Lemme tell ya' about a
I met her one night
under disco lights
up at Candies
starin' at me
grittin' her teeth
aimin' ta' see
if I wanted a piece
by way of flashin' granny panties
actin' a fool
took a shot
and one tiny glance
but got caught
lit up a smoke
and tried to play it off cool
but it was too late
she had pulled up a stool
"Hey young felluh, where ya' been all my life!"
"Sorry to burst yir' bubble, but I got a wife!"
"That don't matter kid, what she don't know won't hurt the girl"
as she fisted my collar and yelled, "I'LL ROCK YIR' WORLD! Annie the Tranny is what they call me. Bet you been wanted ta' bone me since you first saw me!"
Fear and frustration danced on my face
I begged the bouncer to
"Get this he/she outta the place!"
My pleas were to no avail,
and that sea donkey lurked hot on my trail
flailin' it's arms and grindin' bar stools with it's tail
Speakin' of tails...
a shiny blue wale tail crept up her back
Her jeans were mean, but couldn't hold her underwear's elastic slack
but at least it beat feastin' eyes upon her crack
wrapped her grimy hands around my neck and asked,
"You n' me, boy, what the heck!?!"
"Look here lady, you seem real nice for a tranny;
to hit the bricks,
and yir' Granny Panties!"
At that point the joint started to really heat up
people were glarin' like they really wanted me beat up
I can't recall how the hell I got out of there
alive and free
it was like a big manly freight train
headin' dead at me
I'm pretty sure I owe the good Lord a big favor
that beast was the devil
and Jesus was my Savior!
It's a night I thought would never end...
the night at Candies Bar n' Grill
Granny Panty Annie got a thrill
tryin' to make me her sexy friend!!!
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2012
Riding an elephant
Down the narrow trail looking triumphant
Scanning the golden landscape
Like Hannibal with enemies in flight
Sight from a lofty height
King of the jungle moving
With lioness by his side
Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro
Guides by my side with packs on their backs
Some paths steep with rocks
Boots slipping below our tired feet
Beautiful birds in unison flight
Moving with terrestrial light
Stunning sunlight summit on the peak
Praying in an Ethiopian Church
Preserved in rocks built by humans’ hands
Never touched by conquest plans
Protected from the invaders’ footsteps
Queen of Sheba and Solomon’s nest
Touched by Arch of the Covenant
Mary, Joseph, and Jesus once slept
Eating yam, sipping palm wine, and tasting milk
Freshly squeezed by experienced hands
Taste of life in the mosaic grassland
Sustaining and soul refreshing
Cradle of humankind adorning
Invaded for its gold, riches, and human capacity
Birth of life on earth with tenacity
Respecting its living and arduous journey
Essence of life once was and is again to come
Riding a camel across the hot Sahara sand
Once wet now dried, exported gold from Mali…
Treasures from the hearts of once African empires
That which was, is, and shall forever be
Africa the birthing Motherland
We still love and respect thee!
Seventh Place Winner
"African's Pride" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Adeleke Adeite
June 30, 2010
Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr | Year Posted 2010
No longer at desk the typewriter has been given
it's final rest.
As he cant recall the day or year.
The once strong mind is closed the body
but a museum or tribute to what once was.
he his home but locked within himself.
Vist's from thoose who once knew the man
are like people viewing a body at a wake.
he calls from within the shell for for release.
Yet his lips will not move his voice never sounds.
Inside he burns for the chance to run as the river
chases the sea.
To be the man they never knew and the one he
could admire and both despise.
The page sits in typewriter like a willing
eager lover in bed.
Waitting in stockings that cling to delicate thigh.
the tears escapes it's minds prison.
He thirsts for it like a drunk for that morning drink
of whiskey waitting hands held togather trying
to keep from shaking.
He sits as a painter without hand.
watching the most beautiful sunset fade without
a chance of ever capturing this moment.
The ink is drying he feels it everyday.
Soon he hopes like the dust that does gather
he will be swept away.
Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo | Year Posted 2009
I'm running late, they will be waiting...
A busy day...so much to do..
I should be going...the clock is ticking
I'll stick my head in, a quick hello
no need to linger, ...and then I'll go
I grab my keys, and make excuses...
She seems confused....unduly quiet
Oh dear, it's useless...
"You must try a piece of pound cake. Made fresh this morning"...
"I'll put some tea on, no need to hurry"
(The clock is glaring.....I need to scurry....)
(My life is busy....this day's been crazy)
"I must not stay long..... a late appointment".... "I have to go"...
(Oh dear, it's clear, she tries to hide, sheer disappointment!)
She taps her cane, across the floor, her smile is kind...
She walks behind me, to the door
I have started to say good-bye, my hand on the knob
"Want to see my violets?" she asks quickly
How could I refuse??
We walk to the screened porch near the back of the house.
Sitting proudly in the sunlight of the northern exposure
Eleven small pots of glorious blooming African violets,
Several shades of pink, purple and blue
The most beautiful violets I have ever seen...
I express my sincere admiration
Her anxious look melts, and turns to delight...
And happiness and pleasure has taken years away from her eyes...
I ask her what is her secret to growing such beauties....?
"Yes...please tell me"......"Oh.....leftover coffee grounds? How interesting".....
"Please tell me more...."
We sit together the rest of that afternoon on the porch...
Have tea, .........and the most delicious lemon yellow pound cake.....
And as we talk .....
.... I can't help but notice....her eyes are beautiful
wise, and beautiful....and the color of violets...
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2009
We bound down the stairs, out into the light-of-day, and into the blue of the
misty breezes, heavily laden with the smell of wild sea salt roses that grow in
perfusion along the winding road, that bends and turns in gentle lifts and dips to
the other side of the bay, where it crosses the bridge and rises up and winds
away, over the hill.
Overhead the seagulls screech and glide over the ocean spray that washes on
the rocks on the lower banks behind our house along the Fundy Bay, where we
run like the wind through the fields of fresh cut hay and make our way to the
rocky mantle below .
There in the volcanic plateau, worn smooth as glass by the constant rolling
weight of the ocean, is our pool, known by all in our village, as ‘Lizza’s Bathtub’,
created by the eruption of the earth’s inner core, millennia’s ago.
We slip into the still, salty water that has been warmed beneath the blazing sun,
and float with the perry winkles and tiny crabs and listen to the sound of the
ocean, that roars beneath us as it leaves in the receding tide, while we drift
away, in our minds, my little brother the ‘King’ and I, the ‘Queen’ for a day on
the ‘Fundy Bay’.
Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2006
Kittens In The Barn
He stops and removes his boots before opening the door. He enters the kitchen and smells the familiar aroma of morning coffee.
"Breakfast's ready, have a seat. How're the kittens" his wife asks.
"Damn cat" he says. "Should have run her off when she showed up last year". "Don't know why she stays where she ain't wanted". "Nothing but a nuisance is all she is". "Now got all those little ones running around". "I hate cats".
She gives him his plate and pours him a cup of coffee. He hungrily digs in, sopping up
his eggs with a warm biscuit. He tips his cup and pours some coffee in his saucer,
blowing on it to cool it off. "Damn cat" he mumbles.
When finished, he carries his dishes to the sink, rinsing them and setting them aside.
When her back is turned he quickly grabs the saucer and stuffs it in the pocket of his
bibs. "I'm going to milk the cows he says". "Take care" she calls, pretending not to
notice. In another moment he is gone.
He grabs his stool and bucket and sets to milking, the warm liquid quickly consuming the
container. He rises and walks into a distant stall. Bending down, he pulls out the
purloined saucer and fills it from the bucket in his hand. He places it beside the
squirming litter and watches as they stagger to its brim.
"Damn cat" he mutters. "Don't know why she stays where she ain't wanted".
Copyright © Bob Quigley | Year Posted 2011
Life is but a winding road
Filled with faces along the way
Coming in and out of your life
Coloring your every day
Yet most spend just a moment
A fleeting glimpse before your eyes
They giveth not and taketh not
And cause you barely a rise
And some stay just a moment
Earning a thought upon your mind
Triggers for countless memories
These are the most common kind
And fewer still stay even longer
And commune with you a while
Leaving behind dearest memoirs
Of sweet tears or a special smile
And rarer still those faces grand
Building mansions in your soul
These are the faces of a lifetime
Whose virtue you do extol
And know that you simply are
A feature filled soiree
A portrait in collage
Of the faces along the way
Copyright © James Burns | Year Posted 2010
With just a little coaxing I can remember when
Excitement ruled my early days when you'd come home again.
I was a boy, just seven or eight and you were fully grown.
And it was a very special time when "Brother" would come home.
You and your special Mildred, The two of you and "Wart"---
You see, I can't remember the three of you apart.
Since you were up and married before I was ever born,
I can't remember all the things that happened on the farm.
But, things I do remember -- I can remember well --
Like the gifts you brought at Christmas none others could excel. –
Like the places you would take us, Mildred, me and "Wart" --
We'd race the train to Cameron if that old Ford would start. –
Like the times we'd all go riding and it seemed the car would wiggle --
We'd look and see you steal a kiss and me and "Wart" would giggle.
Looking back, I realize the young love you both shared
Began a life together that God himself prepared.
So, no matter where I wander,
No matter where I roam ---
No thrills can match the ones I knew
When "Brother" would come home.
This was written for my oldest brother and his wife, Mildred, on the occasion of their 50th wedding anniversary.
During WW2 he held a most critical position with the government in New Mexico.
“Brother” was a nickname we used for him and “Wart” was a nickname he gave his oldest son, my nephew, only one year Younger than me. He was an inspiration to everyone he met. His life story is motion picture material.
Copyright © John Posey | Year Posted 2013
Hello to all four-legged and two-legged friends in the big world
The people who take care of us, do not know as much as they think
We are probably smarter than they are
Take for example, that little cell phone that our people
always have with them wherever they go
What we do.....lift the foot and "send a message" to a friend
When I am out and walking with my people I get many interesting "messages"
Some "messages" are very interesting and take a little longer time to "read"
Then my people impatient, pulling and struggling the leash
What they can not understand that I must "answer" to all "messages"
Our "conversations" and "messages" are equally important
Think about it....they are also free....there is no expense
When their cell phone call or pling they take time to respond
Hello all two-legged humans our messages are just as important as yours
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Anne Lise Andresen | Year Posted 2012
Wading through flooded streets as hurricane rain poured
A man fell into the flow when sharp thunder roared
As a journalist reporting live from the scene
I saw lightning crack through the sky, heard the man scream
“Is he homeless?” I asked the emergency crew
The director shook his head; the answer he knew
“He lives in our park now, but served in Vietnam
He saved his entire unit from the Viet Cong.”
The team pulled him from the gutter to the shelter
I brought him tea, forgot I was a reporter
I asked why he’d screamed, his memory seemed hazy
“Did you hear the bombs drop?” asked Captain Bob Mazy
The emergency director took me aside
“We call him Crazy Mazy,” he did confide
He suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder
Can’t live with the lives he took following orders.”
When Hurricane Kate passed o’er the Gulf Coast
I’d seen much destruction, but remembered Mazy most
His story I broadcasted and vets contacted me
The donations poured in; so many gave freely
Soon we’d accumulated twenty-five grand
Just enough to buy Mazy an acre of land
Then people from his home state gathered one weekend
To build him a home, much effort they expended
Several social workers set up counseling services
To meet all his needs, everyone made concessions
Local stores gave him clothing, food, even a job
No longer “Crazy Mazy,” he was now just Bob
A gentle man who soon overcame all his fears
On Memorial Day, he was greeted by cheers
Accolades he’d never heard when he returned from Nam
But attitudes had changed and people’s hearts had warmed
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011
Slate gray streets made even darker by cutting raindrops
Umbrellas popping up everywhere, people seeking shelter
But I stayed put, wanting to get drained with the rain,
then I hear this tinkling voice that says, “Don’t you just love it when it rains?!”
I look at her wearily and her eyes actually gleam with laughter
Oh geez, this lady was my total opposite. I was brooding, she was brimming.
I power-up my go away vibes, but she was like a darned magnet…
Was I the ferromagnetic one, or was she?
She gushed on the metaphor of rain in her life, and I didn’t feel like drowning.
Listening to her amidst the onslaught was so refreshing, making me thirstier…
There we were, two drenched souls, sitting on the pavement, chatting up a storm.
Of all her descriptions of rain, one in particular stood out for me…
Pearl drops strung on silver strands …
She said, “Rain for me would be silver strands streaking an otherwise somber sky…
pearl drops strung on silver strands, broken by the heavens to share with us.
See how precious it is?” Then she continued on with the metaphor for pearls…
Her words felt like windshield wipers to me, and I could see clearly now
By then, the rains had softened, and a lone pearl drop landed on her eyelashes
-that made me look closer at her eyes… her beautiful, wise, yet cloudy eyes…
I have never looked at rain the same way since then.
For Andrea's and Susan's Silver Strands contest
Copyright © binibining P.iNk | Year Posted 2011
My vacant stare was sure to be
a giveaway to anyone that saw . . .
I was a Pilgrim there to the land of techno-jargon,
of icons, Help instructions meaning nothing,
and a world of young and savvy operators.
Our teacher wasn’t there.
Certain that the worksheet explaining all the basics
would be a breeze for us to carry out,
he’d arrogantly left the room
and left the lot of us to the mercy of
a keyboard and computer.
I looked up from his worksheet
to a screen that stared right back at me,
awaiting my commands.
I was on the starting path to what is often called
the Super Highway,
and my boarding pass, tuition to the class,
Overwhelmed, I started out. Then I hit a rut
and didn’t have a clue what next to do.
My learning peers already seemed to know
the route quite well.
Some, in fact, were calling it a day
while I stayed on, ashamed to bother
any of the others there for help.
I looked around the room, my tired brain
a hot plate in the midst of younger minds
with the speed of ovens made for microwave.
Perhaps they’d all conspired to put
the older lady at unease.
It seemed the more I tried to understand,
the more pathetically off course I’d go. . .
Till finally (longing for a time when
“cut and paste” implied the use of scissors),
I got up from my seat and left behind
the self-instructing worksheet which
that egghead teacher said would be “a cinch.”
Two big words were scrawled across the top
of its first page, two big words in red,
written with the one tool I could trust:
For Natalie Whitlock's
"Talkin' Technology" Contest
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011
He's used to war, he fights real hard,
He's a soldier, he's battle scarred.
The enemy is weak, there is nothing to fear,
His compassion is gone, he has no tears.
He was taught well, was taught how to kill,
He's done it so much, it's lost it's thrill.
He no longer feels bad, when the enemy dies,
Tears don't come any more to his tired eyes.
In the beginning it was against his will,
But he soon broke down, and got used to kill.
Never thinking that his foe, was also just a man,
Like him with a family, doing the best he can.
He cannot have feelings, for anyone,
But then, for a moment, he thinks of his son.
He wants to go home, but it's not time yet,
So he goes back to a war, that he wants to forget.
Next day on the beach, on his tour of duty,
Lies a child's body, on the coast of Turkey.
He cannot believe what he sees with his own eyes,
A cute little boy, with no signs of life.
Lying face down, right there on the sand,
He picks him up, with his big strong hands.
And when he saw that there was no hope,
The soldier realized he could not cope.
He shuddered deeply...letting out a sigh,
And that's when...the soldier cried.
Now the whole world mourns that little boy,
Many children elsewhere, receive another toy.
Yes, people stand by, while these refugees die,
Some see the news and say, please...pass the pie.
John Derek Hamilton September 04,2015
Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2015
A shaman prays, the Spirit hears
While a Seventh Calvary regiment waits
Unarmed, a tribe endures a Union's hate
Their animosities, and their fears
As the blue coats begin to circle...
Their wrath begins to circle.
That shaman saw but a single Spirit
That was split between different beliefs
He could accept the white Spirit Chief
But the white men would not hear it
They would not blend their God
With the red heathen God.
Anger explodes behind powdered shot
Spraying death from muzzled shame
Cruelly winning their ill gotten fame
Painted heroes claim a tainted spot
History claims the Ghost Dance...
As death claims the last dance.
A Dakota creek runs darkly red
Forever silencing the Ghost Dance
A chanting shaman dies in his trance
One hundred fifty Sioux lay dead
Now, only blue coats remain...
Only the blue remain.
A creek ran red with Union shame
When a shaman called the Spirit Great
And that Spirit did not hesitate
He fell on Wounded Knee and came
To take His people home...
His people swiftly home.
Timothy I. Brumley
Copyright © Timothy Brumley | Year Posted 2011
I’m really not a jealous person. I am happy for those who are fortunate in life. If I see a lady who has a beautiful family that loves her, I am happy for her. When a guy pull up in a fully restored ’57 Chevy convertible, complete w/ vanity license plates reading “AHH YEAH”, I’m happy for him. I have met two people in my life who have won large lottery jackpots, and I was very happy for them. Even when I see a drop-dead gorgeous exotic looking young woman wearing Chanel and four and a half inch Jimmy Choos, I am delighted for her. Seriously, I’m just not an envious person by nature.
Yesterday, my tire blew out. While I was waiting for my husband, I went into a local pub. A nice girl, Jenna, started a conversation with me. She was missing all four of her front teeth! We somehow started talking about dieting, and she told me that it is impossible for her to gain weight. She mentioned she weighed 102 lbs. and that she would love to gain at least 5 pounds but just couldn’t. She complained about how her metabolism was just “too high.” I’m sitting there with that old country song playing in my head...“A metabolism too high…What’s that mean? It’s like too much money, no such thing.”
Ironically, it happened to be karaoke evening. Once the festivities started, I clinged to the hope that my DVR was working and recording American Idol so I could watch it when I got home. “Big Matt” was up first singing George Straits. He was actually good. We all clapped. Next, it was Jenna.
I watched Jenna sing. In a world where if most of us had the misfortune to lose even one of our teeth, we would not leave the house unless it was to be fitted with our Davinci Veneers, this gal was poised and confident. She sang beautifully.
I found myself actually envious of this young woman. Not, however, for the reason you think. I found myself envious of her confidence. Despite her appearance, she sang with passion, poise and enthusiasm. Even missing all four of those front teeth, she could get up in front of that crowd and dazzle us all with her nice voice and pleasant demeanor.
As my husband came to my rescue, I left smiling.
I left smiling knowing that there are people like Jenna in this world.
I left smiling knowing that I do give people the benefit of the doubt.
I left smiling knowing that I do always look for the best others.
I left smiling knowing it is possible for me to be jealous of a young woman who is missing her front teeth.
Copyright © Natalie The Rogue Rhymer | Year Posted 2011
“Well,” She asked; her eyes wide. Beads of hot sweat glistening on her brow like miniature
crystal suns. Her angst was palpable. “What is it!”
The air was still. There were no words. Just the sound of bodies breathing in – and
“Congratulations.” He held out his arms, handing the mother, her baby, “You have a son.”
The moment shone like glass in the center of the heavens – pure and eternal.
It was redemption from every wrong thing she’d ever done.
It was the shining eyes of God smiling onto her exhausted face; lighting it with hope.
It was the only place there was – the only time, the only space.
It was the only feeling that existed.
They were the only two incarnate souls in the room; on the planet, and in the universe.
This was her child –
And she was his mother.
(there are no words for such things. suddenly, I feel like an intruder. there are too many
eyes, words and moments here. so it is here, I take my leave; leaving this mother and the
only soul in her universe to their perfect moment. they will have many more moments in this
lifetime; but none as sacred, as human, or as eternal as the first look from life to life;
mother to child; heaven to earth, as the very first. None.)
“It’s a boy.” she whispered. Her throat a crumbling tunnel; stunned, but not really. Like
she’d known it all along. “My baby boy…” She smiled into his ancient, brand-new face;
tracing his delicate cheek with the back of her finger. “He’s perfect.”
She ran her palm along the bottom of his soft, miraculous foot, and laughed. “Look at
your feet – they’re huge!”
And as she wiped the tears with the heel of her shaking hand – smearing what was left of
her mascara - she looked in to his, as close to heaven as one can get, eyes, and said, “Hi.
I’m your mama.” He smiled at her. He knew. He’d known it all along. “And I’ll love you
The world closed its shades then. Leaving the sacred to its history; the moment to
eternity; and their universe to its quiet, little room.
*Inspired by Deborah's, You Must Have Been A Beautiful Baby, contest; and every mother
who has graced this sacred room.
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
. "Listen first,.....to the voice in your head"
Mmmmm, …if we can catch the waitress’s eye, we should order more iced tea…
Can hardly believe it… Joan is still complaining about her in-laws….
Peg interrupts, excusing herself to go to the ladies room
What was that about Barb’s husband burning breakfast?
It must have been funny.., the way everyone is laughing…
My eyes wander to the window….
I see some geese in the sky
Heading north...oh my,…summer has gone so quickly…
I must get the family together and go out to the lake one more time
We'll take a picnic, and let the children feed the geese...
I'll take a loaf of bread just for that,.......
But we'll have to watch the children..
Last time one goose chased Suzanna, and she fell down, ....
…made her cry,…poor thing
It is so beautiful on the east shore….hopefully the water isn’t too cold
Maybe the children can still enjoy a swim…yes…we must do that soon….
Oops, she’s back from the Ladies......
I'd better scoot over, to make more room,.....
Hmm..looks like she's done something different with her hair...
Joan is still chattering about her weekend with the in-laws.....
How I long to be back at the lake again….on the beach in the sun….
Oh there…outside the window…a whirlwind has gathered up a few leaves
Already rust and brown…edges curled with the touch of autumn
Yes, ….summer has gone so quickly…
.... .... .... .... .... ....
For the Contest: Summer's End
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011
Daddy, were you alive when Jesus was born?
No honey, he was born a long time ago, over 2000 years ago.
Where was he born Daddy?
In Bethlehem, a small town in the desert in a manger,
Whats a manger Daddy?
It's a place where they kept animals to feed them.
You see when Jesus was born the Inn was full, so
they had to get Mary to a warm place to give birth to Jesus.
that was the only place they could go.
Daddy who is Jesus' Daddy?
God is his Father honey?
But who is Joseph?
The Chosen Father, who God chose to raise him, Mary's Husband
I don't understand Daddy!
God wanted a son, he could not have a son without Mary and Joseph's
help. God asked them both if they would help him, without even thinking
they said yes. God gave to them a great gift, God gave them Jesus.
At that moment God gave us all a great gift, He gave us the Son of Man.
The Son of Man Daddy?
Yes honey, you see God is not Man, not one you can touch, Jesus
was, he healed people who were sick, He showed people how to love God
and how God loves them. There is one more important thing
I want to tell you honey.
What's that Daddy? Jesus did a coupla more things I think are
important, there are many of course but two I like.
Go on Daddy!
Jesus taught us how to love without conditions, like the way I love you
and you love me and your Mom and Brother. But how to love everybody
like that. The most important thing is, is that he died because we humans
broke God's laws, which means we sinned. He died so God would
Wow Jesus really did love us didn't he Daddy...?
Yes he did baby, and the really good thing is he still does and always will.
Come on it's time for bed!
Not until I say my prayers Daddy!
How bout we Pray together tonight?
I'd like that Daddy!
So would I baby, so would I .
Jump up on my back and I'll give you piggy back ride!
I love you Daddy!
I love you too baby, I love you too.........
My Christmas wish is you all have Conversations like this with your
kids. Trust me they bring tears of joy!
May God Bless you all this Christmas Season as he has Blessed me.
From Mary, Josh, Shay and myself MERRY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY NEW YEAR
Copyright © Richard Pickett | Year Posted 2010
She walks here often, almost every day
She thinks of him
And each day he will appear
With a different name, a different face,
But always,…. the story will be the same…..
His skin will be bronzed by the sun
Wet and glistening by the tide
He will not tell her his name
Instead, he tells her she is beautiful
The sand scalds her shoulders and thighs
She will let him have his way
He will talk with his hands
He tells her she carries passion in the little hallow of her back
Her walks along the beach
And into the brambles
Are never without purpose
She thinks of how he may be watching
She is pleased to hold
Her head tilted slightly downward
If, while she continues
Into the wildflowers and thistles
With her clothing open
With her skin borne
To foxtails and thorns
Letting them enter her flesh…..
She will of course admit
Astonishment, …….but no shame…
And promises herself not to return again
For at least a week
For Cyndi's Contest: Sensual
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011
On starry, starry nights
On sunny, sunny days
Angelic people, whose eyes
Resemble wounded deer`s eyes
Angelic, fragile, gentle
People sadly pray
You can hear their cries
And they say:
`We do not want any more lies
Take your evil deeds today,
And stay out of our way.`
Copyright © Vesna Kovrlija | Year Posted 2012
America, why did you stray from the old way.
A constitution put forth, the foundation of our land,
barely recognizable what was originally Jefferson's hand.
Tarnished and smudged by misinterpretation,
overindulgence and greed, to satisfy political,
judicial, and journalistic need.
Once majority rule, now bordering on ridicule,
the law of the land, ever changing, meeting demands,
of whoever takes a stand.
America, why did you stray, parents unable to discipline,
fear children undisciplined now rule, school in chaos,
students unruly, guaranteed to pass, unprepared for their future,
parents unsure, wish for the past, hope the next generation,
won't be like the last.
America, why did you stray, streets used to be a place to play,
neighbors knew one another, socialized every day,
doors left unlocked, nothing to fear, families stayed close,
helped one another, took care of mother.
Now drugs rule the day, hate and crime more common than play,
multiple locks symbolic of today, rarely talk to a stranger,
living in fear; life no longer precious, taken away,
day after day, the bloody count rises, a country in crisis,
victims pay, guilty appeal, courts give them the best deal.
Nobody protests for victims rights, put a murderer to death,
they scream all night.
America, why did you stray, hatred and bigotry alive
and well today, nationalities split, long for the old way,
when an American, was just an American, now hyphenation,
the accepted way.
America, why did you stray, once an industrial giant
you gave it away, too high a standard for industry to pay,
moved out of country, the new American way, unemployment,
poverty, homelessness rapidly increasing, ruined lives,
while billions are spent on so called allies.
America, why did you stray, what's written today,
barely address the wrongs building every day,
religion is accepted, God is not,
country divided, politically split,
presidential bashing provides journalistic wit,
hatred and bigotry, live for it.
America why did you stray, new chapters every day,
really a damn shame.
Copyright © Mac McGovern | Year Posted 2010
For thoose of you who may not know.
Just call me gonzo I write the absurd for life is insane and sometimes
it takes a madman to speak the truth so very clear.
I write for the broken vacant faces that have lost all hope.
To the dreamer who's well is slowley running dry from everyone
telling him to stop wasting his time.
I write like a endless highway fueled by whiskey and wild women
every adventure leads to pain but life is pain and i love in spite of it.
I thirst for every unseen mile the desert my brother it's people dwell
in the spirt of the west the opium parlors and brothels spirt still linger.
I write with a hint of danger and a promise of disaster.
Im a blues player whos trying to out run the devil.
Im a outlaw riding to cross the border a woman looking to the
empty range for my return.
I write because I breath in a world were the creative air has gone
The bottle sits apon table and I welcome any strangers company
I just rather that stranger be a warm woman instead of a
unfriendly amigo who is a little jelouse.
Write to be more than just part of the highways landscape.
Some may call me crude crazy insane some even vulgar and
liar and thief.
But aside from thoose compliments.
No matter what you may call me.
Dont ever forget to just call me gonzo.
Copyright © DR Robert Gonzo | Year Posted 2010
I am your champion, I fight for your cause,
my love and devotion give some people pause.
When I saw you I knew you, just like with your dad.
I guess our deep happiness makes some people mad.
I work hard at my job, so that we can live,
and hear me now, son, when it's time to give,
I am the one who ups the amount,
I've done this more often than I can recount.
I also work so your dad will be covered,
for doctors and dentists and allergists and others,
and who do you think pushed him to go
to the skin doctor some two years ago?
From the moment I met you, you felt like my son,
but this is a battle that cannot be won.
When your dad and I married, I didn't steal him away,
he's just as devoted to you to this day.
I heard someone had told you that I was "controlling,"
(I can't even write this without my eyes rolling).
Who insisted your dad fly to LA to see you?
Who worked overtime to pay for this venue?
I encourage his freedom, I've not clipped his wings,
his happiness, above all, is the important-est thing.
I will not be silenced, nor be vilified,
and it just breaks my heart when you take HER side.
I am LOVING and GIVING and ALL THAT IS GOOD,
and I'm tired of being so misunderstood.
So, pardon my migraine, it wasn't intended,
my strength just gave out as your judgement descended.
I lost a whole weekend, I slept like the dead,
I was just too defeated to face down my dread.
I kinda' felt reality shatter, unsure what was real,
like in "Jacob's Ladder."
We're getting no younger, your father and I,
the older we get, the faster time flies.
I love you as if you were my own child,
I'll not carry this burden unreconciled.
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2009
Looking back on the winters of my life,
I realize now, each brought a new light.
Though at the time my eyes did not see,
the wisdom, God was planting in me.
Certain seasons, bring more rain,
and surely, some bring more pain.
As the clock ticks on, taking us through,
for it stands still for no one, this is true.
Change is for certain, as the harsh winds blow,
making us stronger, from that winter's snow.
We pick up the pieces, and our journey goes on,
another chapter finished, then another season born.
An endless cycle are the seasons of life,
and all will be remembered, for wisdom brings new light.
Copyright © Christy Hardy | Year Posted 2009
I've been a lot of places in this land,
From sea to shining sea.
There's a place in the hills of Arkansas
That means more than them all to me,
A little wildwood church where people meet
To praise the Lord above.
They don't have a lot of money,
But they're rich in a thing called love
You'll see a friendly smile upon each face
The moment you walk in.
They'll make you feel so loved and right at home,
That you'll want to go back again.
They will pour you out a cup of kindness
Then they'll take you home and feed you,
And they'll treat you like family.
You're always more than welcome;
There's no lock upon the door.
There's preaching and singing and praising the Lord,
And they know what the altar's for.
Don't look for a grand cathedral,
Standing proud and tall;
It’s a humble little church, beside the road,
At Ben Hur Arkansas.
Copyright © William Robinson | Year Posted 2006
I push the buttons,
You push mine.
The light above your head flashes,
I'm in for the ride.
The elevator begins.
Off to a shaky start.
As we move further, and further astray
from the building's foundations,
And closer to the heart.
The awkward silence looms.
We pretend we don't notice the glances.
You study the floor,
Whilst my eyes explore,
Making out the warning signs
By the side of your door.
As another person enters
And pushes, yet, another button
Your eyes look up.
We go down.
Back down to the ground,
Back down to the start
Copyright © Brian Morton | Year Posted 2015
nicotine stained fingers
into a shot glass half
full of midnight molasses
amber buzz in my
watching from across the room
she knows i got a jones
she got a body i want
lickin, my lips- lettin' her know
i'm full grown
just sittin' here tryin'
to get my lie together
i ain't gonna lie
i want us to ride together
lying so i can love her
and, yeah, so i can
peel her out that sweater
grab a napkin from the bar
intent on writing her a letter
expressing how i wish we were alone
the first time that i met her
order me another shot
of that midnight molasses
glance back across the room
her and him are tapping glasses
Copyright © brian anderson | Year Posted 2009
STARBUCKS AND COOKIE
I sit in Barnes and Noble
Looking at the figure-display over the snack bar
Oh how out-of-place in time they look
Have read them all
Out of time
The artist has caught them from middle-to-old age
Twain the Mississippi observer
older than the river
that flame-gray hair
Shaw the same snowy mass
but older than creation
he contemplates the infinite
Hardy stirs a cup of tea
has just exclaimed
Jude isn’t as sad as that.”
Emily sits for an artist
she has a sweater tied round her neck-
those drooping slender shoulders
but from what no one knows
what’s to say?
he be da man
smokes his pipe
thinking about the slaughter of ‘brave bulls’
“Good fight!” says Ernie
assigning some sort of ludicrous intelligence
There are several more
But I’ll leave them in their mothballs
The question arises
at least in my mind arises
Given their various outlook
would they earn a high place in today’s world?
I doubt it
None of them play guitar or saxophone
The drummer they moved to had an unbelievable
I imagine they could get through a work
without need for a dripping drooling bedroom scene
And then why watch anyone use the lavatory?
They obviously didn’t know how to burn film
didn’t need to burn time
Call it imagination
Call it intelligence
Call it sanity!
Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2010
The oath spilled over my lips
If you hurt me, said she
I will never forgive you!
No, it was not the words
Probably the pose, or the voice
Or was it the silence between?
But there was power, and I swore
A daunting spirit
In Between, Silence!
Today, I awoke to the mocking bard
I am sorry, said she
Forgive me, forget me
It was the words, no pose, no voice
And the sinful silence aside,
There was power in the words
The daunting spirit.
Copyright © peter Onyancha | Year Posted 2012
Darkness is my life that apears in
Has it come to just another fix.
The smile does conceal my losing fight.
The music the screams within.
The lies eat away at the man I can no
Hollow is thy heart.
Crimson stains all that is never held in
It started a game now it's a curse.
In darkness I speak to you
all I could never say.
The man once known to you.
Has all but faded away.
And as I slip into adictions abyss.
Candle lit memories were taken
with the breeze.
That killed that romantic glow.
As the stranger who exists in the form
once you did love.
Twist's into a form you cannot understand.
I ask out of love for you to forget.
The monster that haunts this form.
In memories true love we will forever know.
The emptyness of of this life.
And the once splendid candle lights glow.
In truth we die.
As we live.
So must we cry.
Not every every question has a answer my friends.
Copyright © DR Robert Gonzo | Year Posted 2010