"wholesale" poems
unsure, uncertain,
of the laws invested
in the realms and reams
of poetry ingested,
am i addict,
or supplier,
retail consumer
or
wholesale supplier,
a mom & pop candy store,
or a metastasizing intelligence
that takes any thing, and all,
a solitary letter,
an instance of a sighting,
a gasping palpitation
and reformats it into
a hehe literary madhatter^ piece
you supply, I demand,
I supply, boy oh boy,
do I ever, but you never,
come to me directly asking,
write me a poem, thick or thin,
witty fitty or an overly looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong
e~pistle (a/k/a e~pistol)
yet the trade goes on and om,
the marketplace never closes,
except when periodically the
gatewaykeeper is slow to pay his bills,
and the trading centres are global scattered,
young entrepreneurs try to sell a single
piece, as if it was breaking news history,
and tired old men, review their lived,
eager to memorialize, so it's ok to forget,
in retro!spect perspective,
the mirror who cannot lie,
states affirmatively, you are
both ****** and dealer,
a corporation scientific
of ancient biblical origins,
a psalmist, a deacon,
a lyricist, but thankfully
not a singer,
an essayist who writes best
when ****** by tawny port wine,
who snatches inspiration with
equality of equity,
(wait! that's wrong,
the equity of equality,)
where he can
find, ***** city streets, the deaths
of heroes, the sunrise calm miracle
he drinks in daily, by rivers, by seas,
by estuaries brackish, and streams
of watered purity, the riveting bays,
the individualized glisten deflected
into my eyes, that each
contains one pure blessing within…. nml
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 9:24 AM UTC
We can remember it for you wholesale
once we clear the stage of initial erase
Sure I might lisp on a drunk night,
exasperated and claiming in collapse,
I'd rather pack rat the memories in one place
and consign my pain away to tall tales.
I'm drowned, running down wi-fi 6th street.
Printing my soles to follow my heels
as inescapably I lose track of me.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
I
On a little piece of wood,
Mr. Spikky Sparrow stood;
Mrs. Sparrow sate close by,
A-making of an insect pie,
For her little children five,
In the nest and all alive,
Singing with a cheerful smile
To amuse them all the while,
Twikky wikky wikky wee,
Wikky bikky twikky tee,
Spikky bikky bee!
II
Mrs. Spikky Sparrow said,
'Spikky, Darling! in my head
'Many thoughts of trouble come,
'Like to flies upon a plum!
'All last night, among the trees,
'I heard you cough, I heard you sneeze;
'And, thought I, it's come to that
'Because he does not wear a hat!
'Chippy wippy sikky tee!
'Bikky wikky tikky mee!
'Spikky chippy wee!
III
'Not that you are growing old,
'But the nights are growing cold.
'No one stays out all night long
'Without a hat: I'm sure it's wrong!'
Mr. Spikky said 'How kind,
'Dear! you are, to speak your mind!
'All your life I wish you luck!
'You are! you are! a lovely duck!
'Witchy witchy witchy wee!
'Twitchy witchy witchy bee!
Tikky tikky tee!
IV
'I was also sad, and thinking,
'When one day I saw you winking,
'And I heard you sniffle-snuffle,
'And I saw your feathers ruffle;
'To myself I sadly said,
'She's neuralgia in her head!
'That dear head has nothing on it!
'Ought she not to wear a bonnet?
'Witchy kitchy kitchy wee?
'Spikky wikky mikky bee?
'Chippy wippy chee?
V
'Let us both fly up to town!
'There I'll buy you such a gown!
'Which, completely in the fashion,
'You shall tie a sky-blue sash on.
'And a pair of slippers neat,
'To fit your darling little feet,
'So that you will look and feel,
'Quite galloobious and genteel!
'Jikky wikky bikky see,
'Chicky bikky wikky bee,
'Twikky witchy wee!'
VI
So they both to London went,
Alighting on the Monument,
Whence they flew down swiftly--pop,
Into Moses' wholesale shop;
There they bought a hat and bonnet,
And a gown with spots upon it,
A satin sash of Cloxam blue,
And a pair of slippers too.
Zikky wikky mikky bee,
Witchy witchy mitchy kee,
Sikky tikky wee.
VII
Then when so completely drest,
Back they flew and reached their nest.
Their children cried, 'O Ma and Pa!
'How truly beautiful you are!'
Said they, 'We trust that cold or pain
'We shall never feel again!
'While, perched on tree, or house, or steeple,
'We now shall look like other people.
'Witchy witchy witchy wee,
'Twikky mikky bikky bee,
Zikky sikky tee.'
3.5k
By: Cedric McClester
Don’t drink the elixir
That he’s trying to sell
If you start believing him
He'll catch you in his spell
Avoid the snake oil salesman
At all and any cost
If you follow his advice
You’ll truly be lost
He’s a snake oil salesman
Traveling state to state
Trying to sell his portion
That you're gonna learn to hate
(2nd Verse)
Don’t drink his elixir
Though pleasant to the taste
Some have bought it wholesale
Others by the case
Don’t believe the claims
The snake oil salesman makes
He’ll say or do anything
That he thinks it takes
He’s a snake oil salesman
Traveling state to state
Trying to sell his portion
That you're gonna learn to hate
He’ll never reveal what’s inside
Of his opaque bottle
But he wants you to take the ride
While he goes full throttle
He’s a snake oil salesman
You better heed my warning
It might be too late
Once you’re underneath his awning
He’s a snake oil salesman
I’ve told you once before
Cuz it’s at your own peril
If you choose to ignore
He’s a snake oil salesman
Traveling state to state
Trying to sell his portion
That you'll learn to hate
Don’t drink his elixir
Though pleasant to the taste
Some have bought it wholesale
Others by the case
Don’t believe the claims
The snake oil salesman makes
He’ll say or do anything
That he thinks it takes
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
Adjectives continue
their downward spiral,
with adverbs likely to follow.
Wisdom, grace, and beauty
can be had three for a dollar,
as they head for a recession.
*Diaphanous, filigree,
pearlescent*, and love
are now available
at wholesale prices.
Verbs are still blue-chip investments,
but not many are willing to sell.
The image market is still strong,
but only for those rated AA or higher.
Beware of cheap imitations
sold by the side of the road.
Only the most conservative
consider rhyme a good option,
but its success in certain circles
warrants a brief mention.
The ongoing search for fresh
metaphor has caused concern
among environmental activists,
who warn that both the moon and the sea
have measurably diminished
since the dawn of the Romantic era.
Latter-day prosodists are having to settle
for menial positions in poultry plants,
where an aptitude for repetitive rhythms
is considered a valuable trait.
The outlook for the future remains uncertain,
and troubled times may lie ahead.
Supply will continue to outpace demand,
and the best of the lot will remain unread.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
*baby in the crib, turns closed eyes into dream-light
young boy at the window, eyes on the calf
woman with the cow, flies milling around the eyes*
1.
every morning, with a penchant for rising before his hour
he stands, sees the calf at the wooden-fence
watches with the fawn-coloured beauty of sea-shell heartbeat..
the rising-eye
while his sister, nearly a young-woman, washes dishes with eyeballs
out the tiny-window
heifer passes by and he looks straight into eyes – gentle eyes –
soothes calamity
2.
in the cold morning on the farmstead, the baby curls in its warm-folds
she chases off the flies from the horns
and cleans gummed-openings
yet deity’s crown falls from splendour this day
as moments devoured by need eventually bear witness
to warm dripping in the sand
the bowl is filled
(high-scale horror)
and the boy has seen it, too
he holds his arms round him to stop the wholesale-shaking.. bites down hard
as his face contorts baleful.. in impotent-anger
his silence bought decades ago.. in another life
no price on his shock
and the bird on the branch flies off.. glint-eyes on another branch
it’s that time once again: she takes the old-cow to town
they await her before nightfall
she never does return
3.
I’m begging you
leave it be, this is how it is
go pick up the baby, please
(the baby won’t stop crying)
*your fences, I’ll rip up your fences with your very own whip
while them wolves howl on and on
I got oppressive-time to suffer your unmatched-law in the crush-of-daylight
now, kindly.. get outta my face!*
S T – 22 Jan 2014
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
In their perceived cleverness
Women ultimately ruin everything great in this world.
They claim that men are responsible for the ills of this world,
When in fact, women are the root of all turmoil on this earth.
In their perceived cleverness, they assume men are too stupid
To read the writing on the wall,
When most men are all too aware
Of the miniscule amount of regard, they have for us.
Were it not for the necessity of the womb,
For the propagation of the species,
the wholesale slaughter of these petty creatures
Would solve the majority of problems
Plagueing this earth.
The vast majority of negative technological advances
Stem from the female need to make things more convenient for themselves,
While men, bear the predominant portion of the burden
Of maintaining civilization,
Dying by the thousands at war,
breaking their backs in harsh labor,
and never receiving due respect from women.
Its no wonder misogynist ideals are spreading.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
he awaits the brittle thought
its naked vocal is neat and clean
it comes to him from the open window
overlooking Cinderella's shop of horrors
her glass slipper now
serves as a wine glass to the gluttony
of the desperately affectionate old men
who would melt at the thought of even her smile
the brittle thought arrives
and he unpacks its pieces parts
and assembles himself in their divine image
now a brittle man
he wears his fractured frailty with
a dignified pride
take one for the team his new catchphrase
the pieces parts swallowed wholesale
become the recycled food for thought
in the hipster gypsy's coffeehouse
the brittle thought
is more than a concept
its a grassroots movement
to be one of the pieces parts
left in the wake of the slowly sinking titanic of sanity
the brittle thought is there
is more than a con artist pulling
off his masterpiece
its a game show host doing a miami vacation
its a dollar store version in a Ritz Carlton lifestyle
Cinderella's shop of horrors
is just his kind of place
filled with the recycled gods and devils
that made the old world such a colourful
place to live
Cinderella is giving away all expense paid
trips for one to be lunch
the privilege of being fed to lions
is not to be missed
the brittle thought finally breaks
he walks home in the rain
grateful to eat lunch not be it
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
*When he looked,he saw with an eagle's eye
To tell dirt from clean, truth from the lie
When he knew, he wanted every detail
Of information in wholesale, not retail
When he loved, he did it with a passion
For whom he fell was special, not just any person
Whom he treasured,he did like the gold
And when he promised, he promised a world
His embrace was a magical thing of wonder
Which made hearts beat as loud as thunder
In his absence, his mistress' heart grew fonder
And she was the only thing he loved as he did Uganda
When he kissed, he stole her pain and worries
And from the first kiss realized he'd be the one she marries
So much so that in the night like fountains in the stream
He was the constant variation in her every dream
When he spoke, he whispered probably in fear
Of the world or probably because he was always close to her ear
Yet when he laughed, he gave romance meaning
Besides a strong shoulder worthy of trusting and leaning
He was a thing every lady in the universe wanted
A thought that saved her from being haunted
By the monster of a lifetime of impairing loneliness
A gorgeous illusion which gave her some happiness*
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
Not equal
We are not born equal
I'm born in a naked cage
Open hostilities
A crown of thorns etched into our being
Namelessness is considered a gift
We are not born equal
The weight of expectations
The brunt of brutal suppression
Of our existence
Is incomparable
The pain that we never deserved
Yet is destined for us
Religion defined me
Contained me
Yet changing it
Abandoning it
Does not break my chains
Often I wonder
When people cannot realize
The wholesale selling of humanity
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 1:46 AM UTC
The White Race
&
The Black Base
In-fighting Nut-Case
Wearing kits & killing kins
Tracer bullets leave no trace!
Ak's & Ra's
Customized & hand made
Just Like Burger-king
Have it your way!
And this war is brought to you by
Your's Truly,
The infamous
NRA!
Cops shooting innocent by-standers on the block,
Innocent by-standers then copping Bump-stocks,
Dropping scores to make it count,
Odd murders 2 even out!
Sniper's posted atop rooftops,
Legislations to make him stop.
A "Mentally Challenged" Caucasian man who had gone AWOL?
Suddenly reappears like an Automatic *****
Posted @ the Hotel
Planning to **** wholesale
To get the maximum reward
Also to get closer to God,
Bodies 4 trophies
& Their Head's as his awards!
In the midst of all this
Another white supremacist
With absolutely no
Motor-skills
To run us over
& Cause massive kills
At Town Halls
Movie theaters and even at the Shopping mall
A Muslim nut-job
Planning ********
A darker American
A lighter Puerto Rican,
Or even a white broad,
Always someone@ur service
To start a brawl,
To ***** some skin
& Make it crawl,
To raise u up
Then Watch you fall.
Wild fires burning bodies bare
Of All colors,
From well done to medium rare,
White House to Gitmo
Water boarding & a bit more,
Laid back extreme sports!
**** 4 tats here,
Cliques & Gangs here
Bricks in the bag here
Clipped to the back rear,
**** yes No *** hair,
Shotguns no cab fare,
Tariffs on imports
Nuns & Nymphos
Hoes before bro's
Turning friend's into foes.
Deserted mill workers,
Over dosing on pill sherbets
Gettin' high 2 get by
Laugh hard then start to cry,
Suicides to feel Alive,
Straight up living
Just to curl up & die,
What a way to go
Get buried to touch the sKy!
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
At midnight,
After the rains,
I spread my wings
And flew across
The wide road
Without any company
And there,
Was this board.
Sparrow trading
That’s good.
Trading sparrows.
Trading birds.
Birds to be sold.
I decided
To troll
Ravishankar aka Ra Sh
As a translator
And Babu Ramachandran
Aka Alberto Caeiro.
I entered
The Sparrow Factory.
The Bird Market.
Wholesale trading centre of birds
Without ringing the bell.
I did not want to
Wake up
Even a single little sparrow,
So,
I stepped in
Without a sound
Or even a thought.
There was no bird
At the gate
The watchman
A retired soldier
Snored.
I moved on.
There was no one.
Where did those two cat eyes go?
I pushed
The window
Open
Gently
And looked in.
A lad
Fast asleep
Breaking all grammar
In some unknown language.
Brother, brother
I called
Without the birds hearing it.
That
Unknown language
Blinked awake
And walked up to me.
I felt so sad for him.
I asked,
Softly,
Weighed down by guilt.
Birds?
He said.
Birds gone loose.
Birds gone loose?
Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose.
Every human being
On this universe
Sang
In many languages.
That
Birds gone loose.
Nothing more to say.
*You too can try these three things. Except going in search of those birds that have gone loose.
Kuzhur Wilson
Translated by Anand Haridas
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 1:04 AM UTC
You raised the bar, Darlin'
on wholesale love.
You're such a pretty cat, me Darlin'
but you **** doves!
You're such a pretty cat, Darlin'
but you **** doves!
You raised the bar, Darlin'
on wholesale love.
I'm just a pretty boy, my Darlin'
here to implore your love.
I'm just a pretty boy, my Darlin'
but you **** doves,
or was that rabbits?
====
* No animals were harmed in the writing of these lyrics, but regrettably, a few injuries did occur at a subsequent recording session.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 9:18 PM UTC
It's the centenary of the proclamation – we shall lift our glasses,
not to Guinness or to Arthur Diageo's dream of the Emerald Isle,
distracted, appeased, quelled an' ****** on the tainted black stuff,
designed to keep us inferior, pig-carriers - at arms with ourselves,
but of Irish craft, guile an' the rising of Irish spirits, the creation,
of a dream long suffered for, long wished for, celebrated in private
for shame of the austere reflection of a country and its people lost,
We shall lift our glasses to the beginning of todays sour ending,
A'sure twas' a good Easter that year.
Hand shakes warm, clean an' orchestrated with restrained sincerity,
A Kingdom reborn, a Republic divided by the maths of peace-makers,
The brave sacrificed for the sneering survival of these eels of politics,
Landowners who owned more than just land - the people's will,
Testament to this abortion of values, morals, history and desire,
is the wholesale pawning of the Irish coast – to support our captors,
the constant glance over our shoulders with panic in our quiet eyes,
as the money men, smug with irresponsibility laugh safely inside,
A'sure twas' a good Take that year.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:43 AM UTC
October 12th, 1998: This is not an apology.
♐ ♐ ♐
Most days I feel like I’m underwater. It’s like a dream where I’m never dead, just not living. Because the living cannot feel this dead. I whither away into isolation singing sweet melodies of love and peace and hope and **** and loneliness. Most days I just smile.
I am a fake. I am a liar.
I am an incongruent youth; unable to be constrained by the freedom laces of society. Tie me down and watch me run, trickle, run like an avalanche down the face of conservatism. A cheap hotel ****** musk and sweat and suits and scandals. On-the-course-to AIDS infection loose ends who walks the streets in pristine filth. The incongruent youth, or what we in America call sick **** and shameful liars.
I am confused. Standing here on the edge between glamour and reality I scream into the nothingness, the watery void, a stark reality composed of my dark humor and evanescent solitaire: How can thunder roar so loud? Why am I part of this ambient isolation? How can you do this to me; to us? The beautiful few and we are beautiful, trust me, we are in the clouds searching for each other, beguiling and anonymous as we may be waltzing merrily through nighttime New York parks searching for rarities. For others. For God. And into the emptiness I whisper: Why is this park so big? And the trees so thick?
I am waiting for "someday." But this someday, this could be, this will be, would be, won't be for awhile. And this moment, this here, this now just passed. So let's look ahead and hope it gets better, because our lives are 1942 cattle cars riding away from the nows that just passed. Moments of incongruence on a grand scale. One night stands with our own hands and imaginations. Moments we thought we knew.
I am an inconvenience on the path to wholesale liberties. To children wrapped in barren barcodes that read “no real identity” when the red dash of judgement steamrolls their sides. God forbid the glamour mix with reality. Because when you are a somebody, you can never be a nobody. And nobody wants the incongruent youth to keep thinking. Because to think is to love. And nobody wants us to love.
This is an apology. I am sorry if I’m not what you meant for me to be. Terribly sorry if I love the wrong music or words or styles or *** is all I can think about. Sorry, but I can only love the beautiful few. I can only smile knowing I am a real somebody in all this hate.
Knowing I am a fake. I am a liar.
I am a human being. Hardly. I’m nothing but an incongruent youth.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:11 AM UTC
Eats gummy worms
like
Flintstone's vitamins;
popping them in her mouth
wholesale.
She puts away brussel sprouts
delicately,
leaf by leaf.
Sometimes
we read quietly
and go to sleep
body to body.
Our hearts beat
tinily
like squirrel hearts.
WE APPRECIATE THE SMALL THINGS.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
~
*It feels like the anesthetic is wearing off
This circus of machines
From coin-operated hostility
To wholesale apathy refineries
They tell us it's winter down in the subdermal
They tell us the foundation has grown weak
Dislocation is an incoming storm
Mirrors are distorted screens
Placeholders really
In a city without children
Even the statues weep
Snow upon the ground that was once blood
Now an empire without heirs
Even the trees hate us*
~
Apr 15, 2024
Apr 15, 2024 at 10:44 AM UTC
At this late hour
contemplating a deliberate plan
eyes work through fatigue,
as crows feet grow,
legs stationary
mind having left the soul,
resenting the direction
retracing the flow...
quieted along the path,
faulted lines show
a moderate to large scale
fracture,
and underlying swell.
It is a life traveled,
marveled by eagle eyed sight,
no damage to the structure,
shifted to the right.
Collapsing splinters jot new landscapes,
laid to waste, by beauty of worded brush,
yielded as sword, to the ground with ******
painted collections line broken walls.
Shall the brush be to conquer?
Or a natural force, under command?
Contemplating the deliberate plan,
so divided, alone,
the degrees of force,
unwieldy; wholesale destruction,
too much for one man...
the canvas awaits the final blow.
http://www.robross.ca
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 10:17 PM UTC
Her $50 hair carouseled about her head
As she turned to mouth me the answer before walking through the screen door.
Her collarbone showed, shouldering through the 5-year linen blouse
She’d bought from an upscale consignment store the same morning she bought
Her second car for less than her parents spent on shoes.
Before I’d seen the sea, I pictured space;
Stars and Galaxies and Ice and Infinite, bigger than I would be and gold,
Hot orange. And quicksilver and crimson. Too white to know, too bright to see.
I dreamt of eyes, thousands. And voices and outstretched, glittered, sweaty fingers
And swirling, sweeping spirits and sad songs about love.
“Please, I need this.” “I need you, please.”
I pictured golden, heavy hands with wine and French cheeses. And clawed, chalky bathtubs
Of marble veined grey, windows bigger than their walls and shiny cherry wood and leather.
I pictured her lips parting and eyes dewy as I drifted to the door because they needed me
And I couldn’t stay any longer, I’d already stayed too long, and they needed me.
Everyone else had tried so there were none left.
I was the last, so I was the first. The moon and its stars were blinking open their eyes as my fingertips
Left her waist and I backstepped into their world that couldn’t do without me.
I could have been a martyr, clipped my locks after God gave me all he could and all the rest.
I would have been a martyr, but my blood started to burn and the flames licked my legs.
Her gentle push tugged at the nails holding the mesh to the screen door as it creaked
Open to faded wood and gravel and patches of green grass and golden sunset-light.
I hadn’t heard but I’d known the answer as she walked outside. My hands were lighter
Than the grains I’d used to make her dinner, and I found strands of her hair on a 3-year t-shirt
I’d never wanted to throw out after I wore it in my first car, a rental I bought wholesale.
Sad songs about love babbled and murmured on the Crosley she found for us during
The Christmas my cousins slept on our couch and floor. The sink poured, dribbled,
Stopped, and the sliding bottle of oil ground across the countertop. Through the door I could
See Tall Metal Skyscrapers and Helicopters. But before the moon and all its stars
Could take my eyes for their own, she found her voice and used it:
“Did you find a path to the stars?” She asked.
“I never did,” I said. “If I think to, maybe I’ll look again tomorrow.”
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 2:43 AM UTC
_The uncertainties that divorce hope,_
_A nun's prayer of guilt_
_And the absolution of sins be-glorified by a Pope,_
_Rosary & water for sprinkle_
_A sermon shared at mass,_
_A wholesale of faith twinkle._
ROMAN 🍂🕊️
Aug 25, 2022
Aug 25, 2022 at 11:09 PM UTC
.
I touched the field of amber pleadings
with eyes only sure enough to find that hidden light
Long lost in the sea of forgotten grasses,
brown from the sun, parched by a drought,
exhaling diversions as I stand facing time,
expecting faces to appear but hands caught the sorrow,
passing it down to an earth that is baked and sore,
thirsting for more, a longer plain in this universe
Weeping cocoons snug in the brambles
oblivious to what the outside wears,
blend in with the endings slowly creeping
awaiting metamorphosis
as a tree falls, no noise, no energy for that
Rooted in dismay, clogged by last season’s air,
pausing only to capture one final view
of the smoke stacks, brick faced commandos,
circular spewing pillars
where beneath wealth is created
but eternity is shortened at wholesale prices
Grey skies, a constant color
pressing doom and gloom
into the landscape, fitted like wedges
force fed in spoonfuls of ignorance
Gathering place settings at my feet,
stirring up dust, blurring the wishers
wondering where the water went,
dry beds, serpentine emptiness,
spilling into garbage piles where lakes once
reflected the ripples as they slowly left,
as not even mud stands a fighting chance
When on a hill I see them, the youth,
our future, backpacks and bubblegum,
ear buds and sunglasses, well meaning,
looking for the next iphone, not being taught
that an apple is actually a fruit
Reading comic books about heroes,
caped crusaders who will save the planet
(that must be what the S stands for)
one colored page at a time
And I sit in the dirt, leaving my impression
for that is all I have left, no answers that
have not been asked, no solutions
that remain passed over, just a wild hair
out of place in this take all world
as highways trickle across farm lands
and corn fields are as barren as my stare
But there is hope…there is always hope...
I hope
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
Less than one percent have dehumanized the plight of the entire terrified migration by resorting to terroristic action against the Western world
Twenty percent are escaping the political upheaval and certain death by remaining steadfast , vigilant , praying for asylum ..
Fifty percent want to love and be loved , tend to their families , raise their children in peace ...
Ten percent will die in abject poverty if we don't step in with food , shelter and a helping hand , addressing their basic needs
Another ten percent have the unmistakable thousand yard stare , eyes conditioned to mass ****** , wholesale destruction , memories that time will never erase ..
Five percent of the young people will develop psychiatric disorders in relation to their current maltreatment , herded like livestock , kept in makeshift prisons , captors oblivious to their supplications
In desperation the remaining four percent will join the one percent in an attempt to save their people by whatever means necessary , ensuring their survival ..
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
Listen for prophetic screams
Weighing down the end of yr nose
Greasing up the hydraulics of the eyeballs
Emerging wholesale from a dream
Residue of unseen seas
Still caked in tangled hair
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 10:22 AM UTC
Your beauteous archetype will never let you suffer the pain that most of us regular people face. Despite your rudeness, we will always make excuses to partake In your cuteness. You don't know how it feel to be forgotten about. Your heart never fell, in result of seeing someone who bailed holding hands with a more sightliness female. You have everyone's attention. How does pretty feel when pain is inflicted? Does pretty really hurt all along, or is that just a song? I'm venting through this poem because I can only imagine you being in my arms. The reality of you laying in my chest happily is slim to none. My confidence in myself is strong, but that only go as far as grabbing you by the arm, signaling you to come on. Utterances of "he's not where you belong". My aplomb is only dawn in comparison to his bodacious mannerism. You can't see anything wrong. But I can see it within you. Whenever I spy deeply, past your aesthetic definitive. As I forage through your lushness I stumble upon the truth. The naked truth. Fastuousness at it's best. Desolateness at it's worst. Blessed but hurt. A nest without a bird, a freeway without a curve, an intoxication without a slur, a feline with no reason to purr, a sea otter without it's fur; basically a sentence without a word. Bleak; you worship the worthless, bargain yourself to be purchased so in result you are the first resort to a man with no purpose. How does it feel to be a self-merchant? Wholesale and your clientele being boys who are uncertain. If you were interested in men he will treat you like one with the womb in the front (womb-men), no matter how feral you were you'll b like his little ****** See you are the resultant of a posture that is too potent. When you're in motion, no guy can continue with focus. You were always told how bold that you looked without any clothes, but never reminded that your mind was the only thing you have left when everything else unfold. Hopeless; desirable but the story on how to be hereafter admirable was untold. "No matter how fine the statue is, overtime it will have to erode, it's the significance in the chronicle that we will always extoll"
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 4:53 PM UTC