Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Marla Jun 2019
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Kelly Rose Oct 2015
The ghost of me from yesteryear
Visited me in my dreams last night
Reminded me of innocence so dear
Causing me to shed precious tears
Missing innocence’s wondrous light
The ghost of me from yesteryear
Encouraged me to release my fears
Now my soul struggles to take flight
And reminded me of innocence so dear
Though my path is not always clear
I fear being caught in an endless night
The ghost of me from yesteryear
Has snuggled in and holds me near
Wanting to fill me with such delight
And reminds me of innocence so dear
Silence fills me as I peer
Deep inside to find love so bright
The ghost of me from yesteryear
Reminded me of innocence so dear

Kelly Rose
October 16, 2015
Original French

Dictes moy ou, n'en quel pays,
Est Flora la belle Rommaine,
Archipiades ne Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine,
Echo parlant quant bruyt on maine
Dessus riviere ou sus estan,
Qui beaulté ot trop plus q'humaine.
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?

Ou est la tres sage Helloïs,
Pour qui chastré fut et puis moyne
Pierre Esbaillart a Saint Denis?
Pour son amour ot ceste essoyne.
Semblablement, ou est la royne
Qui commanda que Buridan
Fust geté en ung sac en Saine?
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?

La royne Blanche comme lis
Qui chantoit a voix de seraine,
Berte au grand pié, Beatris, Alis,
Haremburgis qui tint le Maine,
Et Jehanne la bonne Lorraine
Qu'Englois brulerent a Rouan;
Ou sont ilz, ou, Vierge souvraine?
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?

Prince, n'enquerez de sepmaine
Ou elles sont, ne de cest an,
Qu'a ce reffrain ne vous remaine:
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?


English Translation

Ballad Of The Ladies Of Yore

Tell me where, in what country,
Is Flora the beautiful Roman,
Archipiada or Thais
Who was first cousin to her once,
Echo who speaks when there's a sound
On a pond or a river
Whose beauty was more than human?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
Where is the leamed Heloise
For whom they castrated Pierre Abelard
And made him a monk at Saint-Denis,
For his love he took this pain,
Likewise where is the queen
Who commanded that Buridan
Be thrown in a sack into the Seine?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?

The queen white as a lily
Who sang with a siren's voice,
Big-footed Bertha, Beatrice, Alice,
Haremburgis who held Maine
And Jeanne the good maid of Lorraine
Whom the English bumt at Rouen, where,
Where are they, sovereign ******?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?

Prince, don't ask me in a week
or in a year what place they are;
I can only give you this refrain:
Where are the snows of yesteryear?
deanena tierney Jul 2010
Bring back the days of yesteryear,
When all seemed easy, all was free.
Before life had progressed so much,
With all of mans' technology.

Back when most men moved slower,
And their acts were mostly true.
In a world that really believed,
So much could be done with few.

When your neighbor next door to you,
Would wave and ask how you are.
And a father and son could be spied,
Working together to fix an old car.

When mothers tucked their children,
Into their beds every night,
After saying The Lord's Prayer together,
Before turning out the light.

When the festival held in the town,
Caused the businesses to close.
When grandpa's sat with grandchildren,
Under trees to read some prose.

When lemonade was squeezed outside,
Under a big old oak tree.
And honey for the mornings' toast,
Was stolen from the honey bee.

And in church every Sunday,
Man would shake each others' hands.
And forget any differences,
Knowing that God surely understands.

When there was still a clean, crisp, creek,
With a tire swing overlook.
And the teens would find their first love,
A sheepish grin was all it took.

When picnic tables were filled with friends,
And families would still play a game.
And when you went to the five and dime,
Everyone knew your name.

A time when money had less value,
Than the work a man could give.
Bring back the days of yesteryear,
So that I could simply live.
Midnight rain on the window
Memories of you
My strings sing a melody
My heart sings it too
              The amplifier hums
As I pluck each new note
Wishing for what was
Thinking over what you wrote
             So I sing a midnight melody
Play a song that reminds me of you
And my heartache sings the harmony
'Cause you don't know the damage you do
Terry O'Leary Dec 2016
My chamber teems with tensions, taut, that logic can’t withstand,
fragmenting mental masonry with memories unplanned,
as bitter tears from hazel eyes reduce the stone to sand.

Dim shadows cast by candles flit across the haunted room,
beleaguer apparitions, pale, that stalk me through the gloom,
usurping purloined purple forms forgotten ghosts assume.

The tick-tock clock of time rewinds within the mirrored hall
and pendula suspended, pause, while creatures creep and crawl
on images of effigies, through memories that maul.

The madness of the midnight mass! Perchance it interferes
with spiders spinning spiral threads which bridge the chandeliers
when weaving minds' discarded coils to silken souvenirs.

Reflections graced the vacant gaze of idols as they fled!
Their futile, feigned, far-flung farewells now hammer in my head,
marooned like frozen silhouettes in footprints of the dead.

My lovers smile through marbled masks before they turn their backs
(like furnace flames deserting ash or phantoms fleeing cracks)
with faded, painted, wrinkled faces nightmares carve in wax.

Sometimes a gust disturbs the dust and secrets reappear,
which dance in silver slippers through the dusk of yesteryear -
it's not the screams that drown my dreams, but whispers which I fear.

The hangman posts a letter home, his message indiscreet
about the vestal ****** in the café (where we meet
to savour tea and crumpets) down a one-way dead-end street.

The rapping and the tapping at my tattered, time-worn door
repeat reports of migrant myths, of tales of nevermore,
strung far across a sullen sea, most shipwrecked near the shore.

Forget-me-nots, enwrapped in rain the while a wan wind blows,
recall the faintly fickle fates this drifter undergoes –
alone, unknown with tracks interred in teardrop undertows.

My feet, no longer tied or tethered, traipse within a squall
pursuing profiles long forsaken, buried in the sprawl
of spectres spread amongst the dead, some tattooed to the wall.

At times, the belfry towers toll of anarchy and gin,
of smoke and mirrors, rolling dice and other things akin,
impaled on forks down byway roads, and things that might-have-been.

The skies outside, beyond the night with shutters shut and drawn,
begin to glow on shattered shapes escaping ’fore the dawn
as clouds undone beneath the sun release this captive pawn.
Cedric McClester Apr 2015
By: Cedric McClester

It’s a **** shame
No it’s absurd
How the gentry
Are changing Williamsburg
And if you need
The concrete proof
They’ve raised the rents
Right through the roof

I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds
And it’s for this I shed a tear
The Williamsburg of yesteryear

The indigenous people of course
Were first
In time it became
More ethnically diverse
And then an enclave
For artists and the arts
With dirt cheap rents
In certain parts

I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds
And it’s for this I shed a tear
The Williamsburg of yesteryear

Everything changes with time
Except the memories in the mind
The Williamsburg I knew and loved
Is the Williamsburg I always think of

Artists held a funeral
I here tell
And sounded off
The last death knell
They gave Williamsburg
Their sad goodbyes
And wiped the tears
Away from their eyes

Everything changes with time
Except the memories in the mind
The Williamsburg I knew and loved
Is the Williamsburg I always think of

I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds
And it’s for this I shed a tear
The Williamsburg of yesteryear
I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds
And it’s for this I shed a tear
The Williamsburg of yesteryear
I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds



(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Now our Yesteryear
You can’t put your finger on it but a shift has occurred neighborhoods are different
A few clues lay in the losses delivery to the home what delivery thats just it
Doctor’s house calls milk delivery neighborhood grocer even the mail is indifferent
Anyone want to get close and peek in a nylon mail bag oh but those great leather ones

Milk delivery I don’t care if I whistle smile or sing carrying a bottle of store bought milk
Where is the feeling Phil’s dad use to float or blast out of the door and sweet clinking bottles
Sure you can drop plastic no breakage just an idiot plop who cares we all might as well drink silk
They called it progress change they forgot one more sad word that is so fitting empty

East end grocer barrel full of kites rolls of string or Cecil doing long addition on a paper sack
What about the Quonset hut on west third with a tree that’s wonder fingers touch to assure if real
Ever feel comfort in a giant store feel as you know any one if only there was a button to take us back
Oh to big of a hurry for all that let one materialize see the stampede and kindness would flourish again

We have more they never bothered to explain that with so much misery is part of the package
Front porch social gatherings it’s just what you race a cross in this quantum age
Do you remember those long summer days somehow it would draw from us the hidden sage
All can refuse with effort we can stop this insanity with more heart we can turn back the page
PrttyBrd Oct 2011
Behind those eyes of blue-gray-green
Lies a heart of which is seldom seen
Though hard for some to realize
There's a world of pain behind said eyes
From drama of torn childhood
From doing bad but being good
To grown up tears of discontent
From words once spoken but never meant
And now with empty bottles past
With clarity one hopes will last
Can be seen a glimpse of inner peace
Of eager joy which begs release
Though years of numbness linger still
Denying freedom to laugh at will
A perfectly polished yesteryear
Cradles everything the heart holds dear
The memories of warmth and fun
Tarnish easily out in the sun
When walking backwards leads you blind
One can never leave the past behind
The farther away the better it seems
Even the nightmares look like a dream
Now, when walking heel to toe
Facing the way you want to go
The road's less bumpy for the ride
Obstacles faced with longer strides
The light behind those eyes still burns
As chapters end and pages turn
The book continues day by day
Joy slowly rises come what may
Living is what makes us strong
To do what's right when we've been wronged
And though that pain may never die
There's no place left for it to hide
It's worn dull by loves embrace
Displaced, in time, with joy and grace
And then those eyes of blue-gray-green
Will sparkle new with brighter sheen
For a heart that's swelled to greater size
Will be foretold behind those eyes
copyright©PrttyBrd 21/10/2010
Glenn McCrary Feb 2012
Substantial quadrants of hate



Throughout these veins circulate



Spiraling in frenzied states



Adrift an ailing coma





Infinite corruption clawed my corneas



Birthing the erasure of euphoria



Imprinting trademarks of memoria



Leaving in wake vile aromas





All confidence dissolved to solvents



Due to definitive involvement



Susceptible to gaunt installments



Marring my skin with melanoma





Mother Earth serves as a mime



Humanity must be refined









© 2012 (All rights reserved)
A Thomas Hawkins Jul 2010
You remember the good old days
the days during the war
When there was still a thing called homelessness
and everyone seemed poor

You'd work all day and half the night
just so you'd get by
And then they'd send your job abroad
or give it to a cheaper guy

Your money would buy less and less
cos things cost more and more
And everyone felt scared
but why we were not sure

Economies went through the floor
the whole world was in debt
Even things like land and real estate
were no longer a safe bet

Oh how I miss those happy days
so much better then than now
Hang on a sec whats that up there
is it a flying pig or cow?
Someone asked me if I though people would reflect on now the way I did on the past in the original Yesteryear piece, so I did, and this is how it came out
Gregory Mark Mar 2015
Our hero's and legends
Narrative's of the past
All changed to preserve
The corpses they outlast
What is fact is no matter
Truth is of no mind
Whats is left for us is filtered
Blurred, obscured and confined
We all are lead to believe
Only the wicked do wrong
All detractors are silenced
By the victors swan song
With altruism so lacking
Humility all but lost
Hope in what once was
Is preserved at all costs
The lore of yesteryear
False idols built so high
Lives we cannot attain
Given only after we die
Broken Dec 2016
Can you show me the way to my heartbeat
When my love was so simple and pure
Can I please find a way to go back there
To relive my sweet yesteryear.
The Atlanta Falcons ,  defender of the city in a sport of the passionate ! A longtime cold weather tradition of the Peanut State with youth , high school and university alike ......Memories that conjure Van Brocklin , Nobis , Humphrey , Van Note , Bartkowski and Ryan . Fall is for dark green numbered fields , pageantry , struggle as tactician , athlete and opponent mired in battle , bestowing honor , emotion , and pride in the warriors of yesteryear , locked in the spirit of competition , sportsmanship and Georgia folklore* !...
Copyright September 12 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Marshal Gebbie Apr 2013
Standing on the hillside is a rustic yellow cottage,
Rusty yellow staining from the steel dust of the trains.
Passing, rushing carriages that crisscross by the hour,
The ten o clock from Frankston meets the City train detained.

Golden light of sunrise in the calm of early morning
Golden light reflected on the rusty cottage roof,
Puffing at his briar and sitting at the doorstep
Old Grandpa drinks the peacefulness whilst stroking cat aloof.

Bacon smells a-beckoning from coal range fires a-glowering
Delicious tang of coffee from my Granma’s breakfast fare,
The clattering of silver wheels as silver rails reverberate
Sings the music of the morning with not a trace of care.

Memories from yesteryear I treasure on reflection,
Memories, a little boy, recalled from times secure.
Memories of cuddles in the ***** of my Grandma
And the scent of plum tobacco giving Grandpa’s pipe allure.

Perhaps a trick of memory, perhaps my passing fancy
But I clearly recall a sign above the kitchen door,
A simple sign of welcome with a sense of real belonging
In the gentle name of “Sunrise” to warm the heart galore.


Marshalg
In memory of my dear Nan and Pop Cummings @ Mordialloc by the bay.
23 April 2013
Matt Shao Jun 2019
I ask myself, exactly how
Did I not see as I do now?
What things went on in yesteryear
To blind what I can now see clear

Perhaps it is with every age
Our lens grows sharp with each new page
Time, it makes us wise and true
And strips naïveté from you

The young, the old, we’re all the same
Just wand’ring souls in life’s bored game
We drift and dwell and dream and drink
And hardly ever stop to think

It is the way we’ve always been
‘Twas even said when we’d begin
It will not ever change, I fear
I long for what’s lost: yesteryear
Charles Sturies Feb 2017
Road Runner is my all-time favorite- I like the song by Junior Walker too.

He, Road Runner, that is , reminds me of mentally ******* friends of mine who always strut around in a huff.

"It"'s a scream.

Bugs Bunny and Mel Blanc (Mel, one of Jack Benny's sidekicks) voice for him - Bugs was frothy with my kind of sarcasm.

Mickey Mouse I thought of as a kind of a put-on for guys that look like that a little who were always cutting up.

I used to get that song Hey Mickie by Toni Basil read piped in loud in my mind, it seemed when it played on the jukebox at that sports bar I used to hang out at.

Yosemite Sam is like some of the severely mentally ill guys on my geriatric psych ward who are really abrupt, loud, and whose bark is bigger than their bite.

McGruff - I wrote a piece about him - he's not of course from a cartoon - but from my yesteryear, who was under the weather, hence the crime wave.

Just like Smokey the Bear, he was a lovable character.
I like King of the Hill and Family Guy at night for yukks.

On Sat morn back in the day I guess when I had enough time I used to get a bit of a kick out of Fat Albert cartoons and the Jackson Five stuff on lonely, for me, Saturday morning to perk me up for the rest of the day.

Back in the old days, they reminded me of figures I knew like them in real life.

Sylvester the Cat, Felix the Cat, Hekyll and Jekyll, Daffty Duck, and Might Mouse tickled my little boy sense of humor.

In comic Books, I was impressed with the sense of humor of Little LuLu.

In the newspaper, Hagar the Barbarian and Beetle Bailey tickled my funny bone a little.

That's all, Folks.
Reece Mar 2013
California highway buzzes and the searing sun shines on the beach towel as I stroke Walt Whitman's beard
Transcendent and alive, but dead, still dead as my brother and his brothers, the 19th Century posse
We know the world better than them but are less learned, as the schools are a failure
and the business is us, but not the same as the industrial business of yesteryear
We are here to consume, consume and as we're dying of consumption , we consume more.

Alcohol, cars, phones and laptops, tablets, tablets, pills and more pills, condoms, liquor, ***** and brews, women, men, more women, more men, razors, lasers, heaters, coolers, snacks, rucksacks, ex lax and nick-knacks. They sell us dreams and nightmares, movies and bomb scares, they sell us news by the hour and power as they exert their own power. They give us gifts and incentives, draw us in so they they can stick us with a pin or a bracelet, and we too can sell to our friends on group hangs or as we stand still listening to our favourite bands. Billboards scream for our attention, or the buses stop at the intersection, and we're supposed to open our little phone and buy whatever is advertised. Why? Y?

They call us the Y generation too, why? Perhaps we ask the question  too much, perhaps we haven't asked enough. Perhaps the X generation simply ponder why we are so consumed with the technology they feed us. Why? Why must they question us, when we are the next great generation, we do laugh at that too. The internet is the new religion, bow down before Google and drink from the pixelated chalice, my child. Any question one could need answering is answered by the internet. The Bible is irrelevant in our society, burn it and download a bible app on the latest smartphone, the Qur'an too, hell, try the Tanakh, the Smriti and the Pāli Canon, for we are enlightened ******* It. And we want more.

somenonamesarcasticasshole@yahoo.com
RE:PARTY TONIGHT!!!!!

Hey yo mane some warehouse downtown has this dubstep DJ from like ******* Iraq or some ****. *** down, gonna be hella ******* there
xo

What music do you like?
All of it
Films?
All of them
TV
I don't own one but I watched every episode of The Wire on Netflix
...
I am a pansexual being riding the ever changing dunes of the Sahara, like so many great poets before me.

Digital immigrants and immigrants of empathy too
How serious do you believe us to be?
I am not using sarcasm as a form of wit for I have no wit.
Stoicism and rejection of education, employment and training.
We surly are the neatest generation, how can we make a mess if we are not awake most days?
Save for the endless party that is life, as we throw used glow sticks at women we desire
and ***** over car windows before getting blown on the lawn

lol dat wuz cray last nite
xo

Die young poets we have no desire for your kind, pacify us with Kerouac and Ginsberg so that we may emulate intelligence and impair the senses, for we care not about the real world either
Our world is the only one that exists, yours will soon crumble
We have trained for the end with extensive views of zombie flicks in coffee houses

@SomeFacelessJerk Follow for follow

Hey OP, you are a ******.
Why yes, yes I am. Does that bother you.
No, OP. You see I too am a ******.

Do away with your hurtful words they have no meaning today
White man died and lost control of his precious dictionary
We are here to save language by replacing all vowels with X's and O's
We are here to consume and in turn consummate this marriage,
the marriage of ignorance and bliss.
I feel as if I lost control of this particular piece and in turn lost control of myself
The snow is falling and I decided to freeze myself to death
The snow as I learned is a fantastic insulator and so I only served to warm my spirits

Addendum
I am not a poet

Footnotes on The Addendum
All people are poets but only a few are talented enough to shine like [insert simile here] and cause the world to [insert hyperbole here].

Addendum to the Footnotes of the Addendum
xo

Additional Notes
Apathy is the overriding factor in our lives, or at least that's how it seems to me. The trust fund kiddies in their beach houses are bored because Mommy and Daddy have no attention to spare them. The kids without parents in the projects are bored too, bored of the death and poverty, they're bored of the trust fund kiddies playing gangster, buying ******* from Mad Jack the Black Mack on Smack on the corner of 3rd and 15th. I am bored by the words I write, you are bored by the words you read, and we are all bored of the capitalist agenda that serves only to perpetuate boredom amongst us and bleed our pockets so that we have no choice but **** each other for their amusement as they place obscene bets on which child will 'win'.

*******, I have More Notes
Take this work for the post-post-post modern-proto-futurist-pre-apocalypse ******* that is. I have attempted to put no substance into this piece, apart from grams upon grams of ******* I brought from some guy some place, some time ago. It doesn't really matter, and we all stopped caring.
Cedric McClester Mar 2016
By: Cedric McClester

It’s a **** shame
No it’s absurd
How they've gentrified
Williamsburg
And if you need
The concrete proof
They’ve raised the rents
Right through the roof

I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds
And it’s for this I shed a tear
The Williamsburg of yesteryear

The indigenous of course
Were first
In time it became
More ethnically diverse
And then an enclave
For artists and the arts
With dirt cheap rents
In certain parts

I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds
And it’s for this I shed a tear
The Williamsburg of yesteryear

Everything changes with time
Except the memories in the mind
The Williamsburg I knew and loved
Is the Williamsburg I always think of

Artists held a funeral
I here tell
And sounded off
The last death knell
They gave Williamsburg
Their sad goodbyes
And wiped the tears
Away from their eyes

Everything changes with time
Except the memories in the mind
The Williamsburg I knew and loved
Is the Williamsburg I always think of

I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds
And it’s for this I shed a tear
The Williamsburg of yesteryear
I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds
And it’s for this I shed a tear
The Williamsburg of yesteryear




Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Joyce Savage Nov 2015
In her rocking chair she sits,
While she hums to herself and knits.
She’s knitting a shawl to fend off the cold,
For now she’s wrinkled, gray-haired and old.

She used to run and have lots of fun,
But that was way back when she was young.
Now her arthritis is really bad,
And she’s feeling very lonely and sad.

Now she lives in a nursing home,
Most of the time, she’s all alone.
Her children don’t come to visit much,
‘Cause they’re always so busy with work and such.

She stares out the window and she sighs,
She watches the road with watery eyes.
And wonders if they’ll come today,
But they don’t; she knew they wouldn’t anyway.

She lays her knitting on her lap,
Then closes her eyes and has a nap.
Down her cheek, there rolls a tear,
As she dreams of yesteryear.
I started writing a poem about grandmothers and this is what came out.  Enjoy!
Eric Rodda Aug 2014
The train goes rattling down the track
A trail of smoke is at your back.
A spot of soot may close your eye,
To miss the gums as they fly by.

The porter shouts "All tickets please",
To check that all have paid their fees,
The engine driver blows his whistle,
As the view converts to thistle.

Out on the verandah the children play,
"Come inside", the parents say.
From the windows they hang around,
Not a care is to be found.

Traveling onward 'round the bends,
A joyous journey with our friends.
Then at last our stop we reach;
Hooray! Hooray! It is the beach.

Eric Rodda 1996
My only poem - Written in 17 minutes on the train trip from Adelaide to Marion, on the way home from work, after reading about a poetry competition...
betterdays Aug 2014
you were my yesteryear.
when you ruled,
as the pop-**** queen,
atheletic and cool.

me,i was one of the
weird, vibe tribe.
theatre mad, and
a library hound.
you barely knew,
i was around.

but we lived in,
a small, small town
and you,
dated my brother
so you only, iced me gently.

it was surreal,
truly dali-esque.
to see you today...
i would not,
have known
you....
so faded, grey..and overblown.

we have all got older,
but the years,
have...
mugged you
and left
you beaten, battered
and low...

you tell me
you were done,
with living,
about two husbands ago.


and now just plod
through, each day,
willing the dark grey
to swallow you whole.
staying, living only for
your son Tim.
you say all this,
while ,
heavily, perspiring,
pure gin.

you cry and the tears,
run down the cracks
in your leathered,
over-sunned skin
and down to pool,
on your blowsy breast,
clad in ***** pink polar fleece.

my heart, curls in pity,
for you have fallen far.
as you sit and drink,
gifted coffee, talk about
when you were the star,
the brightest, prettiest,
flame by far.

and as i leave you,
sitting, dejected and depressed.
there is a little, heartfelt shame, in the fact,
that throughout
our untimely meeting,
i could not recall your name.
sad and so awkward
but true....
really not proud of my reaction...but could not wait
to leave....and go home and hug my boys...suppose i too am only human.
hopefully when i call
the constellations will appear
tears hang like crystals
from yesteryear
the vapors sail out from a distance
yet leave my soul feeling very cold
underneath the moonlight
deeper than the sky above
hoping that when you come
I will call again.
© rainbows and sunshine 2018
SG Holter Apr 2014
They're burning the stubbles of yesteryear's fields
Before ploughing.
Walls of fire around every farm.
Smoke blends with the smell of pig's furtilizing manure,
And whenever my nose wrinkles up
I remember my father's words:

It's the result of millennia of agricultural tradition.
It's the smell of money.
It's the smell of soil to bread.
It's the smell of something far more important
Than nasal comfort.


He had me at
-Where he should have said-
*Organic.
jenny linsel Jan 2017
Sitting very quietly, looking at a blank page
Prompted me to pen a poem about toys that were all the rage
I had some wooden jigsaw blocks when I was only two
In a wooden  box with a shiny brass clasp
And a picture of Winnie the Pooh

I remember at the age of six, when I was given some stickle bricks
Plastic shapes so colourful, with brushes of small plastic fingers
Making a train of red, yellow and green, the memory of it still lingers
Then at the age of seven, I remember ‘coming a cropper'
When dared by my cousins to bounce up the street
On their big and orange space-hopper

When I was eight, my favourite toy was a plastic daredevil skydiver
Many parachute jumps from the top of the stairs, that guy was a true survivor
When I was nine, the Spirograph, a drawing toy based on gears,
Was my favourite toy to play with, watching marvellous patterns appear

At ten years old I found building with Meccano lots of fun
Metal strips and gears and nuts and bolts, invented in 1901
When I was eleven the Rubik’s Cube was really all the rage
With coloured squares, six sides of nine, a puzzle for any age

At the age of twelve, Shinsai  Mystery was my fave
Two eight-hinged polyhedra could be folded into many shapes
At the age of thirteen, my baby brother was born
His favourite toy was Lego, my love of building things was reborn
There are many toys of yesteryear, would take ages to mention the rest
But for me, after all these years, Lego will always be the best
Tim Eichhorn Feb 2015
The drunk one's
always sunken
they say; undone
by ether. Either
crashed by
primordial
Phonographs;

         OR

passed by my
own next doors
Smack addict
acting like a
CIA Agent. Yes,
an impatient
poisoned partner
under here; for sure.
Meta-4s, poetry, wordplay, expression
I'm like
winter wear,
layers upon layers.
Bear fur,
Bare skin,
and all the lakes of Michigan
mist when
I miss home again.
Copyright © 2009 Jacqueline Ivascu
A Thomas Hawkins Jul 2010
I think I should have
been born in the past
not just so my life
would have a new cast

Because often I feel
somewhat out of place
A reminder of earlier days
for this race

Days when our work
was all done at home
On horse or in buggies
is how we would roam

We'd grow our own food
raise our own stock
and keep time by the chime
of a grandfather clock

We'd sit on the porch
and we'd read or we'd write
and have deep conversations
on into the night

We'd fish in the pond
and swim in the creek
and shingle the roof
whenever it leaked

We'd not have no money
but be richer than most
And thank god for our fortune
with grace and a toast

We'd sit by the fire
in winter when cold
and live happy together
right 'til we got old

Then when the time came
for our maker to see
We'd get laid to rest
in the plot 'neath the tree
Pauper of Prose Aug 2018
As I scale the *****
I note the melody of the wind
With its sweeping symphonic shifts
My nails grind against granite
Before flaking and falling into the abyss
Yet I persist
Upward along the lone path
Where the air recedes like tides
And frost forms fellowship upon my eyes
Before seeking to turn my sore limbs, frigid
Icily assuring each ache is anchored in anxiety
Which stems from the worn clothes of society
Yet as I climb, the fabric is discarded
Like old styles of yesteryear
Now basking in all my naturalness
I finally summit, my thoughts thankfully descend
My heart lifts up its scepter and then my chin
Beating with Brilliance it grins
Furls up it sleeves and wordlessly begins
The work of healing from within
And aren't we awash in fear when we receive our climbing gear
jonchius Sep 2015
checking potent aftershock
observing seismic anniversary
checking another tremor
resuming constrained writing

annexing hidebound constituents
hugging incoming eschatologies
fighting pervasive insomnia
battling invasive fatigue

damning incompetent fools
awaiting furtive escape
abandoning corporate wasteland
summoning celestial syzygy

detesting spaghetti code
protruding riparian dolphin
establishing unilinear escritoire
glowing cybernetic cynosure

avoiding eternal invisibility
supporting valued customer
performing lexical gymnastics
scrooping notification sounds

restoring usual happiness
glorifying darkwave fanfares
collapsing old relationships
raising ambient awareness

defining wolf people
propagating yesteryear's spectre
achieving hemispheric virality
testing weekend legerity
installing iron curtain

propagating today's spectre

developing niche audiences
transmitting abstract propaganda
disappearing thought experiments
overusing various condiments

double-checking hyper-real emotions
rubbernecking celestial explosions
observing splendid holiday
exploding volcano day

erupting bucolic mountain
disrupting hectic shouting
perfecting suggestive triptychs
checking festive pyrotechnics

drifting across multiverse
regifting glossy paperwork
writing six-lined hexagrams
liking two-toned instagrams

recalling pygmalion sculptures
brawling tatterdemalion cultures
"rambling corporate shill
rattling rapid prosody"
"battling hamburger hill
ambling hundredth library"
"sensing ideological schism
pending guttural neologism"

glowing verdant background
foreshadowing palmyra takedown
developing geopolitical mess
geminating quasi-couplet stress

"hugging cultural diversity
shrugging irrational adversity"

distancing spooky raindrops
avoiding potential burnout
implementing lexical databank
approaching crash-scene sudser

becoming increasingly selective
escaping tyrannical bureaucracy
perpetuating cut-throat capitalism
purchasing contrived happiness
incorporating chance elements
relaxing rigid structures
reheating your retweet

holding theoretical design
smiling beach life
scrutinizing eternal simulation
rushing artificial apothegm
annexing facetious document
freaking creepy centipedes

writing neural structure
congratulating yestreen's warriors
encouraging seatbelt usage
boosting abstract setting
sensing frivolous ochlocracy

keeping hypothetical metropolis
blurring metaphorical æsthetic
scrutinizing computational festival
memorializing towel day

raising six-fingered paw
eternizing fragment schedule
liking subtextual repository
quoting quintessential quidnunc

finding ideological style
disregarding their slovenliness
planning spatial factoid
spinning glacial ellipsoids

enjoying eternal spreadsheet
deleting repetitive tweet
awaiting festival lineup
gainsaying unethical startups

observing turgid experiment
contemplating conniving contrivances
enjoying dynamic project
dropping two-toned simulation
finding harmonic space
finalizing warring cavaliers

detecting enigmatic apathy
retrieving potential exchange
meddling middling muddling
baking hypnagogic pizza

spinning galactic dinosaur
building trans-pacific partnership
finishing theoretical mission
giggling agog googlers

crashing atypical tessellation
cherishing precious hexagons
proliferating western lottery
cretaceousing funkaholic skeletor

blurring turgid gallery
cancelling tsunami warnings
extemporizing incoherent neologisms
transmitting harmonic rave

gliding black hawks
hiding quacked ducks
archiving animated light
googling moonbow imagery

ignoring relatable messages
observing unfinished world
generating optional content
continuing exponential growth
May 2015
A Thomas Hawkins Oct 2010
Unshared memories,
is there anything that’s worse?
Unshared memories
separations final curse

Unshared memories
highlights of yesteryear
Unshared memories
bring to my eyes another tear

Unshared memories
of us dancing in the rain
Unshared memories
just one more “never again”

Unshared memories
of the way we used to laugh
Unshared memories
become the painful aftermath

Unshared memories
at least no more with me
Unshared memories
now he’s where I used to be
mark alcock Mar 2013
If I couldst show to thee the measure of my love, wouldst thine eyes shine in radiant hues? Smoulder then in deepest lapis blues, that put to shame the very rainbow's best intent.

If I couldst share with thee, the hottest of my humors, wouldst not the boilings in that abyssal pit, pale and mediocre seem, as 'twere mine, in compare? It would melt old Vulcans's anvil, adamantine!

Take for thee, these my softest kisses, which, placed upon lips, seeming to mine own essence, as pillowed angels breath, yet, those godly messengers own sweetest puckerings, as granite, to those of my mistress.

If thou couldst pluck from my chest, a still beating heart, wouldst not the sanguine, boiling streams, scold the unforgiving stones, on which they splash?
The fiery vapours rending air, as heaven bound they rise to paint the sky, incarnadine!
And yet, merely moistening that beloved hand, which holds, the fleshy, ruby prize.

Canst thou now measure, that which knows no measure?
And like heavens starried twinkles, whose beacons point the way, know  this, infinite, is the measure of my love for thee, my mistress.
Michael W Noland Aug 2012
a beast
bitterly binding
the broken books
of the benevolence
that be-seats
the thrones of thieves
a binary botulism baby
survived by
the lowest common denominator
lord of may be
the calamity shaker
shaking limbs from trees
he made me
who am i
to be enshrined by
the designs in which
he heaves the storms away
leaves the drones in decay
as of yesterday
in an electrical parfait
of symbiotic energy
******* tempting me
in its tether
as embryonic entities
shutter the flow
to the effects
that no one knows
of the development and growth
of self
and the foes he oppose
as was imposed upon
by force of will
exposed and deloused
of the shrill
cockiness instilled
in his build
aroused
in the post stillness
of his kills
he is i
and i am thrilled
to lower the shields
leveling out the playing field
and yielding
to the technical terminology
of my basic demonologies
of my ****** up philosophies
cloning the technologies
you infuse into the spirituality
of your broken dichotomy
just let me know
how that goes
as corrosive winds blow
through the boroughs
of your haunts
i can almost feel
the taunts
as i hear the boots clomp
turn to stomping through the door
enacting your unholy chores
in that which bares no reward
the price is blood
the cost is love
in which i cannot afford
unfurled upon the hoard
in torn intellect
abhorred in the twirls
of a de-cored vortex
inter-sexed
and robbed of originality
in the result of cultural finality
empty
in a sea of dreams
our heads blown apart
is only the start
as it seems
ill be whispering
from afar
by dark
yet to embark
from under the rage of my darkening heart
but if i hiss cyphers into your charts
ill become safer than the cause
as i shall get the sympathy
of the claws
across my character
in the jaws of the barrier
to non existence
its even scarier
than the persistence
of ignorant citizens
with hard-ons
and night vision
down-loadable intuition
with the precision of the averages
unlocked savages
in the ravages
of synthetic bliss
1.1 happiness
projected in eyelids
emptiness
defectors of the world
gotta free them
beat them
if you have to
defeat them in the bathroom with a knife
rip their chips of deceit
show them life
clip their legs in retreat
until they secrete
the evil from their throats
binary bohemia
pooling into a despondent
pool of blasphemy
drained happily
from the heads of greed
only when willing
to commit to killing
can we fix the dream
and control the lean
of modernized thinking
chromatically depleting
as our chromosomes are shrinking
not one inkling
nor notion
of the ocean sinking
before the rise
and in all that you bitterly despise
forgotten
as the world is washed
before your eyes
yet to realize
the compliance of failed tries
a crashed system of self told lies
yet ...
i still spy the better days
i can smell them in range
estranged
surprised
i muffle the cries
of demise
in reprise
of a new name
a fresh start
summarized
in the surmise
of restraint
the faint
whisper
delivering from here
the elixir of life's experiences
cryptically laid upon the sentences
of my ethereal commencements
the beautiful lessons
entrenched in the blemishes
the scars of the heart
impart
on you
the virtues
of the tried and true
blood sweat and tears
in the blurbs
of yesteryear
obtuse
it be my will
to instill
in you
the
jaded
truth
love yourself
and i shall
love you
too
preservationman Jul 2014
The story of a defined bus
A description of the 1954 Greyhound Scenicruiser that reminds us
A coach bus with its own design
A long distance bus that comes to mind
The Scenicruiser had all the features
Air conditioning to help passengers relax
Picture windows so the passengers wouldn’t feel perplexed
A full equipped restroom at your disposal at your elect
Then a dual half floor with a big window in the middle of galore
The view from all angles at the top
The traveler’s enjoyment that just wouldn’t stop
The famous Scenicruiser being that revolutionized bus
It involves the slogan, “Leave the driving to us”
A bus of the past
The memory that will certainly last
The workhorse of the fleet
The reclining seats that add to the treat
I almost forgot, every seat had a place for your feet
Scenicruiser of years past
I almost hear the echoes of the wheels that turn
History in the making of a long lasting urn
Hauling passengers and freight
The idea is don’t be late
The motto, “Don’t miss the bus”
The Scenicruiser’s history involves all of us.
David Barr Dec 2013
The City of Derby holds her breath amidst the crisis of historical ramblings and talkative expressions of inhibition.
Do not be deceived. Roaches are not mere insects, but are also three-course celebrations of haunting and religious engagements. There are Peaks which lie beyond the stratospheres of Leek.
Although the parameters of yesteryear project their own splendour, let us acknowledge the silver hair which drips with eternal statements of antagonistic adoration in Curzon Street.
Oh, rose of Sharon, in my sheer lack of understanding, I do not invalidate those instructions to depart from Birmingham New Street.
I have deeply immersed myself in Welsh pools of genuine loss, and have found a precious commodity which I had never beheld in former lifetimes.
Furthermore, I lament the loss of such generational integrity.
Amitav Radiance Jan 2015
How miserably we fail
at forgetting the memories
which dig deeper
Clawing away our present
inch by inch, the ground
beneath our feet
giving way
leaving us at the precipice
jagged edges
of the memories
leaves deep gashes
bleeding us from within
not privy to anyone
life goes on
Ian C Prescott Aug 2011
She sat contained in the all-encompassing embrace
His arms a welcome warmth
as they sat under the smoldering fires of dead days past
They drank and spoke wildly as sanguine freely flowed forth from the glass
As it swirled upon the inside of their mouths
Puckering stained puce lips and drawing mandalas in the clouds
Rich with color and endless ingenuity as the tall grass softly swayed
Carrying music to their ears
From time to time exchanging glances
Witnessing the last salvos burst in the dusk
Heralding daybreak

She knew there with the breath of dawn caressing her face laying against the heaving of his heart that she would never see him again
Thomas Thurman May 2010
And I have nothing else to do again
But walk these halls and wish I wasn't here,
But picking berries in a country lane.
A shadow is my face, the dust my brain,
My voice is but an echo in your ear.
And I have nothing else to do again
But counting every pace to keep me sane.
Dead as I am, I've nothing else to fear.
But, picking berries in a country lane;
Within me lives the spectre of a pain,
The ache of endless summer, yesteryear,
And I have nothing else to do again
But live in memory without my chain
And walk an aimless autumn Cambridgeshire...
But picking berries in a country lane.

Each universe must reach its long refrain.
A moment all my chains must disappear
And I'll have nothing else to do again
But picking berries in a country lane.

— The End —