
You nodded off before the lights started to blare”
Said a man who
Lied, ostentatiously impaired
I’m at the station
Then, I noticed to my side was a golden *****
I dug myself through
The mahogany and got on with my day
In the rain
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
Round the wagons,
and call on the dogs!
For there is fury in that mist,
there is malice in that fog!
Arm yourselves wisely.
Shoulder steady, breath slow,
give in to eye’s end.
Shower sky with shot,
And do so
with fatal intent.
Line, volley and rising smoke
Un-surreptitious spending of saltpeter,
leaves quiet rise
to billowing choke.
Loosen formation
Send scouts up ahead
“How many the count?”
“Report:
none dead.”
“How can this be
we took distance,
aimed well, aimed true
And still count you no heads?”
“Sir,
machinations of the mind
…maybe it was instead?”
Pleated-dress-pants
barks back his threat,
"Court martial, you!"
"March,
forward,
ahead!".
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 3:12 AM UTC
15 to love, still able to win,
gotta tough it out,
winning is everything. Losing's a sin.
I'll keep trying. I'm still in with a shout.
My backhand slices
the ball to my foe
(Joe's my friend but in a crisis,
I shift where the winds blow)
He parries, sends the ball to the line,
his touch is immaculate,
cleaner than mine.
I leap like a cat
return it with ease
he flicks it back over the net
intending to tease.
I grimace. We made a bet
and now I engage
into higher gear,
my brain fills with rage,
my heart fills with fear.
Advantage to me,
the crowd stands to cheer,
Joe falls to one knee,
buckled, losing a tear.
I volley. It whizzers
past his frozen form
he tries, but misses,
defeated, forelorn.
At last I have won,
the gold cup is mine,
another dream spun,
back to the factory line.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 7:47 AM UTC
Mongst the salacious ferns of
Artemis requested in the land
of the handsome labyris women
wealing and weaving Vulcans
shrewd hearts of jasper and
chalcendony, governess Hulda
cleaves Muspellsheims yew bones
fletching mandrakes philtre whetting
hie Cupids perfuse herb of grace
intercessorial unto volcanic pious
virtues haranguing loves cataract
dashing herewith demotic enditements
distempered of ludic ordination;
forging a year and a day halest
cledonomancies volley of truths
bequeathing privity of Heavens
prismatic trajectory.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
I
Half of the fellow father as he doubles
His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk,
Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles
To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk,
Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone
Bolt for the salt unborn.
The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled
Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop,
The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled
The swing of milk was tufted in the pap,
For half of love was planted in the lost,
And the unplanted ghost.
The broken halves are fellowed in a *******
The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep,
Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble
Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep,
And stake the sleepers in the savage grave
That the vampire laugh.
The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded
The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees,
******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide,
And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs,
Rotating halves are horning as they drill
The arterial angel.
What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble
The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,
And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,
The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew
Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.
II
My world is pyramid. The padded mummer
Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt
Incising summer.
My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet,
I scrape through resin to a starry bone
And a blood parhelion.
My world is cypress, and an English valley.
I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards
Red in an Austrian volley.
I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads,
******** their bowels from a hill of bones,
Cry Eloi to the guns.
My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.
The Arctic scut, and basin of the South,
Drip on my dead house garden.
Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth
The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn
Through the Atlantic corn.
The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel
On casting tides, are tangled in the shells,
Bearding the unborn devil,
Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.
The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide
Binding my angel's hood.
Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour?
I blow the stammel feather in the vein.
The **** is glory in a working pallor.
My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn,
The secret child, I sift about the sea
Dry in the half-tracked thigh.
3.9k
part, the first; serve
a good conversation is like a good game of tennis,
(with no winner) the ball drunkenly goes from side to side.
coffee shop, asking to pass the sugar,
the serve is delicate and precise, making it is key.
acceptance with the splenda is passed along with ‘sure’,
the receiver must lose their name, anticipate the arrival
following up with such a statement, a vocational inquiry
title lost, the ball has been struck and thrown as response.
part, the second; dance
the game has truly begun;
the beginning is not the serve,
but the response to.
back and forth in endless banter,
meaningless question,
to meaningless answer.
secretly, both don’t want the volley to end;
not often does the
passing sugar trick work.
part, the third; point
a fatal slip- achilles heel:
remembrance. no appointment is worth
losing a point, even
one for a prostate check (despite common opinion)
good thing then; the score
does not go to a single point, it requires
four or so completions,
though by four they will not count score
(and will drop the rackets).
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
They warned us not to worry,
Just do our best in school;
Those worldly professionals,
Taught us work-to-rule.
They did a few case studies
On twins from day of birth;
There's a fifty-fifty chance,
A will be born first
They are urban fighters,
Of fire, crime and blame;
They live in high rise condos,
They return from foreign lands.
They wait over subway vents,
Their hearts and heads are bent;
They show-up in walk-ons,
They go without for Lent.
They fly in and out of space,
They don't identify with race;
They're picked up for vagrancy,
They dance cautiously in the street.
They volley warning shots
Across our private dreams;
They sign and seal a peace accord
They're sincere to a degree.
They contribute to the run-off,
And spiked our holy water;
They enlisted Moms and Dads,
Then slaughtered sons and daughters.
They made rings from ivory,
And pale lamp shades from skin;
They list dissipation
As a personal sin.
Then they did unholy things
With wood and nails, then atoms;
They tore at our goodly earth,
Wreaked havoc with their mapping.
They distilled our alcohol,
Made smoking so appealing;
Then they rang the tower bells,
And preached we had no feelings.
They dug deep for wishing wells,
Grew stuff to **** our germs;
They bestowed us rods and reels,
And spades to dig our worms.
They connected us
Through wireless touch;
They counseled us on loneliness,
And the traps of busyness.
They pronounce death is art
When they hang it on a wall;
Then blame it on our women,
In a scene based on our fall.
They're newsy opaque,
In love or hate;
They are the ambiguous,
The they, them and all of us.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
“I’m just confused.” You say.
“About?” Is all I volley with, throat still clogged with tears.
“Your writing, I feel like I know you, then suddenly I feel like I don’t know a whole part of you.”
How do you think I feel, Love? I thought you only had pretty words for me, then surprise, and your doubt, fear, lies, love, are all exposed for the world to see. My faults and yours for everyone else. Our relationship falling apart as your fame grows greater. Pain gets reads.
“I don’t know where it comes from.” I say.
Silence.
“It’s like I put my pen to paper and it pours out.” I continue.
Your brow furrows, digging for something more.
“It’s not even just that, It’s how you act around people it’s different with everyone. I don’t know if you’re real with me.”
I don’t either, I think as the tears spring forward faster. I’m frantically searching for a shade of me to hold onto, one I like. It’s hard to find, personas slipping through fingers like sand.
“I just…” I trail, hoping for an interruption, but you wait.
“I’m a people-pleaser; I know what makes them feel good. I can read them well, I can understand their wants, so to ease some pain, I’ll be what they need.”
Still Silence.
The fullest, noisiest silence.
Am I real? I thought so, with you, yes. With others? No. My parents need a good girl, who loves them like a child. My roommate needs someone to ***** with her, bend to her will, be her punching bag. Your roommates need a girl with ***** someone to shoot **** like they do. Someone to ignore sexism, and racism, hate speeches, and ***** jokes. My school friends need a quirky weird girl who’ll never say no. My teachers need a hard-worker. My boss needs more availability.
I need quiet. I need love. I need to find myself in a maze of personas. Each only slightly different. Then I realize, I’m me already. I don’t need to find myself, I’m here waiting, I just need room to grow. RoomToBreathe. So I light a match, set fire to the maze, and watch as all the lies go up in flames.
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 11:45 AM UTC
A volley of gunfire
A stream of offensive epithets.
An amazed girl
And an enraged boy.
After every volley of gunfire,
There was a respawning individual.
Steam could be seen emanating from his ears
Anger radiated off of him.
The girl watched carefully
Taking note of every action.
The sounds of battle could be heard
And the boy kept getting aggressive.
Innovative and anatomically impossible suggestions were made
Names were called and yelled out
And the game continued
“I effing stuck him” was repeatedly yelled.
Finally, after a long rant,
The boy jumped with ecstasy
In the heat of the final battle, he won.
Now he wouldn’t have to fling his controller
The girl applauded him, thankful for the blessed silence.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
I want to live in the embrace
of these rain clouds so ominous so dark
and yet within them somewhere
there must be a spark
why else to they set alight such illicit pleasure
the drizzle burns upon my skin
and glistens like a diadem in my hair
petrichor teasing gently before the shower brings
a volley of dreams crashing down here
a bird within my chest sings
a mizzle is just not enough
the darkness without echoes the darkness within
I want a deluge, I want to drown
want to be borne away and lose control
want to stand in the rain and feel this sweet pain
I just want to feel – don’t want to think
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
11.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 10:44 AM UTC
Out on the marsh on a lonely night
The wind soughs through his rags,
The hat that’s pinned to his painted face,
Flutters and soars, then sags,
His eyes are wide and his mouth is grim
As an owl is put to flight,
And nothing but shadows will venture there
For the Scarecrow rules the night.
And back in the manse in a window seat
The Parson’s daughter sits,
She stares at the fluttering coat-tails, but
In truth, is scared to bits,
She watches the sails of the windmill turn
And creak and groan in the gloom,
As clouds come stuttering over the marsh
In the rays of a Harvest Moon.
The father is out in the donkey cart
To tend to his aging flock,
He’s left Elizabeth waiting there
By the tick of the hallway clock,
But out on the moors and beyond the marsh
There rides one Highway Jack,
A frock coat topped with a bunch of lace
And a gold trimmed tricorne hat.
He’s whipped the horse to a lather
In a retreat from a new affray,
For the magistrates have gathered
Vowing to ride him down that day,
The redcoats wait in the village Inn
For the sound that they know too well,
When the curate sees the approaching horse
He’s to toll the old church bell.
But the curate lies in a drunken fit
On the floor of the old church nave,
And soon, by matins his soul will flit
From life to an early grave,
Elizabeth sits in the window seat
And thinks of the coin and plate,
As the highwayman dismounts, and ties
His horse to the manse’s gate.
He beats on the door, ‘Please let me in,
I’m weary and faint, that’s all.
I wouldn’t abuse your person, but
I fear my back’s to the wall.’
She leaves the seat and she slides the bar
For bracing the oaken door,
‘I dare not, sir, I fear for my life,
You’re safer out on the moor!’
Their voices echo across the marsh
Like fear, distilled in the night,
And something shudders out in the gloom
And lurches to left and right,
It seems forever, but now a sound
Tolls out, like a final knell,
For something, out in the church tonight,
Is tolling the steeple bell.
He barely makes it back to his horse
When the redcoats stand in line,
Their muskets fire a volley of shot
And his coat turns red, like wine.
They go to the church when the deed is done
To say, ‘You have done well!’
But the curate lies on the cold stone floor,
The Scarecrow tolled the bell!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.
The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.
A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.
So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.
Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."
While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.
But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?
He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.
Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."
"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
Write about being seen, really being seen.
(Remember to go with your "first flash," and write for 10 minutes without stopping or thinking.)
I was so humiliated. Besides feeling humiliated, I felt like I was on display. Each step I took down the hallway, every person in every little group glared at me, glanced away, and the whispers were buzzing. I felt it unjust, but I knew I brought it on myself. I cannot say I felt betrayal, as I was the original betrayer, (well, he was, but our emotional volley had collapsed with the weight of my action) but I hated him for savoring the revenge of my ruined reputation. I knew the pain I bestowed on him wouldn’t go away, but his smug satisfaction of broadcasting my shame only added to my humiliation.
When is graduation? Exactly two months away. That was April first, and I would have my high school diploma June 1st. I was a survivor, for my whole life, and although it was awful, I knew I could get past it. Still, every step I took in the hallway following that dreaded day, every move I made, every word I spoke, every breath I exhaled– was noticed, and I was judged without given the opportunity to provide an explanation of my perspective. High school rumors were ruthless, but what was worse is when it wasn’t a rumor. It was a scandal.
Even though no one dared to ask about it, to obtain information from me, I knew they all knew. Everyone knew, and once the basic information was known, details were not important. I wondered how many other girls experienced what I was experiencing, having to hold their head high and act proud despite the shame. It was strengthening, inadvertently, but the only other option was to hide away and avoid everyone. Even with a reputation, I couldn’t do that. Peers whispered and laughed degrading words, female faculty cast judgmental stares and all male teachers avoided eye contact, to avoid any association with me.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
Midnight Bat & Shadow Monkey
play
with smoke magic in moonlit parks
shimmering indigo stars dance
around them.
Island ***** & Mountain Fox
speak
jazz slithers in southern drawls
dripping in thick maple syrup droplets
off their tongues.
Savanna Fire Lion & Volcanic Red Eagle
sing
lighthouse words in squall-like skies
warming velvet hugs embrace
their eyes.
Psychedelic Air Otter & Hip Breezy Dragonfly
banter;
smooth repartee in tricky dream worlds
volley, twist and swirl around
their lips.
Queen Water Dragon & Aqua Gypsy Satyr
dance
Drooling patterns with swaying hips
Dawn smiles & electric fingers tingle
their spines.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 7:49 AM UTC
I have been insulted for sharing out
my peasant songs, pataphorical poems,
on the table of the cultural patriarchy
the insults have come in a serial flow
into my dark soul a basin of condemn,
it began as my duty to take my poetry
to the bottom of African latrine,
followed by volley of insults like ;
cerebral panicking insensitive idiot,
a gifted ******** of arsolian poetry
One other contumely went aboveboard
to announce me a better dead ******
i wondered how much one can ****
without erstwhile duty of creation,
now i have been condemned in starkness,
to be a beautiful walking ghost
of William Seward Burroughs,
Uhm! folly of eugenics, No! i am wrong,
this accolade, i seriously decline to take,
my innateness is not wounded at all,
by anything near to genetic disorder,
i am only conscious of my luckless past,
of Slavery,colonialism,wars,re-colonialism
Then poverty spiced by open ridicule ,
And partly trenchant and half-honkey tease
firmly fuelled by racial intolerance,
i have now been mistaken in awry,
to be a looming ghost of William Burroughs,
and i am not
i am purely my self,
without imperious wide blood
any where in my by black veins,
i may easily have chimpanzee blood,
Flowing turbulently through my vessels,
but no tincture of white blood in my zoo,
Burroughs broke his virginity with a *****
i have remained a ****** for three decades,
As African virgins marry only virgins,
Burroughs was the king of underworlds;
chasing lessbian prostitutes and gays,
to quench his mad erotic appetite
the turf in which i am a better sham,
Billy was a serial criminal, ever on the run,
my soul is clean as new pin,
in fact gorgeously dressed
in the unique royal attires
of as a Bristol pin merchant,
Billy worshiped crime and drugs
my piety is anchored on freedom of all,
Billy went to Latin America for *****
i have been there to mourn Gabriel Garcia,
the Nobelite who was alone in deathly solicitude
Billy never lifted a finger against tyranny,
my arsolian poetry is center-pieced on nothing,
other than African chantings for liberty,
freedom for the white and black peasants
perhaps to unyoke themselves,
from the yoke of vicious human avarice.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
15 to love, still able to win,
gotta tough it out,
winning is everything. Losing's a sin.
I'll keep trying. I'm still in with a shout.
My backhand slices
the ball to my foe
(Joe's my friend but in a crisis,
I shift where the winds blow)
He parries, sends the ball to the line,
his touch is immaculate,
cleaner than mine.
I leap like a cat
return it with ease
he flicks it back over the net
intending to tease.
I grimace. We made a bet
and now I engage
into higher gear,
my brain fills with rage,
my heart fills with fear.
Advantage to me,
the crowd stands to cheer,
Joe falls to one knee,
buckled, losing a tear.
I volley. It whizzers
past his frozen form
he tries, but misses,
defeated, forelorn.
At last I have won,
the gold cup is mine,
another dream spun,
back to the factory line.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 7:09 PM UTC
Shall I open volley,
spike with clenched hand?
Acquiesce to athleticism,
or drop return?
Is there a score?
numbers imply a plan,
encumbered; ******** clad...
jockstraps and leather,
tube socks and man.
****** courts,
exotic terminology,
words of reduction,
redacted, redacted, redacted!
under spells of seduction...
What more?
Who the **** cares.
Piles can be chucked,
and strip smiles, 1 grain at a time,
throw a bone, throw another,
you'll build your own monster.
What more?
redacted, redacted, redacted!
join me down below...
I'll give you history,
it will set everything aglow.
What more?
**** more.
Questions?
redacted; for your own security.
Not Goliath,
not even Iago... wait, that may be whom you cast!
Laughter man, so much laughter,
I grow darker;
a product of your mind; that's just a reminder.
Had I plotted, had I connived,
had I been...
trolling gutters,
sexing the populace,
setting parties to war?
You gave me the part,
and the act was in pantomime...
improbable for paralysis
severed spine,
redacted, redacted, redacted.
You set loose scenarios,
and now I willingly oblige...
I'll take my bow,
and cunning smile.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC
If Stephen King was black
Obama would not be president
Segregation would exist all over again
OJ would have gotten guilty without a trial
Except the black part would be technologically advanced
cars that navigate themselves
Sonic energy distribution
portable wings
the Rockateer would also therefore be black
Disney Land would be scary and real
Darwin would have been black
Go go Gadget’s engineer would be black
Malcolm X would have been mixed race
Carl Sagan ran the blackest gang in Oakland
If Stephen King was black
Therefore
Stephen Hawkings is black too
Einstein invented Compton in ten minutes
On a coffee break
The bees Einstein was referring to are the African Killa bees
And Einstein was the father of Wu tang
Stephen Hawkings hangs out with Mike Tyson and Alicia Keys
The Black Panthers like every other morning in the blackest house Washington DC
Made me eggs benedict with fresh eggs and ham
Dr Seuss is therefore black by association
Aunt Jemima would run the FDA and tap maples trees in the Berkshires
But she is white now
America would turn a blind eye and play more volley ball
and in us
God would trust
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
The army had revolted and the Republic was at risk,
But we were just a small town- what had we to do with this?
My father, Manuel Robles, was a labor Union man.
Some called him a Communist; only now I understand.
The army had a list of men whose loyalty was suspect
And when the civil war broke out they came for them direct.
They took him, and some others, and lined them up against a wall.
It was then I heard the volley and I watched my Father fall.
They checked upon their handiwork, I cannot forget the face
Of the officer who used his pistol to give the coup de grace.
The piled the corpses on their truck and, laughing, drove away.
All were buried in a common grave to wait the Judgement day.
I stared in speechless horror at the blood soaked, thirsty ground
and at the pock marks in that wall caused by some misspent rounds.
There was no judge, no jury, no verdict, nor decree.
They killed a dozen unarmed men ; that was their victory
They slaughtered my dear padre without a second thought.
I would not go so easily; there are others, too, who fought.
Now Franco has my country and I’ve had to flee from Spain.
My heart is with my Father’s bones. I carry on his name.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
If you have something to say,
say it with conviction
believe in the words coming
from your mouth
because once they're out
they don't go back in
and no mouth to mouth
will resuscitate
a bridge that's in flames
and as long as you
meant every last word
every last volley
shot over the walls
built from years of
friendship
then no blame can be sent
your way
but do not be alarmed
when they come back around,
a little crispy around the edges
all shrieking like demons
faces black and sooty
and eyes red from the smoke
that rose from the fires
that only tears could put out
and they've got a hot coal
in their hand that they
don't feel and they
want to see you burn.
All that makes our demons
scary is who they're
throwing fire at.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 10:21 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
in my state of being a deadly *** rapscallion
i knew not why there are ******* on a woman
i had often rushed down to the south
seeking for selfish sensation in wanton of her
a woman whose freedom i devoured
she persevered solemnly without my know
let me accede to my audience with all honesty
the ******* of a woman is a treasure of nature
a beacon of creation for peaceful humanity
touch them fondly with a pinch of compassion
be patient with them for they were your first food
****** them patiently they are amber of fire
sing to them a poem in sweet love of them
they will stand ***** pointing at the sun
breaking eyes of your beautiful love
as her heart unto you soft is gone
you must treasure the ******* of a woman
with your warm volley of kisses
more than you scamper for her fine thighs
for the power in the thighs comes from
the warmth in the glorified *******
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC