"watson" poems
After the rain, I see the daisies,
In their clean, white dresses,
Fresh and perfect.
Washed and bright,
Their faces lifted to the skies,
And open to the sun.
Is it their youth that makes them so fearless,
Despite their diminutive size?
A naivety of spirit or
Lack of worldly knowledge?
Or do their fleeting, precarious lives
Lead them to so embrace the now?
No, their beauty springs from a truth far older,
For they are neither flashy nor flamboyant.
A daisy knows no subterfuge,
Has no jealousies, no conceit.
Its wisdom lies deeper,
And it bends with the wind.
To value the time that we have,
To see beauty in the smallest places,
And to love without fear,
Is a talent easily lost,
And the line between happy and sad is drawn
With a thin pencil and a light touch.
In miniature perfection,
A daisy lives fully,
Its face in the sunlight.
It lives, and that is enough.
Vicki Watson © 2014
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 5:40 AM UTC
Milyun-milyong mga blankong mukha,
pipintahan,
papahiran ng pintora
ang iba’t ibang kastilyo ng pangarap.
Subalit sa paglipas ng panahon
ang mga kastilyong ito’y rurupok,
at sa isang ihip ng hangin
ay pwede ‘tong gibain.
Masasanay kang matalo,
para sa atin ‘tong mundo.
Para sa atin,
hindi para sa kanila,
kailanman hindi ‘to masasakop
ng mga mapapait na luha.
Nasanay ka na sa panonood
ng mga teleserye o pelikulang
kung ano ang theme song
ay ‘yon din ang pamagat.
Nasanay ka nang mag-abang
sa paiba-ibang kulay na buhok
ni Vice Ganda, o ni Yeng Constantino,
ang umasa rin sa paiba-ibang desisyon
ng mga tao sa paligid mo.
Nasanay ka nang magmahal ang gasolina,
at iba pang mga bilihin
ngunit hindi ang magmahal ng totoo,
dahil takot kang masaktan ulit,
ang iwanan, o umasa ulit,
sa isang relasyong pang-post lang
sa FB, IG o Twitter,
‘yong pang-“#relationshipgoals” lang,
nasanay ka na pero takot ka pa rin.
Nasanay ka na sa mga surprise quiz.
Sa exams. Sa reporting. Sa thesis.
Sa Singko, INC, Withdraw o Drop.
Sa pag-jaywalking,
dahil late na naman sa 7:30 AM class.
Sa paulit-ulit na sorry.
Sa paulit-ulit ding pagpapatawad.
Sa paghahanap ng ka-red string.
Sa paghahanap ng ka-forever.
Sa mabagal na internet.
Sa job interview. Sa gobyerno.
Masasanay ka ring matalo
dahil ganito ang konsepto ng mundo.
Patitikman ka muna ng pagkabigo,
bago ka ulit maging buo.
Baka rin bukas-makalawa
maiisipan mo nang mag-aral ng mabuti
at iwasang ang usapang mabote,
ang bumangon ng maaga
at hindi papatayin ang naka-set na alarm,
ang maging totoo
sa taong nagmamahal sa ‘yo,
o kaya subukang ipa-Photoshop
ang 2x2 picture mo sa resume
para sa paparating na job interview.
Masasanay ka ring matalo,
masasanay ka rin sa mga peklat mo sa puso.
Dahil hindi ito matatapalan
ng pulga-pulgadang concealer ng Maybelline,
o kahit ubusin mo pa
ang stock sa AVON, sa Watson, sa HBC, o sa Lazada.
Kaya tanggapin mo na lang
na ang buhay ay puno ng pagkatalo,
dahil sa huli para sa atin din naman ang mundo,
kaya wala kang dahilan para sumuko,
dahil ang sumusuko lang ang natatalo,
at ang hindi takot sumubok ulit
ang tunay na panalo.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 8:03 PM UTC
I’m not good at being forward
I have this habit of becoming disordered
I let my emotions change the color of my sleeve
In my aspirations I hope to find belief
I walk through jungles and rainforests
Once in a while I see through the canopy
Into the skies of my memories
And request that stars dance to the rhythm of us
I keep them alive to avoid the gathering of dust
My memories, caught in the Pensieve of your eyes
Have ignored all the times I told myself lies
I may not be your ideal Superman
But I’d accept Peter Pan if you’ll go with me to Neverland
I’ve rarely been so captivated by a girl
Sure, Zooey Deschanel is quirky in New Girl
And Emma Watson bewitched me from the start
Anna Kendrick was perfect in Pitch Perfect
Alex Morgan is the luckiest 13 I’ve ever seen
But I choose you! To fill my canteen
You quench my thirst when the loneliness dries me
I was not made to walk in a desert
My heart is an amphibian
Living like a Floridian in the ice-cold tundra we call Rexburg
You still need the sun, no matter how much it snows
I’ll trudge on in the jungle; dormant in the night
I’ll carry on with you in mind, until the time is right
Once I’ve faced death, or even a spider
Then, I think I’ll top the greats; George of the Jungle, Aslan, Mogly, Tarzan, Batman, Peter Pan, Harry Potter, Genghis Kahn, Michael… Jackson or Jordan
They’re all kings and I’ll be in their league
As I shake off the fatigue and find courage in you
To make it through the awkward moment of simply saying
“You’re a real kind of gorgeous”
In that chorus, played on my rhythm of heartbeats
I found my way out of the back streets
From deep in the jungle I’ve come to know as Fear
A jungle that disappears when your presence is near
Sometimes I have to stop walking, stop thinking
I feel like I’m on the verge of something spectacular
Anything normal might ruin that
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
Folds, fur, creases and greases on your clothes
Have you had a nice breakfast?
No, no, it doesn't seem so.
You've had a bad day since you've risen from your bed.
Your hands are shaking and don't even notice it,
Probably because of the nicotine hidden in the left pocket of your jacket.
Ahh! Shut up! You were thinking! It's annoying!
Get out! Get out! I need to go to my mind palace!
Also, if you think that I'm a psychopath,
I'm just a high-functioning sociopath.
With your number! -smiles-
Oh, John Watson? You've got a limp from your last war from Afghanistan.
Your hand stays steady when you're suspicious or feel like you're being threatened.
Hmm, you like the battlefield, don't you, John?
Ahh, you can be my colleague! Come on, John!
Wait, what? Who are you?
The name's Sherlock Holmes and I live on 221B Baker Street.
And, I'm a consulting detective who uses,
The Science of Deductions
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
No we're not learning about inventors.
No we're not learning about scientists.
If we were, that would be great,
But we're not,
Instead we're learning about lying thieves,
And overrated ones at that.
We should be learning about real inventors,
That didn't steal ideas from others,
And were lucky enough not to have ideas stolen from them,
Like George Westinghouse.
We should be learning about real inventors,
And real scientists,
That sadly went unrecognized,
Because their ideas were stolen,
By so called inventors,
That were in reality total jerks,
Like Nikola Tesla,
And Rosalind Franklin.
However, instead of learning about true inventors like them,
We're learning about the likes of Thomas Edison,
Guglielmo Marconi,
James Watson,
And Francis Crick.
Here's a "fun fact" about Thomas Edison,
He promised Nikola Tesla 50 grand,
In exchange for fixing his machines.
However, when Nikola Tesla was finished,
Several months later,
He not only didn't pay Tesla,
He mocked him for asking,
He said that he was joking,
And according to some, he was offered a raise of 10 dollars
According to others, he asked for a raise, and was denied it,
Either way, Tesla quit.
Here's a "fun fact" about Guglielmo Marconi,
He didn't invent the radio,
Nikola Tesla did.
However, Marconi pulled an Edison,
And stole Tesla's invention from him.
Luckily, although sadly too late,
Tesla was rewarded the patent.
Here's a "fun fact" about James Watson and Francis Crick,
They took credit for Franklin's discovery.
Why do we have to sit in social studies,
Listening to Youtube videos,
And reading books,
And doing plays,
That people created for school kids,
About so called inventors.
When instead,
We could be reading books,
Listening to Youtube videos,
And doing plays,
That we created ourselves,
About real inventors.
I want to get a real education.
I want to learn about the truth,
Instead of lies.
So please teachers,
Principals,
Superintendents,
Common Core Professionals,
State Test Professionals,
Please let us learn about the truth,
Please don't make us learn about lies.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
*No, no, no, Dirtbreath. I say we call the big one an elephant,
and the small one a mouse*.
Eve
I'm sure red's a better color for me.
M. Monroe
She has a face that could sink a thousand ships.
Ulysses
*Now that Hawking's dead, I'm the smartest
guy on Earth.*
D. Trump
You're too Jung to understand the Superego.
S. Freud
No. You keep it. I have enough.
B. Graham
Are you sure that's the Delaware?
G. Washington
E=Mc Donalds.
A. Einstein
Go pound salt.
Gandhi
What day is it?
Roosevelt
That's one small.... oops!
N. Armstrong
I don't remember any of my dreams.
M.L. King, Jr.
Hey, John, I can see your house from up here.
Jesus
Beaches, fields, streets, hills. Did I leave anything out?
W. Churchill
Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course I wrote 'em all.
R. Starr
It's just too big to wrap your brain around.
S. Hawking
Don't lose your head. This won't change a thing.
Robespierre
Before I was fined, I walked the line.
J. Cash
Could you lengthen the title and shorten the book?
Tolstoy's editor
What if we put the workers on conveyor belts?
H. Ford
I have a splitting headache... hmmm, interesting.
Oppenheimer
I've never liked orange juice.
N. Brown
Really? You want to blame me?
******
He stings like a butterfly.
S. Liston
#timesup #metoo
A. Boleyn
Mr. Watson. Come here. Spare me a dime?
Bell
Roebuck said he'd be back in ten minutes.
R.W. Sears
To be or to do be do be do.
Shakespeare/Sinatra
*When you call me Whitey, I get cotton pickin ****** off.*
E. Whitney
We're the team to beat!
Toronto Maple Leafs
Don't call me a Mother!
Mother Theresa
Is that a Cuban?
M. Lewinsky
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 6:50 AM UTC
Sere and yellow,
Rough and round, [bright pebbles in a mound]
Pitted and mellow,
Winding our necks round,
We wore them.
Amber beads unearthed from clay,
Fashioned by my artist love,
Glowing yellow, filled with day,
Captures sunbeams from above.
I still love them.
Some say gods have made these,
To ensnare the light of Sun,
But we women saved these,
In memory & hope of sons,
We keep them.
Fat & smooth as butter,
We turned them in our hands.
The bone beads scraped with madder,
The amber just with sand.
Those of shadowy carnelian
Embedded like a shield,
We treasure as we fear them,
Like wounds on battlefields.
The others soaked with brownish earth,
Sere and yellow,
Rough and round, [bright pebbles in a mound]
Pitted and mellow,
Winding our necks round,
We wore them.
So, when we are dead, take not from us,
These rounded, golden suns,
But bury them with us, with sword and severed buss,
To revere the slaughtered ones,
Who never returned to us.
Revised November 15, 2016
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 8:55 AM UTC
what doesn't **** you makes you stronger
you'll never know unless you try
face your demons and live longer
if you don't you'll surely die
Susie wilkins had some problems
tried to keep them all at bay
kept her secrets deep inside
but sometimes they would want to play
If you've toasted with the devil
he'll get your soul with just one glass
drink with him, he'll find your weakness
he'll get your soul, with just one glass
Susie thought she'd beat the needle
many years, the scars were healed
but, just one lonely drink with our dear devil
and all her demons were revealed
Susie, went back to her trailer
Another drink and then she'd try
One more needle couldn't hurt her
Her secrets out, and so she'll die
Otis Watson was a coward
Hit his wife for him to please
No one ever really wondered
Why she always wore long sleeves
He got his fill from all the torment
But, in the end he needed more
A simple punch would not appease him
To him, she was a cheating *****
If you've toasted with the devil
he'll get your soul with just one glass
drink with him, he'll find your weakness
he'll get your soul, with just one glass
A little man with many demons
A simple drink with you know who
His inner issues had now surfaced
The devil now would get his due
He came home drunk his wife was waiting
She knew the beating that what would come
He came in hard his fists were flailing
As he met her brand new gun
There'll always be another bottle
And there will be another name
Just sell your soul and tell your demons
Just drink with him, it's all a game
Life is not a game of simple
It doesn't take a lot to lose
But if you're drinking with the devil
To him your demons are old news
If you've toasted with the devil
he'll get your soul with just one glass
drink with him, he'll find your weakness
he'll get your soul, with just one glass
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
Sitting in a bar.
A beer with perspiration.
Its raining outside.
Hear the shuffleboard shuffle.
Intoxicated poetics.
Sober state of mind.
Stools shrouded in mystery.
Double doors leading in.
Bartender’s creations. (chemical concoctions)
Saloon of slumlords and hipsters
Open mic night.
Hippie Howls.
Don’t worry we got this under control.
Malboro reds, cowboy killers.
Don’t spend you life wishing,
Spend it living.
Better yet, spend it drinking.
Liquid courage. (men becoming beasts)
Awkward rages.
The best is coming.
Shielding secret shame in this scene.
Hidden in a pint of pilsner.
Free thinkers in a haze of hops.
Lets get drunk.
Make shift graveyards on the walls.
Honoring the dead.
Rest in peace.
Nothing less, nothing more.
Old Heidelberg.
Before my time.
The stalls scrawled with graffiti.
For a good time call.
Scratched onto the stall.
“Spread love like butter on a hot bun”
Sherlock and Watson.
Bromance.
This is a bar of friends.
What is this bar?
Drunk off this atmosphere.
Window panes with neon signs.
Disillusioned.
Concealed.
Unfinished.
The moves fast and goes right by.
Springing forward without a shadow of a doubt.
Members of the Great Unwashed.
The signs of our time.
I think we’re going to split.
Can I get another drink?
One for the road.
Don’t cut me off quite yet.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
Dear Emma Watson -
Shall we make love
The object of
Our spiritual quest
Together?
Surely an altogether
Better option
Than pairing you off
In a commentary box
With one John Motson
Discussing twenty two
Pairs of socks
Chasing a piece of leather?
If spiritual questing
Is not for you
I will make do
With tightly tied pairs of shoes
Existential emus,
Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.
Whilst hoping you find
Your Sherlock Holmes,
Miss Watson
I will content myself with
Cataloguing my collection of
Black and white combs.
I also have plots on
Which I need to work -
Wednesday Addams's love of
Moon dried tomatoes
Or Erica Roe
Somewhere in Portugal
Growing sweet potatoes
For sale.
Don't let anyone tell you
There ain't no perks
To being an Omega Male.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
Stupid Detective!
Mixing up the evidence
Loony Detective!
Helping the culprit
with bad conclusions
and your overall confusion
Bad detective!
your senses are defective
it shows!
it shows!
At the crime scene
the vanilla ice creme
was fine
and yellow like a dandelion
though ****** had taken place
a stupid detective
a messed up place
could you please just buck up
and find a trace
Lame Detective!
You are the one to blame
you put Watson to shame
Shameful detective!
respect this
the law
the civilians
and all their fears
Blank minded detective!
Heavey minded detective!
Blinded detective!
falling to sleep
like all the other sheeps
At the crime scene
the vanilla ice creme
was fine
and yellow like a dandelion
though ****** had taken place
a stupid detective
a messed up place
could you please just buck up
and find a trace
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 9:03 AM UTC
Emma Watson without question is the most amazing woman that has ever existed.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC
I came to the Relazation,
*I don't give a ****
Only when I'm
high as **** off some
Man made ether- Now, etherized
it's easier to comprehend the demensions that led to my mental demise.
Yet and still.
*I don't give a ****
Numb.
No need for the clenching of hearts or
worry some eyes-
This is a different "Numb".
Confusing your senses to where you
Hear color,
Taste sound
See beauty in all belonging to God
An feel only with your heart-
I'm riding on cloud 9 -
Yea, high...
Surfacing on a pen that's barely scratching
The surface of my potency.
My being is being caressed by night fall,
Stillness finds space to
fit and slip down shoulders
once burdened with all
but a dream.
Reality never touched me here
So it's easy to imitate a crescent
for my lips main wear.
Corners peaked
Gracing cheekbones once hidden
Now amplified by rose colored bliss.
I wish I could stay here -
Live within my imagination
Because in this realm-
Creativity added to a heart of gold
Not affiliated with currency
Is riches.
Unfortunately,
I can't stay trapped in this... dream-
Because like that 14 year old school boy
My imagination too,
has a curfew.
Only is at 8 a.m.
When the alarm sounds for me to mask my desires
In a blue collar-
To work the "grave yard shift"-
For a dreamer.
Hmm...
I guess my stress will greet your relief again at 5.
Or if I can't wait to embrace that comforted race-
I may have to show face on my next lunch break.
- Danielle . A. Watson
✌
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
I have shut myself inside this box.
Sealed it well, from the inside,
And filled the cracks.
I fashioned it myself,
Based it on a model I devised long ago.
I remembered the dimensions intimately.
And inside I am safe.
Inside, I can hardly be seen.
The art of invisibility is slowly and carefully learnt.
Copyright Vicki Watson 2013
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
Remember the time,
When you stood right behind me,
Watching me enjoy the limelight.
The time when I acted stupid,
But you brought the right words to my sight.
The time when I refused to work,
But you kept pushing me to do so.
The time when I had given up on myself,
But with those harsh and emotionless lines you made me believe in who I was.
The time when everyone left,
But you stayed.
The time when I kept arguing over wrong statements,
And when you knew how to counter me with the right one.
All this time long,
You stayed and believed.
Maybe we never realised,
Maybe we never knew.
But this world had these two kinds,
Sherlock and Watson.
Each one searching for the other,
Sherlock's searching for Watson,
Watson's searching for Sherlock,
Maybe they are fine alone,
But maybe they are best when together.
Maybe a Sherlock would have never enjoyed the limelight,
Maybe he would have given up on himself way earlier,
Maybe he would have not been he.
But then Watson made it all happen.
Maybe that is how it works.
***Maybe one day we'll find our Sherlock,
Or maybe one day a Watson would find us.***
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 5:15 AM UTC
Sherlock is indebted, forever;
To Mike,
For he made it possible for Holmes,
To meet the (only) friend of his life.
Oh look at John,
How baffled he was,
For he had just met a man,
About him, who knew all.
The army doctor thing, the Afghanistan war,
And that his sibling was alcoholic,
About this Sherlock was sure.
Without a word about himself,
Just the name and address,
Holmes went away,
Leaving John, with many questions,
And their answers for him to guess.
A queer flat mate, he was, a bit rude
Sherlock, you know;
Mrs. Hudson was nicer,
But not their housekeeper!
Apparently, SH would play violin to think,
Knew it was DI Lestrade at the door,
And there was another ******
Including this one, counting to four,
Without a hint.
The crime scene was sealed,
Under supervision of Donovan,
And according to Sherlock,
There was something going on,
Between her,
And Anderson.
A woman was dead,
Wore everything in pink,
Holmes deduced her marriage state,
Just by her ring!
He slammed the door at Anderson,
For he (SH) found him irritating.
“Rache is not for revenge”, Holmes said,
“She was writing Rachel, obviously”.
Left-handed she was,
And was carrying a suitcase,
But as Lestrade said,
There was never a case.
Mr. Holmes was so excited then,
He teased others to be stupid,
Watson helped him make a point,
In order to find the criminal,
But Holmes believed,
The pink case was the cupid.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 2:03 AM UTC
This house was washed away weeks ago.
Freak storm or tidal wave or something;
One of those natural disasters.
I was sleeping, so I didn’t notice.
Look out of the window and you’ll see I’m right.
We’re mid-Atlantic now perhaps,
Not beyond help, yet too far to be seen,
The visible invisible.
I’ve gotten to love these waves,
The lap, lapping sway and the cabin headache,
The bluster of wind and spume, flung against cold glass
Like snow from a gun.
It floats, obviously, this house,
And the watermark is lower than the letterbox,
So everything’s fine, just fine,
And there’s not the slightest chance of drowning.
‘Solid construction, energy efficient, built to last’ –
Those builders knew their stuff inside out,
And I have enough supplies to last until tomorrow,
Which is all that matters, isn’t it?
Do you fancy a cuppa? I’ll put the kettle on.
I’ve thought of everything, you see.
It’s just as well I turned the house inside out
Before the weather changed.
Vicki Watson © 2014
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
Thud, Thud.
Thud, Thud.
Thud, Thud.
Thud, Thud.
The heart could never stay calm,
Not at a time like this.
Whispers spread along the line,
Did Miss Jones just say "Good Luck"?
I dont know, I wasn't really listening.
Remeber what happens, I tell myself,
Dont look into their eyes or you'll forget.
Five minutes to go, how much more
Do I have to bear this?
Four minutes....now John Smith has
Just passed out.
Three minutes....now Emily Watson has
Just passed out too.
Two minutes....I think I might just follow suit
And join the unfortunate ones.
One mintute to go, now i can't bear
this much longer.
How much more do I have to bear this?
None
A sound is heard,
Lights suddenly brighten
Silence then follows.
My feet lead me forward,
But I can't remember a thing.
I looked into their eyes.
Wished for darkness again
Nov 17, 2009
Nov 17, 2009 at 7:31 AM UTC
Sparks jettisoning into the crisp blackness,
A vivid orange against the backdrop of ebony silence,
Fairies of fire, winging their way home
On an unexpected breeze.
The bonfire a crackle, at once dangerous and comforting,
A furnace ablaze with light, livid and burning with raw energy,
Luring its annual admirers ever closer,
As moths to a flame.
The people, hatted and be-scarved, huddle, cluster,
Sparklers whirling before them, glitzy with extravagance,
Their wispy signatures hanging in the air, short-lived
And fading, fading into nothing.
And only now the fantasia of fireworks commences,
The artist experimenting with line, with colour, his audience captive,
And then at once, a dazzling fountain of jewelled light: ruby, jade, opal, sapphire,
A painting of shimmering castles in the sky.
And a middle-aged man with his son, glove to mitten; in his arms, a daughter,
Her bright gaze betraying the hands over her ears,
A snapshot of dizzy delight, breathless and enchanting,
A simple picture of rare beauty.
Later, with the remnants and debris of the evening lying discarded,
Dying, the brave bonfire, now petered out, sizzles and smoulders,
A scarlet and amber glow lingering on,
Still warm with the memories of youth.
Copyright Vicki Watson 2012
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
The young boy wrote his Christmas Cards
Wrote his name as neatly as he knew
He put the ones aside to take to school
And in his bedroom he hid two
These cards were special for the boy
One was for his Uncle, one was for his dad
The cards just had to reach them
And here's the plan he had..
He knew that mail to Santa Claus
Made it up to the North Pole
But, he wasn't sure just how his card
Would reach his fathers soul
You see, the boys dad and his Uncle
were taken by an IED
They'd both been gone two years now
Since the boy was only three
He visited the cenotaph
In the park, most every day
He'd stop and he'd salute it
And then he'd go and play
It was a gentle hi to both of them
For he knew that at this place
He could feel them staring down on him
Though he'd forgotten his dad's face
He took the cards down to the park
And he left them by a wreath
Left over from November
He laid his two cards underneath
A man was walking past the boy
And he saw the boy salute
But, he also saw the Christmas cards
And he thought the whole thing cute
He waited for the boy to leave
And he opened one to read
It said "Merry Christmas" , "Thank You"
"I miss you, yes indeed"
The man went to the nearest school
to ask about the lad
To find out if this one young boy
Was a student that they had
A teacher overheard his tale
And called the man in for a talk
At the end she sat there crying
She had to go out for a walk
She went to find his teacher
Told the tale of this young man
Then between them they sat down and
They both devised a plan
The next day when the class began
Christmas Cards they would write
Each one was for a soldier
And to them this just seemed right
They would set up a class field trip
To see the vets up on the hill
In the special Veterans Hospital
to the kids, this was a thrill
The hospital was telephoned
And the vets were set to meet
Miss Johnson and Miss Watson's class
To get their Christmas treat
The kids were dressed in sunday best
Like they were a month ago
But, this time it was different
This time there would be snow
Each card said "Merry Christmas"
All said thank you, some were sad
To think this project started with
A card left for a dad
After all was done and dusted
The kids continued on
They went down to the cenotaph
To give more cards to those now gone
The story made it through the school
And each day another class
Wrote Christmas cards to soldiers
And they delivered them en-masse
By the action of a little boy
who wasn't locked to a computer
He started a tradition
this young boy, the saluter.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
Alexander Graham
Rang a Bell when he said
Mr. Watson, come here
In 1876
With no earthly idea
Of what was to come
How we live today
With cell phones up our butts
Wherever you turn
Someone's talking or texting
At every red light
While the green one is resting
And let's not forget
The in your ear bluetooth craze
People talking out loud to themselves
Like we all care what they say
Or out and about
At a table for four
Where each cell phone in hand
Is the only thing not ignored
It does make you wonder
What Alexander would do
If he saw his seed planted
Producing this rotten fruit
Perhaps then Alexander Graham
Would ring that Bell in history
And say Mr. Watson, come here
Help me destroy this thing!
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
Night skies still murmur your name. Whilst wondering why this longing has since surpassed desperate, I sat-
Curled up, knees to chest
Clenching my flesh in hopes to hold on to my last ounce of existence.
I felt naught but daydreams of nightmares haunting me, relentlessly.
Preying on my thirst for passion
Destroying my notion of love-
Tainting my eternity.
-danielle A. Watson
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
she sat curled up at the head of my bed.
Pencil protruding from her left ear, as high lighters met torn out notebook paper at the surface of my comforter.
I layed to the left of her.
Seemingly, attentively reading the last few chapters of The Lost Symbol.
Feeling myself drift from the pages, I no longer gave a **** about Dan Brown.
I missed her.
I have not seen or felt her in weeks.
I wish I can blame that on professor New and her desire for an A in his class but I can’t.
“baby you hungry?. I can order China man if you like”
“no, I ate before you got home”
She answered.
Never lifting her eyes from the pages.
I continued with attempts to reconnect with Dan Brown, but It was useless.
As if a book couldn’t keep my attention unless it was loaded with Pictures and pastel colors.
My eyes began to roam around the room noticing
The unfinished Amber walls from months ago.
Our first home project
She asked if i would paint them amber.
She once loved the sight of it flourishing throughout the skies at dawn.
About two months ago was the last time she yearned for that mental picture...
-Danielle a. watson
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
his mate fancied himself
Dr. Watson, or even Holmes,
in a past life, but with the name,
Jamsheed Razavizadeh, his friends,
who chopped the proud pronunciation
to J-Razz, laughed at such
a great notion
not Phillip, whose one brother
had drowned only last Hallows Eve,
which made Phillip a believer
in all things
from school, his mates walked the same lane
past the spot, where his mother still lay wreaths
every Monday morn, the vicar giving her
the tired ones each Sabbath
Monday Phillip took the long way home
not wanting to see the flowers, on their own
eve of wilting, a pitiable reminder
fresh things don't last
J-Razz was the only one who walked
the long route with him, his own brother
in the loam near Tehran, drowned himself
by fire, not water
each week, the wreath lay
but a day, and the two from different mothers
would again take the shorter path, where
they would find slight solace in silence,
their journey home often
in merciful miasma
near river's edge
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC