"wyatt" poems
I'm half asian so everyone thinks I speak 'asian'
Which just goes to show their ignorance, thinking that's a language
Another strange causation because of my 'asianness' is that I:
Can always win arguements with Wyatt by stating this fact
Was declared a ninja even before my skills were proven
I surprise people with my appearance and when I reveal my ethnicity as they believe initially that I'm mexican, italian, or spanish
Was assumed to have gone to the same church as all the others
Am considered strange, exotic, weird, genius, awesome, and stupid
Am endearingly called a 'short asian woman/lady/girl' by friends
Oh and I love love love love chopsticks, rice, and spicy foods.
Pass the srirachi and pepper please
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC
Ingrid sports a black eye;
she looks like a panda.
She said she walked
into a door;
she doesn't lie
convincingly.
I know her old man;
I passed him
on the stairs of the flats;
his beady eyes
drinking me in,
giving me the cold glare,
the cold shoulder.
We walk through the Square,
off to the shops.
What happened to your eye?
I ask again,
studying the black
and slightly green;
walking beside her,
passing the milkman
and his horse drawn cart,
the horse wearing
a nosebag of food,
ignoring us.
I walked into
the bedroom door,
she says,
knowing I don't
believe her,
looking sheepish,
knowing
I guess the truth.
What have you got
to get at the shops?
I ask.
She shows me a list
on a scrap of paper,
pencil scribbled,
in her small right hand
a handful of coins.
I passed your old man
on the stairs yesterday,
I tell her,
gave him my
Wyatt Earp stare,
I say, he didn't care.
I note her hair
is unbrushed,
her green patterned dress
unwashed.
We cross Rockingham Street
into Harper Road.
I talked too much,
Dad said,
she confesses,
he said I yak and yak.
We pass the paper shop
and go on
to the grocer shop.
I say,
if I had your old man
in the sights
of my six-shooter gun
I'd fire a cap
up his ***
she sniggers;
people stare at us
as we pass.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
My friend lives
With anemia and a stomach ucler
With the past of an alchoholic father and an abusive brother
With emotionally abusive ex-girlfriends
Who sometimes plays the butler
With a crammed-full-to-the-seams schedule
With a previous eating disorder and cutting
With the mind of a genius
With the heart of a saint
With the hands of an artist
With a bevy of friends, willing and eager to help
With freedom and a job
With with me, Wyatt, Julia, and Tom on the other end of the phone
Waiting for his call for help
But he is so quiet, pushed into a world of silence, dark, and miserable art
He shelters himself from all, and so we hover nearby
Searching for a crack in the walls of his dungeon, but all we find is a window
He holds the key, but does not yet realise it
So we coaxe and console and soothe, vocalising our concerns and aid
Reaching towards him to pull him away, to touch his heart with the
Hope that a gentle caress, a well placed sweet stroke of kindness may
Free him from his torment
But as of yet, we are still trying
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
Some of you go so far as to disclaim any ability to find you, but I've got you.
(sonnet #MMDCCXCV)
Dare claim your writing does not breathe a strain
Of your dear essence: to be fooled. Thereby
Petrarca's soul distills its fervour aye;
And Wyatt cool good sense; while Surrey feign
With mildest touch and Spenser's pure refrain,
Sweet Shakespeare beauing hearts, dare cry
Amain. From Milton's kingly strength's reply
To Wordsworth's cold hauteur, yea come again?
Twas Samuel Taylor Coleridge roused me
To think afresh, his lively fancy through
Each line with his impress. From Shelley's plea
To Keats' indulgence, Missus Browning's blue
Yet mystic charm, don't think all cannot see.
You don't know me? But ah, I do know you.
31Aug13b
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
We sat on the grass
by Banks House
warm sun
sound of coal men
at the coal wharf
just behind
shunting of coal trucks
up in the shunting yard
by the railway bridge
I showed Janice
my new 6 shooter gun
my old man had got me
with a plastic holster
that was attached
to my belt
she took the gun
in her hands
and turned it over
what's fascinating
about guns?
she said
one looks pretty much
like another
she opened up the gun
and saw where the caps
were fitted
does it go bang
when you fire caps?
sure it does
I said
and took the gun
and pulled the trigger
and BANG BANG
it went
she put her hands
over her ears
that's loud
she said
******** up her eyes
I twirled the gun round
a finger and put the gun
back in the holster
Gran said guns
are dangerous things
Janice said
they are but this
is only a toy gun
I said
she took off her
red beret and combed
her fair hair with a comb
from her small handbag
did they have girl cowboys?
she asked
cowgirls they were called
I said
Anne Oakley was good
with a gun
have you got a spare gun
and holster
I could borrow?
and I could be her
to your Wyatt Earp
she said
sure I have
I said
I got lots of guns
and holsters
- I had about three sets-
let's go get one
and we can get you
started as a cowgirl
I said
and I can ride
a pretend white horse
she said
to go with your
black one
ok
I said
and we got up
and walked back
into the Square
and we went to the flat
where I lived
my mother was boiling
the wash in the boiler
and said
you want some lunch yet?
I asked Janice and she said
that would be nice
and so we had some
sandwiches and milk
and I went and got her
a spare gun and holster
and an S belt of mine
which she fitted around
her narrow waist
and she had a go
at drawing the gun
out of the holster
as she'd seen me do
and she was quite good
and after lunch
we set off to ride
our imaginary horses
through the Square
and along the open prairie
off the Meadow Row
bomb site
looking out
for Injuns
or bad cowboys
we could fight.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
"Who's this Wyatt?" Brian asked, a smile on his lips.
Hiding my face in my shirt, "No one!", a hand on my head, a twist in my hips.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something.
(sonnets #MMMMMCCCXXXII and MMMMMCCCXXXIII)
I
Bukowski. If I'd known--and there must trail
Off seeking an excuse to bother hence
With aught. Nor should I have writ these his sense
Of our supposed age could acknowledge bail
For, since his voice kills any spirit's frail
Hope of existance, while he coughs from thence
To fiercely say the madness dictates whence
As chopped, clipped phrases whereby he'd prevail.
And Shelley, who saw further than now's poor
Horizon, said art veils her glass whilst through
The centries curs as ole Bukowski tour--
To vanish, sans a note. Yet here all who
Aspire think vile is tops, our work as twere
In vain and refuse. Cuz such never knew.
II
Lo, ****** Surrey, Wyatt, and aught hence
Who bowed themselves to Petrarch's mincing scale,
Yes, "polished our erst homely," ruder tale
Of lines and poetry, whose manners thence
Became refined thus as we yielded, whence
Far more rebelled than dared submit, t'assail
What set us 'part from beasts as if in frail
Excuse to cavil suited their intents.
He said the "mountaintop" was mine as twere
T'enjoy, but if I wanted friends maunt do,
As they all wallowed in the mud, each boor
Disgusted save by filthy scents. Sans clue
Of our high calling meant to raise th'obscure
Light for our fellow man, ye can't, who knew.
24Dec15c,d
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
colin kissed hannah instead
and i was nate's second choice
i found out about joe too late
and carson puked on my shoes
wyatt was the first everything
and louis was only a phone call
slade didn't care about my heart
and maklin shouldn't have
you were so much less, so much more
and i know because
it hurts when
i try to write your name.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 5:39 AM UTC
This one's for the 20 kids
Now all dead, god forbid
For the parents who now cry
Who always ask themselves, "why?"
For those teachers killed on the job
Their entire city mourns and sobs
For all the people who took a fall
I support you and I bless you all.
To the familes of Charlotte Bacon, Daniel Barden, Rachel Davino, Olivia Engel, Josephine Gay, Ana M. Marquez-Greene, Dylan Hockley, Dawn Hochsprung, Madeleine F. Hsu, Catherine V. Hubbard, Chase Kowalski, Jesse Lewis, James Mattioli, Grace McDonnell, Anne Marie Murphy, Emilie Parker, Jack Pinto, Noah Pozner, Caroline Previdi, Jessica Rekos, Avielle Richman, Lauren Rousseau, Mary Sherlach, Victoria Soto, Benjamin Wheeler, and Allison N. Wyatt.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
those aren't dreams, those are goals
I stopped using that puny voice
and hiding behind the avocados
in my cobb salad. and who are
you to to define the space between
my fingers, the gaps between my
teeth? Dear Wyatt, feel honored
because for a moment you breathed
my dreams.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC
I wake up and it's tour day
Bright shining sunny
The little ones line up and fidget
Go up to the street's side and watch
Some others stream into the museum
Whose insides are covered in papers
And sketched all over with crayons
Depicting a cityscape and palace interiors
The parades are full of balloons and yet empty
Then the parade has a different balloon
It's alive, regenerating, strong
A simple face exuding evil
Suddenly I know; we have to run. Now.
Children are running and crying
My friends and I glance at eachother
Anxious, fearful
I have to dash back and forth
Running, trying to calm the children
Reassuring myself and my friends doing the same
The stenches of fear and pain permeate the air
Somehow I need to get away, to escape
And run
Then two women appear
Cold, sterile, lifeless automotons
Trying to take me away
So I pretend for a bit to follow, buying time
Then I struggle away, and run back
Mad dash
I find two friends and plead help
Wyatt is willing, Max is silent, Rachel isn't there
The women are back and no time remains
After one last plea I jump the wall
Fall, climb, stand, run
Gary appears barely in time, time for what I don't know
He runs along side, pushing, pulling, somehow helping
While saying nothing, too far away to touch
We're running into eternity,
Away from a black swarming wave of putrid evil
I wake up, sweating, gasping
And I'm still running
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 7:35 PM UTC
Butcher Bird
A Poem by Jeremy Wyatt
"
Simulation, brash, aloft, rebel, impale.
"
High aloft what is it I see
dripping something onto me
like a simulation of Christ's nail
now upon which you did impale
your namesake is less brash than you
happy with beetles and frogs it slew
but something darker does you drive
a rebel slaying all alive
Church steeples high you cherish best
see bodies perched high stiff at rest
the birds put creatures on barbed wire
you place your bigger prey much higher
I've written of you many times
some wee stories some small rhymes
You share a bird name both alike
the Buthcher Bird we know as Shrike
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 8:47 AM UTC
Everyone at the gym is a slasher,”
I explain,
“actress/writer/actually works the front desk full time.”
Wyatt tells me he goes to the gym to hook up with guys in the sauna.
“Yeah, I always see you boys in the see through showers
that face the front desk.
I get all hot on my shift and have to go home alone.”
“Well, you know how us guys are,”
says Wyatt,
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because it’s true.”
He gives me his number.
“We should hang out.”
“I don’t know what to do,”
says Wyatt.
“Betty Blue at The Egyptian maybe?
Maybe the shooting range in Burbank?
I want a drink.”
“So drink,” I say.
“All I need is a forty and a sack.
Why are you laughing?”
asks Wyatt.
“Wouldn’t even have to go out.”
“Hey Wyatt, thanks for callin’ all the time.
I want to do something,
but I only have seven dollars.
I tried to go dancing with my friend last night,
Made it all the way to the club,
but didn’t have the cover and had to go home.
I’m bored and tired and it’s hot.”
Wyatt reminds me, “I have my copy of Women for you to borrow.
Chianti and spaghetti at my apartment for dinner?”
“Sounds great,” I say.
“Let’s get the five dollar bottle with the straw holder,” he says.
“Maybe we can splurge on garlic bread.
You know, my roommate is fifty and broke.
I hear him crying every day.
He still tries to get money from his mother.”
“I’m broke,”
Wyatt tells me.
“I have my cds at a pawn shop.
I may have to skip town. I have some trouble.”
“These things happen,” I tell him.
“Call me once in a while.
Let me know how you’re doing.”
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
Dear Ian
The First always tastes like honeyed-sunlight on cheek and windowpane:
first kiss, first cigarette, first rooftop.
I never wanted to come down.
Dear Greyson
Beautiful and empty.
Our hands didn't fit right.
Dear Anton
Thank you for kissing prayers into the crosses on my forearms.
It wasn't enough.
I'm sorry I kept you on your knees.
Dear Eli
**** you.
Dear Wyatt
We were high and you were there.
Your mouth tasted like sour milk
and I was lonely in the morning.
Dear Ian
Snorting coke off my naked body was all you needed.
I think I caught you too late.
Dear Cody
Thanks for the ****
I'm sorry I made you leave--
I couldn't stop looking at the orchid petals falling on my windowsill.
Dear Howard
I never realized my power
until the day I let you finger me in the seasonal section of a CVS.
Dear Sky
Loving you was like loving river currents.
I lost myself in the way you looked at me like
you were looking past me.
I'm still learning how to let go of dead things.
Dear Jessica
I was high on painkillers for the 6 months you tried
to bring me back down.
But if you had a condo on a cloud
I'd have stayed at your place.
Dear Robert
I just needed a prom date.
Don't read into it.
Dear Sarah
You and spring rains are synonymous.
Dear Vanessa
Venus.
Someday I'll come back.
We'll paint piazzas into dusk.
Dear Maya
Your lips were swollen honeysuckle and I was all hummingbird.
I wish you could've held me after.
Dear Alyson
We never met in person,
but the way you glittered behind my phone screen
fogged up the glass with light-hot possibility.
Our timing wasn't right.
Dear Amélie
"On n'aime que ce qu'on ne possède pas tout entier."
Dear Izzy
I would've sewn stars down your backbone.
That night at the End of the World, we held eternity in our fingertips.
or maybe it was just the *****
Dear Brendan
Drunken lapse in judgement.
I'm not "experimenting", I'm actually gay.
Dear Sara
I wish I was looking for something casual.
The Washington Sq. Park fountain will always be holy.
Bless my forehead whenever.
----
Dear Jesse
It's time to fall in love with your palms.
They fit together perfectly.
Plant chrysanthemums in your abdomen
and let yourself bloom again.
Like it's the first time.
Like you owe it to yourself.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
You walked with Janice
to Baldwin’s the Herbalist
at the corner of Elephant
and Walworth Road
she wore her blue patterned dress
and red beret
and white socks
and red sandals
and in her small purse
she had money
her gran gave her
to buy sarsaparilla
in a half pint glass
and you
in your cowboy shirt
and jeans and plimsolls
with your holster
and six shooter
in the belt
around your waist
and clutching money
your mother’d given you
for doing a few chores
Gran would never let me
go on my own
Janice said
but when I said
you were going
Gran said all right
but no sweets
they rot your teeth
I like the liquorice sticks
you can buy there
you said
they make your teeth white
or so my mum said
Janice looked at your gun
in the holster
and said
you can protect me
from outlaws with your gun
sure
you replied
she smelt of lavender
and toothpaste from tins
and she moved nearer to you
and her arm touched yours
as you walked along
here we are
she said
and opened the door of Baldwin’s
and you both went in
and went to the counter
and asked the man
for two half pints
of sarsaparilla
and when he poured them
and you each paid him
you stood by the window
with your glasses
and sipped
and looked
at the passing traffic
and people
you feeling like Wyatt Earp
in the saloon
and Janice looking out
as if she feared
outlaws would be coming
pretty soon.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
Jinx! You owe me a haggis!
Sheep! Sheep! Sheep boing!
I tried to connect the two.
I am glad that someone loves my discursive stuff.
I feel thrilled that someone validates me.
Tell me why again? Why why why not?
Did you mention socks? Why?
You’re a sock! Your face is a sock!
A pair of socks! I laugh!
You didn’t anticipate that one, did you?
I will nevar stop. Nevar.
Yes. An alternate spelling.
Hehehehehehe.
Be bold. Be bold like Leeroy Jenkins.
Yas. Chicken music. Yas.
He was brave, he led the charge.
On monkeys and elders, what was our conclusion?
Monkeys are silly, elders are catnip.
I am silly. This poem is silly.
Hehe. You know what I’m about to say next.
We must keep it a secret.
Sheep! Sheep boing!
Figure out what that pakis-ectomy is.
Yeah? Yeah? Well, you’re a pakis.
I guess that Wyatt Cenac
said it best:
I have to fool you. I am fooling you.
Aeneas, Cooper, Pedro, and Boo.
They are all amicable with each other.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
This pumice really rubs me the wrong way.
Matadors moisturize with oil of ole.
Heidegger has moves like Jagger.
Any critic - Jaeger; Typhoid Mary - plaguer.
Who's the top chef that goes derpa derp derp?
Wyatt Earp.
I'll drain the swamp like Dagobah's.
A Clovis Person. Legolas.
The nipple's best on chicken breast.
Pin that on your Pinterest. To show all the dispossesed.
Witness Godwin's Law at work:
****** you're a ****
Pick up the phone and call Cthulu.
Get hung up on by Shaka Zulu.
Chalupa mis huevos, says the chihuahua.
Hey Tarzan. Ungawa.
Jesus walked across Titicaca.
Crane thinks the Bridge is over.
Biddy bah bah.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 12:43 AM UTC
Is he a momma's boy
or a daddy's boy?
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Poetry Control PanelPlease enjoy your visit. Poetic-Verses 4361 Poems Read.six gun petesix gun pete rode in to town he went for guns but his pants fell downshot himself in the foot with his face covered in sootthe people laughed at poor old pete to see the holes in his feetpete he limped in to the bar across the street not to farthere he saw the sheriff and he began to burpdo you know who i am my name is wyatt twirppete he sat down and had a bite to eatlooking at his boots and the holes still in his feetpete he just waited till the sun went downmouted up his horse and rode on out of the town.
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 3:17 AM UTC
Quietest in the white expanse of winter,
Waiting, watching, the landscape open to my sharp eyes.
A pin dropped in snow would make more noise
Than my perfect, crouching form.
I mark the crows as they flit across the sky,
Warm memories of summer stalking in the hedgerow.
My ears flicker to a distant voice,
As you walk up towards the farm.
I will glide over the crisp snow to rub around your legs,
You and I, both finding our way home.
Jeremy Wyatt.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 1:16 PM UTC
Benny showed me
how to twirl
a toy gun
around my finger.
I managed to do
as he said
although it fell off
my finger a few times
before I did it right.
Mum said
it isn't ladylike
to twirl a gun
around my finger
but I like doing
what Benny does.
I like being
Maid Marian
to his Robin Hood
or Mrs Earp
to his Wyatt Earp.
He showed me
how to fire
a catapult
and knock a tin can
off a wall.
Mum wanted me
to help her
clean up
my little brother
as he kicked so
while she changed
his *****
I had to hold
his little legs
to stop him kicking
and the smell
was yuk.
On Saturday
Benny said we
can go to
the morning matinee
and see films
and cartoons.
I'll have to ask Mum
and see if she
can afford
for me to go.
Benny said
it's 6d.
Mum looked tired
when she said
it was bedtime.
I went to bed
but couldn't get
twirling a toy gun
around my finger
out of my head.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 3:28 AM UTC
Envelopes and elevator music can explain
Why we clutch our horror and flee our name
A watchtower and alarm clock sang their lament
Across the concrete we rejoice and the paradise we repent
And as we signed
we denounced allies
In favor of the forbidden
what artificial blood and absinthe love
could deduce the lies we've hidden?
Mistletoe in the greenery of late july
and honor's punch drunk alibi
Reinvent the wheel that streets had broken
but its all another poker deal
a bet from the same token
Why do we abhor the delight to adore
what is written across the table?
If we read it as love we read it as a fable
and who still gives a **** about Cain and Abel?
Forgive my verse I tend to curse and my pentameter could benefit from consistency
But pardon your barometer I never intended to study calculus or chemistry
The commodity of obscenity and the gardens of Versailles
It's not a question then of who or when but rather a matter of how and why?
We buy and slash with words and cash all of those we enable
Why not, my love, give whiskey and drugs it's honestly more stable
The aftertaste of lust and lace
Grim fairy tales and telephone sales
The absence of the rhythm
That transforms mere words to singing
but format this or format that that isn't a life worth living
The morning connives with sidewalks and vines
while dark eyes sit and stare we are but wine and air
What is this routine we have fought to acquire?
No sweet perfume can sweeten the flame of fire
so kiss you reflection and hold close to the glass or the mirror
Objects that appear far away
they may in fact be nearer
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
You said it first
Those words I was always afraid of
You said it first
And God it scared me to death
I thought I was never enough
I was never beautiful enough
I never reached your level of class
You were a bad boy
And i was " that girl"
The fact that you said those words first
Is exactly why I could never repeat them
But you had me tangled in your Web
That you woven so easily with the feelings you thought you had for me
I was so caught up in those words
I didn't realize you were slowly slipping from my grip
I guess I was so afraid to love you
That I didn't bother to hold you tighter
I was so afraid that you loved me first
That it made me believe you weren't honest
now that you've slipped away from me
God, how I wish I could've told you
How I wish I told you I loved you
How I wish I told you that you were exactly what I wanted, needed, yearned for
How you made me feel better
How you made pain feel like joy
And now that you've slipped away from me
I only admit it to myself
I loved you Wyatt , more than anything
And it's because you loved me first
Is why I didn't tell you I loved you
Because you loved me first
I didn't think you'd ever leave.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
Lydia
wants to go
out skipping
her skip-rope
but there's rain
coming down
outside of
her window
Gloria
her sister
is snoring
on the bed
behind her
her boyfriend
(Gloria's)
is asleep
beside her
mouth open
in a wide
oval shape
her brother
Hem is out
getting wet
good job too
she muses
watching rain
pouring down
she wonders
if Benny
is outside
(he's the boy
in the flat
whom she likes
both of them
9 years old)
she goes out
from her room
passes down
the passage
and opens
the front door
and looks out
at the rain
the milkman
shelters out
in the door
of the man
with the large
boxer dog
LYDIA
Benny calls
out to her
from the high
balcony
of the flats
where he lives
she sees him
he's waving
come on up
he bellows
I'll get wet
if I come
she replies
go along
by the side
up the stairs
he tells her
she hadn't
thought of that
so she runs
by the flats
by her own
up the stairs
and along
the narrow
balcony
where Benny
is waiting
watching rain
falling down
what you doing?
she asks him
nothing much
he replies
what about
playing chess
in the flat?
he asks her
don't know how
she replies
what about
Ludo then?
seems boring
can't we play
something else?
she asks him
you can be
Mrs Earp
the wife of
Wyatt Earp
Benny says
and help me
shoot badmen
in gun fights
she agrees
and they go
in the flat
where his mum
is making
mincemeat pie
just playing
at cowboys
Benny says
to his mum
his mother
nods her head
smiling at
Lydia
the small thin
girl who looks
underfed
with dull hair
flowing down
from her head.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC