"youngins" poems
humble wills, with violent tasks.
forgotten souls with guns & masks..
noisy threats, awake at dawn,
how long will this commotion last?
No one cares,
that the cemeteries are running low on space.
the mothers bid their sons farewell upon leaving the gates.
worried, & scared to death i can see it in their face..
We shouldn't have to **** each other to win the human race...
the so called "leaders" dont care that the youngins are at war..
if only they knew the humility that was once in their core.
never setting foot in the battlefield unless its safe to explore..
Politicians never get to see the carnage and gore..
new jim crow.
minimum wage might grow..
but so will the price on the head of a foe.
So the young soldier puts his gat by the pencil box in his pouch..
he knows if he ever needs another magnum that its under the couch...
& as long as his colors stay Piru, he'll forever be blessed...
But no one seems to talk about the post traumatic stress.
.................
Cursed to not follow this order..
it ends up as a disorder..
Revenge turns to a diss, order.
till a bodies rotting in the sewers & you cant stand this odor.
(Tonys song.)
-afj
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
born into a nature land full of catastrophes.
age addition every 365 days, eventually turned 8 years old.
hyperactivity and impulsivity crawled out like a tiger.
classroom confusion, youngins yelling for calling out.
lack of raising carpal bones equaled receiving the "detention disease".
homework not finished, studying not finished.
grades diminished, brain thought to be different.
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 4:13 AM UTC
Pretty
light skin curly hair brown eyes
tough on the exterior but sensitive on the inside.
Cool calm and collective
and let's you know how it is .
Truthful and honest some may take for being negative
but she's just keepin it real.
Seems happy and smiles on the outside
but you can see the pain in those brown eyes.
my sistah.my homie. my friend.
I miss how tight we used to be and I fear that you feel like you can't tell anyone anything.
But wheneva yah need me just call me
I may not pick up on time but I'll always call you back cause I love my youngins and you been there for me and listened to all my stories just want you to know that your loved and have friends to help you thru
the good and bad
no longer will you have to feel alone .
Just know you have friends here to help yah through yah hard times . And remember
SMILE
O.Rob.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Hey God, scoot over a bit. I'm feeling kinda tired. Would you fluff that cloud for me? Ah, thanks dude, much better. My head's been feeling heavy. The closer I get to the end of the road, well...makes me wonder why bother with the rest of the show. The endings are all the same.
To be honest, it hasn't been quite all it was hyped. We start running low on that joy thing and all of a sudden it just seems so ...pointless. I find myself wondering if my dog is going to outlive me. Fuck's that about? I've had a dozen or so dogs and this is the first I've ever worried about whether one would be sad if I checked out tomorrow. Another sad lonely old dog ain't going to be the end if the world.
Even poetry's not doing much for me. Face it, mine's fallen flat, and with the exception of a handful of golden pens on HP, it's kind of gone to hell. Oh, I don't blame eliot. That's what happens when us old ***** play around with technology that the youngins know more about. Algorithm doesn't know **** about poetry, and all I know about hash is how to smoke it. Think I'll just stay up here and rest a spell. This fluffy cloud is feeling mighty fine.
r ~ 5/23/14
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
A message for you young truckers,
You long lovers,
You schmucks, ***** and go-getters...
This is as good as it gets.
The truth is, school *****
And so does your 9 to 5 part-time job,
But this is the time to find prime opportunities to get carried away and run
To say all the wrong things at all the right seconds
And to never, EVER get caught drinking your parents' ***
Be bummy, be a druggy, be a top score, or be the eye sore of the student body
But you will never be nobody...
You will NEVER be nobody.
Let somebody tell you they don't remember your name,
Then give that chump a reason to never forget
Because in this game of high school social status, there's no such thing as a winner
And you deserve whatever respect you let people neglect you of.
**** 10 year reunions, that cute girl in math class still won't think of you
Unless you act now, before you're ten years too late.
If you want something, you better learn to work for it,
Because these are the easy years, the queazy years, the "let's ditch and smoke a bleezy" years.
And before you know it, you'll be tap dancing on a keyboard when you should be working
Warning the youngins that their glory years are just about done.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
Life is like a Feelie Box
Guess what is inside
Faster, slower rusty clocks
Make your feelings hide
Squished together in my mind
Twisted path and sloping hill
In the well that's for the blind
Picture Buckets, sights to fill
Ironically The People talk
Cats and Dogs still cannot speak
Blackboard covered in white chalk
Molding youngins week by bleak
"Have no fear," The Doctor cries
The Farmer's crops are gone
Surround yourself in plastic lies
Pink flamingoes for the lawn
Night-time is dawning fast
Lights unhealthily they flicker
Make the day-time moon still last
While sunbeams can get sicker
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 11:30 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Dar Dar Dark-ness is-fu-tile-to this lit-tle-dream
I have,
hid-den in cre-vices of things-to the-ones I lack,
The past is the past and even in the past seeing what I use
To lack and given up,
Confusion is nothing new to a couple of youngins' cruising
On the country roads in a big truck,
Life is so much more precious than a diamond or a gem in
hopes to shine bright as they were,
We all can not be perfect in a mellow dramatic world full of
Politics and secret purge,
I I I-could be-everything-to all-of your-stonewalls,
you-break-them down-for me-and all-of your-
worries fall.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
Thick pretty smoke stacks chafe the faces
of stand-alone city youngins
kneeling on side streets with their knees in murky drain water
on the ***** asphalt, circling a dented stop sign.
And next to the sun-worn mural of Jack Kerouac, burning fumes
and sugar strips throw a film of
distortions on the eyes of the already-blind
censored minds of middle class America.
It’s 1964 and the times have changed. The music just got good
and there’s this thing called freedom.
That’s the word on the street, and it used to only ring a bell
but recently there’s a beat of a drum never
heard over these boxy radios, never seen on TV shows
and it’s not left to anyone — no moms, no teachers,
no dads, no kids, no beavers. ‘Cause now,
that makes no sense.
And the only thing that works is a four-letter word —
B.E.A.T. — and it spells out recovery in any light.
And people love the smell of unwatched life, even through
the choking smoke clouds intoxicating
the air with high hopes and fingers shot higher,
like a bird with new wings, flying over things
as crazy as kids praying to an eight-sided red warning,
beat-in, ‘cause someone wouldn’t be stopped.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
When I was six,
I loved a boy,
He proposed with a
Dora the explorer
gumball ring, and
It was the best day of my life,
until it wasn't.
When I was thirteen,
I loved another boy,
I kissed him,
and felt loved,
and it was the best day of my life,
until it wasn't.
When I was fifteen,
I fell in love with a boy,
and even now,
after so much time,
every day is the best day of my life,
and it always will be.
It's true what they say about young love,
Your mind is new,
and you don't know how you'll change,
but there are the youngins that love you,
despite all that.
believe me, I know.
Because I will always love a boy with
ocean eyes and a silly smile,
and you can just discard
what they say
a.s.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 1:29 PM UTC
Old bone of bags, bags old of bones, shipwrecked hot toddy.
No longer a hot body, wrinkled, pickled as a pickle
Stuck in societies jar, hand's ****** arms tired, barb wire wraps
My
Scars, as by far I've been into to many bars to count,
Up and out, or up and over.
Purely sober,
Roll over rover:
Is what the youngins tell me.
But I still have life left to give
A breath to live
To infinity,
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
7 in the morning, mothers yelling never fails -
blood stop sign, big yellow mobile full of youngins
classroom chair, picking the dirt from under her nails -
red hand moving slowly on the clocks -
children alive, active, and about
father not around to help put on her socks -
***** shoes with freshly showered feet -
"nap time boys and girls, take off your sneakers"
she panics to take off hers, starts to feel the heat-
left shoe off then the right shoe-
little kids point and laugh
hard to breathe, her ivory face turns blue-
silent darkness would be great at this time-
a quick call to mom and dad and the usual no answer
tears trickling down her cheek, quiet as a mime.-
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 10:00 PM UTC
If I could impregnate myself with my tears
My children would be innumerable and divine
Delicate as the lilacs at my feet
And as giving as my mothers hands
My children and I would dance wildly to the sound of the shaking leaves
And laugh until we cried at the absurdity of the decaying frames of the eternal surrounding infrastructures
I would gather our collective tears and water my children
Careful to sift the salt and reserve just enough for future implantation
My babies would nest in the tight curls of my crown and I would rock them to sleep in the gentle curve of my lashes
Blinking slowly and steadily to ease the restlessness of their being
If I could birth my children from my ear
I’d rest my head on a pillow and never leave
I’d rest my head flat on the soft surface
Turning my head only slightly to the left to give a final shake
Releasing my babies from their sack
I’d let them snuggle against my cheek as I sang to them the songs of the old Gods
And the new
I’d warm them with heat of my breath and nourish them with the saliva of my tongue
I’d listen intently to their soft whispers inquiring about the beams of light seeping through the cracks of the walls
And
The vines sprouting through the floor boards and climbing pillars on the bed
If I could birth my children from the scrapings from under my fingernails
I’d tear at my flesh until there was nothing left but raw nerve and blood
I’d dress them in gowns made from the weaved patches of hair growing across my mons *****
And I’d make them sun hats from the shattered pieces of my toe nails
If I could sink into the soil and grow my babies from my decay
I’d sprout a row of sunflowers
And the many seeds in its ***** would be my youngins
They’d fall away one by one
Matured
And run off uninhibited into the spring
Little pieces of me
Drowning in the sunshine
Free
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 2:04 AM UTC
When you think about it
Really
What are we inside?
Nothing.
Demons is disguise
Misguided youngins lookin for a good time
****** actors who can't remember their lines
Losers who never feel like the present is the right time
Or maybe
We're good
Still **** ups, but good
And maybe we should
Maybe we could
Bring peace to this planet
I wish someone understood
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
~~~~
There was a time
When I was young
I did not conceive
Hardships are just a battle to
Prepare for things to come
Now that I am old
A greater purpose has begun to unfold
Now I must keep my memories
In my brain
So The youngins
Don't say, "She's insane"
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
need a little me time, on green on tee time
on e with an e light, but the neon gonna be fine
at least goin to B right? if not single speed bike
on High in the street lights
cars passin me breeze by, no rush for the green light
leaned back on this seat o mine
breathe in the season, summertime
lilac, the leaves back, tree sap
knee slacks, T-Shirt, nikes, what a time?
reading back cluttered lines, hummin rhymes
to myself and those who wander by
keep them in your spongy mind if you want some lines
they're shelved kept up in my attic otherwise
it's not easy livin dreams, just dreamin them
Constantly the reason I'm sleepin in.
should consider leaving open my shuttered blinds
so as to not wake around three pm.
but just the thought of that shuddered mind
brought distractions, wore off Elysium.
guess tonight I did fine, should go easy then
all work no plays no good for a youngins mind.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
Eye’s tired, Bags shifting Right-Left.
Screams heard in the backs of their minds.
Some pictures, others nothing at all.
The sun beating down upon the backs and sand below their feets.
Some wish they can go back home to their loved ones.
Others are not making it home to loved ones.
Instead fighting for their lifetime protecting brothers, sisters, parents, and generations to come.
Mothers comforting children and other parents.
Black fabric holding onto memories, not forgotten. 13 flag folds of red, white, and blue.
Handed with white gloves and heavy hearts.
Bleeding Red, White, Blue, for the youngins who look up to them. Superheroes who can do anything.
Little moments, here and there that make living worth it.
Little feet kicks, pitter patter through hallways.
Screams of surprise, and tears of happiness.
Kisses tender and loving.
Smiles that defy odds stacked against them.
Aug 2, 2022
Aug 2, 2022 at 5:22 PM UTC
Dancing in the moonlights shadows
A beaming light, O so narrow
Following the glimpse of light
Hearing laughter of the utmost delight
A glance through the little door
Two youngins lying on the floor
Chatting about the brightest things
On I go as midnight rings
Now excited about what tomorrow brings
Time to step out of my dark room
Now I dance in the light of the moon
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 3:08 PM UTC
Home. A four lettered word found among many languages and cultures. Home a four lettered word not found in every family or friendship circle. Home a four lettered word with a plethora of meanings. Home a four lettered word that we mold and shape like clay to help make sense of our own situations. Home a four lettered word dictated by four walls. Home may not always mean windows and doors. Home a four lettered word that can make anyone’s heart beat rise or fall down to their feet. Home a four lettered word that comes with memories held closely or shaken violently. I don’t believe that home can be a physical place but rather a space in our collective imaginations that gives meaning to the five lettered word human. Human a five lettered word that is dictated by the terms civilized and barbarous. Human a five lettered word that is beyond our comprehension. Human a five lettered word that is undervalued and criticized. Human a five lettered word that today is taken for granted once it comes to error, which we are prone to. Human a five lettered word that is measured by success which in all reality means who’s imprint is deeper and not forgotten when we all return back to whence we came.
I found home in people, places, and parts of my imagination. I found home in my workplace which is the same place that youngins call their home. Home a feeling or sense that I bring everyday into this workplace to heal them, to heal me. I found home in stories, memories, and olfactory sense. Home a sense of belonging and returning back to our center that I bring everyday into this workplace to heal them, to heal me. Sage. Cedar. Sweetgrass and Yarrow roots to cleanse my body, mind, and soul. Sage to keep the bad medicine at bay. Cedar to keep in my shoes and wash in my hair as I think about how long I can really hold my breath for underneath this wave of colonization. Sweetgrass to honor the devine femininity that lives in all of our spirits that comes from under our feet. Yarrow to wash my body and purify my thoughts.
May 7, 2020
May 7, 2020 at 8:26 AM UTC