"yesses" poems
You call me alarmist
Because I say what I have heard.
You call me socialist
As if it were a ***** word.
You call me communist
Like this is nineteen fifty two.
You make an epithet
Of anyone who contradicts you.
You call me coward
Because I hate war so much.
You call people ******
If men should hug or touch.
You call people terrorists
If they don't worship your way.
You seem to hate the poor
Wish they would just go away.
You have a list of names
You use instead of using specifics.
You have a list of behaviors
You consider to be extra terrific
Like making fun of races
And calling starving people losers.
Make laws against cannabis
While you are a bunch of boozers.
You use Christianity
Like membership in the Rotary.
Won't take your credentials
To be verified by a legal notary.
You hide your profits
And brag about your successes
And become homicidal
If you get anything but yesses.
It's a sick world you sell
With your hate filled speeches.
Surely this is not what
Your spiritual leader teaches.
There is so much disdain
And even evil in what you do.
Let us all hope and pray
Our kids don't turn out like you.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
Knotted Cord
Rebekah- Hebrew, meaning - Captivating; knotted cord. Wife of Isaac in the Old Testament.
I am a knotted cord,
Of chattering reactions,
and alphabetical perceptions
straining to elude me.
A tangle of cerebrum crammed to my cranium
snarled loops that hear light in code,
or see voices through pulsating synapses.
I am a knotted cord,
A grey rope of countless nucleotides;
fashioning my own skintight survival manual
from my own regenerating song.
Rough edged coils of yesses and noes,
Spiraling into collected silence.
I am a knotted cord,
A scrambled array of ambition,
Stitched with the lethargy
of an unraveled thread.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 4:40 PM UTC
I need there to be more to me.
Something that I can find in the clubs that have those beautiful galilees dancing into the mornings dew.
Those joints that say 420 isn’t a number but a religion. (DUDE)
That bottle of jack, which I carry around at party’s that won’t leave me hitting on all of you and busting bridges left and right.
Her big brown eyes interchangeable with bright blue smiles.
Those awkward moments in each shape and form that they take.
Those ideas inside a wrapper that tell me it would feel much better if I break every bit of it.
That epic moment where my toes curl up beside yours after we have spoken our eternal vowels for that chance that even then, we will be together after you take that money off of my dresser drawer.
That I can find that good girl out there to do all those bad things I like.
That dream beyond a dream, that some loving caring, sweet women, who does not remind me of my mother, can make me laugh and wears glasses will let me *** all over them.
That imaginary disposition that tells me yesses really means no.
So I can hate myself every time you want me to be inside of you.
Those hope that my expectations will so far exceed yours.
That the bottle of Xanax’s and no dose won’t run out before the night is done.
And we wake up cold and naked with windows beaming from the flashing occurrence that daylight isn’t our enemy it is our friend.
That my ****** hunger will be enough sometime once I throw those 12 steps into it.
The hope that one-day out there I will be enough not for you but for me.
That I don’t wait for it to be a good day if you text me or not.
That moment that I will be at peace for me, not because of you.
That it doesn’t seem important for me to make you smile, laugh or cringe at my jokes.
But I say them not to be funny or win you over but for me.
And me alone.
I want it to be that day soon but I don’t work for it.
I sit on my computer screen day after day morning from night looking for videos and pictures that remind me of you.
And muddle it down in my little pink notebook with a bland ink pen.
But when I look at you and say I’m enough.
Not you.
That is my dream and will be my awakening.
I hope for that sometimes after the shame and the guilt of each utter more despicable relapse, I replicate just to look into the mirror and say when is enough going to be enough.
When will I find my *** of gold at the end of each rainbow?
I write this not for you but for me so that I can free me and hope that I am less of a painful break up to each and every one of you.
So that I can dream skip, leave and shout.
I want that to be true so bad.
But not enough, to do anything about it.
YET. But soooonnn.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
I'm a romantic, even when girls flip. I choose not to dip
even when it's over,
the home planet of love knows a thousand rovers,
and they all leave tread-marks
in yesses
and not
nos.
The yesses of coming back
and back
for more
moon rocks,
because no jewel
can make you
more confused.
So when the planes
march across the sky
in a cluttered
night,
I stumble over
marlboros
and trip
over the hope
for tommorrow.
The hope
that I could someday return
to the reaches
of your farthest
star.
It's such an escape
when I feel
your loving embrace
your tiny body
with
its
gargantuan
gravity.
I've never hugged
someone,
the way I hugged you.
Put me on the back
of your warping love,
because I could fall anytime
and the atmosphere
could rain in acorns
as I look for the dropping sky.
I'll always fall
for your games,
and I'll re-enter
with a broken heat-shield
waiting to break my neck
and teeth
and heart
over the heat
you
yield
in uncountable
atoms.
In the smallest manner
I pander,
trying to get you back
over messages
travelling like radio waves
across a galaxy
with a black hole at its heart.
The beep, beep, beep,
can travel forever
uninterrupted,
but when it hits a raw body,
it falters.
So I'll let the knees
of my heart,
bend at the altar
of your far-off blob
of life.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 10:54 PM UTC
Memories are in the making...
I'll kiss your soul
And remember what it felt like to
To believe in a today than tomorrow
Like the soul in a body...
The feel of my heartbeat
It stops when the dance gave up
And stood against the walls of Nos and the yesses
Forgive me, i am not sober,
Drunk made of drinks of dreams..
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
you are all:
children
green
naive
unprepared
community full of previously coddled and heretofore coddling parents with their doting Yesses and ever-so-rare Nos. A poem, my good reader, is not any old thought; it's not a question, a "when-will-my-husband-return-from-war?" simple concern, but how a lyric tangles itself up in the bramble of a rhythm:
Just
Like
This.
See How the Words
Jump From One Spot Of Your Brain
To the Next
As Though They're Panning In Stereo
Such Illusory Text.
And Notice the Rhyme
Injected Therein?
I Would Keep Complaining
But the Bit's Wearing Thin.
one either has a way with words, or they should do away with words, but not before they try. i am not a poet, but i do, at the very least, try.
please try, tee-why.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC