"wides" poems
never, reaching too fars,
next to ancestors graves
always, comes up home,
taste ó salt air, soily spey,
off-white washed cottage
grey in webbed shadows
by the tangles of streams
surrounding to dankness,
cavern into the sun, outs
in great wides and opens,
chimney smokes, signals,
yet whole world is closed
to me, nestled with family,
in wee drab cottage world.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
t's not the american dream
it's the american nightmare
nine to five, nine to five
every single day and every single night
total numbness
we've lost our will, we've lost our fight
what do we do when we come home?
we sit in front of our televisions
sitting in our beat up lazy-boys
yelling at our beat up wives
sipping on our ice cold beer
ranting about our boring lives
isn't this the american dream?
we hate our jobs, hate our bosses
we're just trying to survive
but all this responsibility is killing us
we're dead inside
and we want out but we're still
living in our double-wides
broke and decrepit on the inside
but ***** it, it's the american dream
let's take what they media says as gospel
because they couldn't ever be wrong
could they?
no, no they wouldn't lie to us
instead of finding our own right and wrong
we follow like pigs to the slaughter
we ignore what's going on in the rest of the world
we ignore what's going on inside everyone else
because they aren't us, we don't know them
they aren't our kids, our mothers, our fathers,
our brothers, our sisters, our cousins,
our friends..
so why should we care?
selfishness infects us like a plague
a hereditary disease
we are all so selfish
apathy is a slow growing tumor
strangling and numbing us from inside
but whatever!
go to your therapist, get some pills
and choke it down, like you choke down you own morality
mortality is a joke
this is america!
freedom never dies, so why should we?
i can go where i want, ***** who i please,
take what i want, ignore the rules set down
because they don't apply to me
so what if i step on some other people?
so what if i build my empire on the sweat of their backs?
it's the american dream!
do things for you, improve yourself
with our "i"Phones and our "self" helps
God bless america and no one else!
there are people who have fought for us
died for us, for our freedom
for the great land of the free
and the home of brave
but hey! let's leave them out on the streets to rot
because to us their ***** and worthless
we don't care.
"decadence can fill your holes
if it's tangible it will save your soul"
right? right? right?
that's what they teach us
we'll keep working nine to five
smoking, drinking, beating, dying
an angry mob of puppets
but who's pulling the strings?
so sit back on your lazy-boys, lazy boy
and pop open a cold beer
turn on the television
and drown for a few hours until you decide
to go ***** your wife
tell your kids to go to college, stay in school, say no to drugs
but you've been schooled because you thought you had it all
your drug is your own pleasure
you have nothing
you are nothing
until you decide to be something
and get out of this nightmare
start living a dream
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC
One night I drowsed, I dreamt about
A halcyon azure world without
A sign of mortal coil or wars,
Of idleness of eldritch sores;
Yon heavy clouds quietly crawled
Savouring the zephyr's shiny-gold;
And there, midst vast and endless wides,
We could have found a place to hide
Whereupon I could pree your mouth
Touching you gently, never tough;
Those fervid, tempting, blushful lips
Could the sublunar realm eclipse...
Aug 25, 2025
Aug 25, 2025 at 7:39 AM UTC
These trips by the county boys,
Being further deputized as burly, armed elves
Tended toward the grim,
Taking them on roads way up in the hills
Where pavement was the stuff of fantasy
And the home-sweet-homes
Were ancient pock-mark and rusted single-wides
Or jerry-built additions uneasily affixed
To some abandoned hunting camp or outbuilding,
Third-hand rugs or tarps covering
Hard ground, possibly augmented with a sprinkle of sawdust,
And you learned not to do more than exchange hellos
With the parents (this just one more minor indignity,
One more for-today-only handout,
The toxic mixture of resentment and self-recrimination
Never far from the surface) and head for the kids
As quickly as politeness allowed, the smiles
(Sometimes positively beatific, others suitably wan,
Knowing that tomorrow would be another day
In a series of just another days)
And upon leaving one such place, a couple of the boys
Heard an incongruous tinkling, this place
Far enough from town and insulated by bluff and pine woods
Where it couldn't be from St, Mary's or Faith Baptist,
And turning the corner toward where they were parked,
They happened upon a black bear,
Improbably wakened and wandered from some nearby cave,
Toying with some improvised wind chime,
Comprised of old graters, 50s-issue percolator stems,
Silverware liberated from some Denny's or school cafeteria,
And as they backed away to seek
Some alternate path to their vehicle, the younger of the pair opined
Must be some angel getting his wings, hey?
To which his partner, who knew these hills
And their sundry denizens all too well replied
*You get that bears attention,
You're mebbe gonna find yourself on the waiting list*.
Dec 21, 2022
Dec 21, 2022 at 4:23 PM UTC
Hardly any little
darlings come over to us. Of
having seemed to be hurt or maybe they are
dreaming of times so past
that they sound like tiny lullabies.
Have you thought of keeping
me in tight holding arms or lying right beside me
in the pain? But something that
you couldn’t come to relate. Never you’ve
been like that, how I feel that reality comes
into parts. Soft little face, huge brown eyes
uncover the surprise that eyebrows comprise.
Longing to be held so soft but never there. Beating
hand on your heart and the
Affliction of Love to us.
Sickling in the things that tie me in so many
miles closer to you. Open up your wides, pupils
dilating to take in the very first, who came this close to
melt your loving heart.
© 2006
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 8:17 PM UTC
who's to say there's no beauty in sagging mossy roofs on moldy double wides?
old chevy's in the front yard with the wires eaten out by the rats that steal the cherries off of your forgotten childhood tree
we wonder aloud whether we should be more afraid of the squatters or the red necks toting shotguns at the end of the road, followed immediately by musings of this being the perfect place to have babies
I can see me chasing chickens and you building a shop, and our kids rolling their eyes so often they get stuck in the back of their skulls
I wish this moss filled yard would spell it out with stones from the walls that surround it, no more pondering, just a universal understanding that we’ve driven down the right road
Instead, for now, I’ll just count myself lucky for having a partner that isn’t afraid to keep driving
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 9:12 PM UTC