"webb" poems
(from my hospital bed – Nov. 14 2017)
Over the bridge of friendship
How many time I've gone
Sometimes I'm met in the middle
Sometimes there is no one
Sometimes I am too weak to cross
Sometimes I am too strong
But crossing the bridge of friendship
That never can be wrong
Over the bridge of friendship
I've learned to heal two hearts
I've been the one most giving
And I've played the other part
I've been rude and selfish
And I've been loving and kind
But the bridge always reminds me
That I'm not alone this time
Over the bridge of friendship
I've travelled many times
Sometimes I am accepted
Sometimes I am declined
I'm not saying that I am perfect
I've had my share of pride
But I never would refuse you
On this bridge of yours and mine
So when you feel too sad or lonely
Just stop and turn around
And cross the bridge of friendship
Where you know I can be found
And I know the bridge of friendship
Will outlast me in the end
But when you take that last walk
I'll be waiting for you my friend
James H. Webb
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot,
Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off
Before it has a chance to go two blocks,
At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth's Garage
Is on the corner facing west, and there,
Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.
Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps-
Five on a side, the old bubble-head style,
Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low.
One's nostrils are two S's, and his eyes
An E and O. And one is squat, without
A head at all-more of a football type.
Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.
He was good: in fact, the best. In '46
He bucketed three hundred ninety points,
A county record still. The ball loved Flick.
I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty
In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.
He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,
Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,
As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,
But most of us remember anyway.
His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.
It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.
Off work, he hangs around Mae's Luncheonette.
Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,
Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates.
Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods
Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers
Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.
8.4k
January 23, 1993
Tender young thighs and old cushions
Warm places to rest her sweet head
Hard sweating smells and soft fingers
And hair stretched out on the bed
There's a ghost in the jewellery box mirror
As pretty as any you’ve seen
There's a ghost in the jewellery box mirror
Reflecting a tired old dream
Ah but none of us know why she’s spinning
When in truth she is headed nowhere
Though each of us forms an opinion
We must lose as the truth comes to bare
There's a ghost in the jewellery box mirror
For the devil is female it's said
There's a ghost in the jewellery box mirror
It's pretty 'til it turns its head
There's a grace that we lose when we're aged
There's an honour we lose when we lie
There's a guilt that can tear the heart ragged
When it beds down with truth at its side
There's a ghost in the jewellery box mirror
And all I can do is to stare
There's a ghost in the jewellery box mirror
I know because you placed it there
There's a heart beat to count every moment
We're apart and both in despair
You cry for a love that is past, Dear
I cry for a love is still here
And what trickery has taken this anger
That has witnessed your love laying dead
and placed it full in the sunlight
where it festered and flew from my head?
James H. Webb
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
Scarborough circa 1989
Jacqui in the night of the instant sunrise
Raises the morning on her shoulders
Swelling between tears and laughter
She melts words into meaning
and gambles on intuition and power
Jacqui in the night of the instant sunrise
looking back and looking forward
finds the dawn most appealing
and issues commands and warnings
to all those with the inner strength to heed them
Jacqui in the night of the instant sunrise
smiles, and the strength of metal
and the purest of beauty
are forged anew
Into the eyes of this miraculous woman
I enter a new beginning
where wisdom lives, and moves, behind her horizons
Jacqui in the night of the instant sunrise
becomes the centre
where all truths are issued passage
and all lies are refused
Jacqui in the night of the instant sunrise
blends courage and compassion
into hues of fine precision
and automatic weapons
Jacqui in the night of the instant sunrise
spreads warmth like a familiar blanket
and moves the day by her power
just as it moves her.
James H. Webb
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Sometimes it seems like the only emotion
I ever see 100% of the time
is nervousness.
I have become a master at finding
those little nervous ticks-
chewed fingernails
face scratching
the occasional repetition of one word or another
the occasional downward glance.
sometimes i wonder
if I'm making this girl
(whichever girl)
tick like a clock about ready to explode
and leave it's arms loosing lying upon me
it's innards lying there in front of me
the inner workings, the inner thoughts exposed.
Or if her mind is just wandering to others
and i'm just the one sitting here ,
hoping to find a clock,
never knowing if i have,
my heart beating violently in my chest,
my nails already bitten to nubs,
small holes on my face and neck
where I've scratched the hair off
my hair pushed and pulled
this way and that by nervous hands,
my head **** near exploding with the thought
"opposites attract, but i need a ******* clock
before i myself explode
leaving my arms hanging loose in the air
and my innards raw and exposed
for more than just a lovers eyes"
©Brandon Webb
2012
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
I spent over a hundred dollars
just on chocolate
for her
last year
every once in a while
i'd surprise her
with one of those organic peanut butter bars
she liked
i'd buy em from aldriches
during photography
or video productions
never told her where i got them
because they gave her something
to depend on me for
i never tasted a single bit of that chocolate
i haven't been aldriches in months
and i haven't gotten one of those thankful hugs
since that last one
in july
that was half kiss, half hug
and less thankful, more lovestruck
but also silent, tear filled, melancholy, foreboding
that was after i bought her reeses,
the only time e ever went to qfc together
i don't buy chocolate anymore
i've saved alot of money lately
but i've lost so many hugs,
avoid half this town
and no one relying on me like that
she was my life
it's time for a new one
©Brandon Webb
2012
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
Pomegranate frozen yogurt
and a metal chair
outside alderwood mall
alone
wonderful combination-
in midsummer,
not in mid-autumn
But-
watching frozen people walk by
to smooth jazz
(coming from one of these stores-
Godiva? Panera bread?)
under cold blue skies
frozen sunlight
and the memory
of their own breath's fleeing warmth-
is relaxing
©Brandon Webb
2012
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
i always end up like this
no matter what type of event i'm at
sitting, alone, in the back
but this time, there
on the church basketball court
converted into a dancefloor
just as roughly as i also was converted
into a church dance attendee
in dark grey corduroys
and a crimson dress shirt
(missing a collar button)
not to mention a shave
(far too thorough, as i always am)
and a haircut by my uncles hand-
it was there,
that i was choking back tears,
tears caused by glancing up momentarily,
javing five or more beautiful girls
meet my eyes, and smile invitingly
(telling me to stand)
but still being unable to drag myself out of that chair
and walk over to them.
an inability caused by her,
the one i still love(d)
wherever she happens to be.
but, this inability to move
is not her fault.
we're over
and i'm a free man,
so i make my mind up,
wipe my eyes,
and stand;
rising to look at the faces
of the two who are telling me
to walk, to tap, to ask, to dance
and
without a word
i walk into that crowd
leaving them behind.
but
she's still here.
and, keeping that in mind
i enjoy myself
but every face
every conversation
dissolves,
as my footsteps do-
as the music does-
at the end of each song
©Brandon Webb
2012
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
Walk away without a sound
Leave no footprints on the ground
Leave no trace of where you've been
Leave for reasons unforeseen
Walk away with head turned down
Grab the first ride out of town
Blame it all on someone who
Didn’t do what you wanted to
Leave no sorrow in your heart
Leave no room for it to start
Pretend that our love never lived
Pretend there’s nothing to forgive
Walk away and don’t look back
Don’t dare tremble; don‘t attack
Don’t wonder where the love has gone
Or where we both could have gone wrong
Take a plane so far away
That your memories fade to grey
Do your best to run and hide
Don't ever stop to wonder why
Just pretend I don’t exist
Time’s erased me from your lips
Just pretend we never kissed
I never rested on your hips
Walk away without a sound
Leave no footprints on the ground
Leave no trace of where you've been
Leave for reasons unforeseen
James H. Webb
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
Jazz history teacher scattin about
swing
Now, war on drugs ****
wait, kansas city night clubs
Territorial Deviants howl the blues
dragging themselves bar to bar to jam
Teach has jeans and a black long sleeve
shows off his impressive gut
27th and manhattan, playin for pete
everynight bald head shinin
bass thumpin, saxophone whinin
count bessie, chick webb, rotating stage
Bothersome lesbian
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
In a deep recess
Cloaked in darkness
Her shinny body
Glowing outside of its opaque deeds
Waiting for a prey
She does not miss a beat
The fact that you are alive
Makes her tremble with hate
Black becomes her
Messenger of death
A she twirls around in her webb
Exposing the red dot
Of her hour glass
Colette Anne Naegle
copy rights 2007
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 2:51 AM UTC
I type in that old address
expecting google not to show a house
to show the empty lot
that from what i heard
was the result of putting a dishwasher
into the kitchen
and causing complete septic failure
that flooded that entire uptown PA acre.
But, it flies me there
and I cry a little
because it's an old picture-
the house is still there,
just as i remember it;
an empty lot to the side,
the dilapidated apartment in the back yard,
the shed at the end of the driveway
(which was just a couple of cement tracks
slightly thinner than the pathfinder tires)
the apple and pie cherry trees we used to climb.
the alley in the back
where we used to skip rocks
and run from the neighborhood dogs (and cats)
looks the same as well,
every car the same,
every empty house still empty,
every tipped trashcan still being tipped each week.
I go down every street I used to walk,
they're all the same,
the bus stop is still where it was
the trails are just as long and dark as they ever were
and each yellow yard looks just as it always did in midsummer.
the ponds in the park are still the same color
with the same algae growing in them
and the same overgrowth hideaways around them.
A mile down the road;
the mini-mart where I bought gum when i had money
hasn't changed a bit,
even the pink umbrellas are still in front of the smoothie bar
but, across the street
the used book store that i would get lost in is gone
and from there i notice subtle changes:
the blackberry bushes by the middle school,
that mom made multiple cobblers from, are gone,
the maternity store moved,
the shed that my stepdad first told us would be our new house,
(before showing us this place)
has been torn down, or fell over
(as i assume it did),
and it doesn't end there,
I practiced my eye in the small details of this small ****** of the world
even though i never talked to anyone
in all the hours i spent walking.
But i guess I remember so well,
because, four-and-a-half years later
I still consider that house home.
that house where my brother was born,
where i first went without my glasses, and liked it
where I was first given the freedom of a bus pass
and permission to leave the house,
where i had my first (and only) overnighter
where i first became addicted to cleaning
where i've packed so many memories
that i can understand why the sewage line broke
sometime after that picture was taken
©Brandon Webb
2012
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 5:14 AM UTC
The evening was a strange one together
We drove around most of the night
We saw a star fall together
And you wished on its fast dying light
We drove away in song together
The old tunes so fresh in our heads
Our voices rang lively together
Though I realized something was dead
You said "Dance with me. Dance with me.
Dance with me. Dance."
We sang “You Are My Sunshine”
Our hearts deeply lost in our song
We sang as we drove up the mountain
Singing “May you Stay Forever Young”
We had all of our hometown below us
Spreadin’ out so far and so free
I was tempted to say my dear Donna
Let’s grab what we have and just flee
"Come on dance with me. Dance with me.
Dance with me. Dance"
We could’ve headed out west to the prairies
Taken both of our hearts on the run
We could’ve made our way south of the border
Where all lovers lie in the sun
But I just stared in silence as the car lights
And I held you as close as could be
And the distance that had grown there between us
Mere dancing could never set free
But you said "Dance with me. Dance with me.
Dance with me. Dance"
I said how can I dance when my feet are so heavy
When I feel only lead in my chest
I thought I was your one and only
Now I realize I’m just like the rest
I said, how can I dance without music
When the tune lies so dead in my heart
How can I believe life has reason
When you’ve gone and torn us apart
We drove to your mother’s in silence
I watched as you waved good-bye
And I couldn’t help wonder what you’d wished for
On that fast falling star in the sky
But if you’d said "*Dance with me, dance with me,
dance with me, dance"*
One more time. Then I would have
danced with you, danced with you,
danced with you, danced…
all night long
‘til the dawn
J. H. Webb
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
October 26, 2009
My love had a yearning
But my yearning had no name
So I carried that yearning
Every day through the rain
Oh the rain never stopped me,
No, it just slowed me down
‘Til I first saw your smile
Could turn things around
My love had a yearning
Now my yearning has a name
And it’s name and yours dear
Are one and the same
I’m not saying that we’ll spent
Every day in the sun
But I won’t be complaining
When my days are done
James H. Webb
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
161 to 180 of 3251 Poets
«78910»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by
Margaret Kaufman
Photo, Brownie Troop, St. Louis, 1949
Deborah Warren
Marginalia
Regan Huff
Occurrence on Washburn Avenue
Anne Marie Macari
From the Plane
Gerald Fleming
There are no poems by this poet on our website.
Sebastian Matthews
Barbershop Quartet, East Village Grille
Charles Harper Webb
The Animals are Leaving
Zozan Hawez
Self-Portrait
Jose Angel Araguz
Gloves
Russell Libby (1956–2012)
Applied Geometry
Robert Haight
How Is It That the Snow
Early October Snow
Dan Lechay
Ghost Villanelle
James P. Lenfestey
Daughter
Robert Hedin (b. 1949)
The Old Liberators
My Mother's Hats
John Maloney
After Work
Kaelum Poulson
The Crow
Stuart Kestenbaum
Prayer for the Dead
Emmett Tenorio Melendez
My name came from . . .
Gary Dop
Father, Child, Water
On Swearing
Berwyn Moore
Driving to Camp Lend-A-Hand
«78910»
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
Hello friends! This is my first bilingual book.HAMMER @ ANVIL BOOKS released my book of poems as e-book on AMAZON Kindle: http: //www.amazon.com/A-Feather-of-Fujiyama-ebook/dp/B 00E5XY5PO/ref=sr_1_1? s=digital-text&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1374938945&sr;=1-1
Special thanks to Vessislava Savova (translator) , Mercedes Webb-Pullman (Editor) , Adam Henry Carriere (Editor) , and my daughter Liliya Pangelova (illustrator)
All proceeds from the sale of this collection will go to the Bulgarian Integrated Education Foundation, working to improve the lives of children and youth with special health and educational needs (including mild Down syndrome, autism / autistic spectrum, cerebral palsy, language-speech disorders, and hyperactivity) and their families.}
Thanks for your support everyone! I wish you happiness and good reading.
Bozhidar Pangelov
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
you have not won
until you've drowned the sea,
turned the sound of crashing waves
into a distant memory
with your own voice,
letting your words
bubble over, and become
indistinguishable from
(and eventually
becoming entirely)
the salty spray
of the pounding waves
©Brandon Webb
2012
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
Dec. 30, 1989
In the valley of the angels
In the fields of broken snow
On the mountains of the warriors
Where the devil fears to go.
In the passions unapparent
In the tears of a restless child
In the calmness of the country
In the cities growing wild
Wherever love lies sleeping, whenever hope is lost,
A gentle heart forgiving will rise up from the frost
In the heart of bitter conquests
In the nights that never end
In the lies that hold the moment
dangling from a liar’s thread.
In the eyes of well know strangers
In the looks of friends that care
In the path of eminent danger
In the light of all that’s fair
Wherever love lies sleeping, whenever hope is lost,
A gentle heart forgiving will rise up from the frost
In the never ending stories
In the poems of bitter youth
In the ravings of an old man
Who has never faced the truth.
In the silence of the villain
In the victim’s callous laugh
In the arms of lover’s smitten
In the families torn in half
Wherever love lies sleeping, whenever hope is lost,
A gentle heart forgiving will rise up from the frost
In the bending of the willow
In the arrow’s perfect path
In the breath that any minute
Could always be your last .
In the patience of the hero
In the soul that takes a stand
In the seizing of the moment
When the moment is at hand
Wherever love lies sleeping, whenever hope is lost,
A gentle heart forgiving will rise up from the frost
J. H. Webb
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
Like a speed limit,
Age 55 is a reminder,
A geriatric mnemonic,
Telling you to take it slowly.
Safe to say,
Most of us Baby-Boom geezers
Walk around half the time
Wondering how one gets laid,
“Hooks up”—
As our grandchildren say--
Gets laid behind & inside this
Asylum sanctuary?
Manning the ramparts,
Those Wackenhut stiffs
Are there for a reason.
Overt, direct ****** overtures
Strictly verboten (ver•bo•ten).
Yet, the silver-haired sireens
Crave company,
As in “keeping company,”
An ancient idiom for
“Let’s Hide the Pepperoni!”
But you’ve got to take it slow at
Del Webb Over-55 America,
A multi-state lunatic asylum,
Where a preponderance of
Single silver-tress foxes,
Having “lost their husband,”
Somewhere, at some point,
Some recent but forgotten,
Alzheimer’s moment along the trail,
They comb the daily obits,
Hunting prey, newly widowed men,
Fresh casserole recipients &
Crypto-pepperoni buddies.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
Binges, binge this, binge that.
Never tried twack, nor crack,
40+ Unisom Sleep Gels,
Put me in some intense sleep spells.
Tried my first Xan,
ate all 14 blues in my hand.
Still hadn't even had ***
Didn't have a phone to text.
I ate 63 Unisom this time,
but I knew I felt fine.
Walked in the night through my town,
till those Webb City cops had to put me down.
Got a really awesome plug,
taught me how to deal and ****
Tried twak, crack and sold it to my city,
I could get a gram for fifty.
Caught my first DWI,
dude I'm not drunk! but I was high.
I sat in the Jasper County Jail,
read all the bible while I was in my cell.
Got my best friend pregnant,
man life was really pleasant.
4 months my seed dies,
only God could hear my cries.
7 bottles of cough suppressant,
God came to me in my coma segment.
I had no intentions of turning away,
I was living my life day for day.
Shot my first handgun,
I started my life on the run.
I hated the world and I hated myself,
I had everything except for help.
3 hits of acid, 1 bottle of cough syrup, some **** DMT, and Hash.
My 20th birthday had to be a bash.
I saw a dragon hatch from the sky,
I swore we all were gonna die.
I couldn't wait for the world to end,
I had not a single friend everyone was for pretend.
Started going by Okey Dokey,
caused more mischief than Loki!
I wound myself down with a girl,
I thought she was my world.
We thought we were in love,
but we just loved to rub.
Left her after a week of being locked up,
I wanted to be like a lotus that grows from the muck.
I found a relationship with my Lord and Saviour,
I couldn't believe that what he had set for me later!
Turning the age of 22 and confined,
I was started to see becoming less blind.
I was baptized in the jail,
I gave up my feelings to fail!
Now here I am,
becoming a man.
I live in a Church now,
may peace and love be with you, Chow!
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
she had mornings
(still does)
where she'd not talk to anybody
so i'd get on tumblr and check,
finding the familiar phrase
she used on these days
"i'm such a *****
and between classes
i would find her and wrap her in my arms
and tell her she wasn't
she never believed me,
always disagreed with me
so isn't it ironic
that those words-
"you aren't a *****
are the ones i hold on to now
everytime i start thinking she is
i tell myself i was right,
that she's only had a hard life
and thinks differently than me
but then she cuts me off walking in the hall,
she gives me emotionless stares on the bus
(where i sit 8 seats farther from her than ever before)
and i almost call her a *****
but i hold off, knowing i was right
i walk an extra three blocks
to and from the convenience store
to avoid her house.
i spend lunch in the library
to avoid hearing her voice.
i walk home from the elementary school
to avoid her presence.
and i don't go swimming
with my brothers boyscout troop
to avoid the memory
of the first time she said she loved me.
but when i'm about to call her a *****
because avoiding her
only makes me remember what she did to me-
i stop
because i know i was right
those words were probably the reason
she left for the last time
the reason she says nothing to me now
becasue she always believed she was right.
i only hope i'm right,
but i try so hard to convince myself
because i don't want to, someday
get so ****** off that i scream at her
that she's a *****
because that will break her
and she'll think she's right
that all her insecurities and anxieties
are true
are righteous,
and she'll be hurt forever
thinking that she's horrible.
she isn't
she isn't a *****
just misunderstood by herself.
when i look at her,
i feel no anger
and i supress the sadness
which may create anger.
anger only fuels my thinking that word
and i can't bring myself to hurt her
no matter how much she hurt me.
not a *****
not
a
*****
©Brandon Webb
2012
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 4:27 AM 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
I wanted to be there with her
downtown
before she had to work
so i could plant one on her at four
and say,"your mom grew up eight hours ahead of us.
so there's you new years kiss"
but i wasn't
i left her on facebook
with a quick,"brb"
cause i had to run to the store to buy biscuits for dinner,
and with my family,
that become a half hour trip
two blocks up the road.
I got back and she'd already left
so I watched the clock change to four,
went into the bathroom
and cut, a few times
not a full relapse.
just enough for blood,
not to feel anything,
not like i did a year ago,
screaming at the world
at the stroke up midnight,
one knife in my hand,
another somewhere on my dark bed
the neighbors riding their go-kart drunk outside.
I bite my lip
and keep my face looking rougher than most days anymore
but,
at midnight
I don't break.
And the tears and blood stay in my body tonight
leaving only old tears tracks
on my tired, bruised cheeks
and four recently dry scars
on my hairy, pre-scarred leg.
And i sit here in this worn office chair
watching peoples words flit by on this screen
when her name appears,
just home from work.
i didn't expect to see her,
but she stopped to simply wish me the best
before she collapsed onto her bed
after a long horrible day
that's left her so exhausted i can't even ask.
but she leaves and so do I
I hope she's smiling
half as much as I am,
but she probably isn't.
so I tell myself
"someday i'll make it so she is, because of me".
Sometimes the promises to myself that I'm sure are impossible
are the ones that help me fall asleep,
and I'm asleep before I hit the mattress
©Brandon Webb
2012
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 5:16 AM UTC
I open the door-
three in the afternoon
my short hair windblown
and rain soaked
by the seven minute walk home
i've taken to taking
to avoid
the one who used to love me
i opened the door-
he was sitting there
too still to be in that purple chair
four feet from the door
that he only sits in
when the veins in his forehead
are popping out
themselves turning purple.
but, he was smiling;
that melancholy smile that makes me wonder,
even though i quit giving a ****
about him
when i was seven,
living with him in a bus
in a field, someplace.
with a sun lamp
and a *** plant
in the storage compartment
and she's lying there,
dressed, but barely awake
with that thin blue and white blanket
that she's had since he was young
draped over her
on that floral loveseat she's always had
a smile on her face
but tears in her eyes
he swivels the chair
to give me room to pass
but i ease instead
around the separating wall
through the kitchen
and down the hall.
a smile on my face
as i look back and he stands
that old chair complaining
as much as his back
he looks back at me
and i realize
why that look in his eyes
brought the same smile he wears
to my lips;
because he's realized
that i've won here,
that in six months
i'm gone
moving on
disconnecting myself
and becoming my own **** person
he's realized that he doesn't know me
never has
he's seen the way i shake
everytime he's less than twenty feet from me
heard
the waver in my voice
he's noticed the way
that even on good days
i open the door to the garage
five times at the most.
noticed the worry lines on my forehead
the gray hairs on my chin and head
my bitten fingernails
or the spot where I scratched
half of my mustache
right off my face
or, at least
i *** he has
hope he's realized that
there's no hope
for me and him
but
he hasn't
and that conversation
was just something else,
didn't even involve me
i can hope all i want
but until i take it all away
he's never gonna realize
that it isn't
Him
winning here
never has been
©Brandon Webb
2012
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 2:42 PM UTC
Nothing against Tim.
Nothing against Jason.
Nothing against Dierk.
Or even Miranda Lambert.
But when I'm in a country mood for a musical journey.
Give me some Mel.
Give me some Conway.
Tillis and Twitty knew exactly what to say?
Give me some Cash.
Even Johnny Paycheck.
Give me sweet Reba.
Give me some Lynn.
Whether it was Loretta or the other called Anderson.
We aware females always have an answer.
Give me some Buck and the Buckeroos.
Owens and the boys was direct about love troubles.
Play me the Statlers or Barbara Mandrell.
Where she's talking about sleeping single in a double bed?
Or about being country before it became cool
Give me some Faron or Webb Pierce.
Legends of the field we can't forget about them.
If you know country, then you must know Webb Pierce.
Spin some Oak Ridge Boys and Roger Miller.
If you know country music.
Play even some Charlie.
Whether it's Daniel or Pride.
Let forget these legends as time goes by.
Now, I can listen to Wyonna of the Judds.
And maybe a little of Alabama during my musical journey of love.
And let's not forget about Dolly.
Or even Hank Williams.
Just play me some.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC