I am dating a young woman and we are deeply in love. However, no matter what I do sexually, she never achieves orgasm so we decided to ask a sex therapist for advice. The therapist listened to our story and suggested the following;
"Hire a strapping young man and while the two of you are making love have the young man wave a towel over you, as though he is fanning you both. Make sure he is totally naked and she can see his manhood as he fans you both with the towel. That will help your wife fantasize, and should bring on a full-blown orgasm."
We went home and followed the therapist's advice. We hired a handsome young man and he stripped off and enthusiastically waved a towel over us both as we made love. But it didn't help and still my lover was unsatisfied and frustrated.
Perplexed, we went back to the therapist "Okay" he says, "let's try it reversed. Have the young man make love to your wife and you wave the towel over them."
Once again, we followed the advice. The young man got into bed with my lover and I waved the towel. The young man really worked with great enthusiasm and my lover soon had an enormous, room-shaking, screaming, orgasm.
Smiling, I dropped the towel, tapped the young man on the shoulder and said to him triumphantly...."NOW THAT'S how you wave a towel, son!!"
In a new road,
Rain will fall,
Wind may blow,
Swifting our woe.
The road forever on and on,
Many paths to choose,
Many paths to take,
Through the shadows,
Through the night,
Clouds going by,
There we will lie,
Seeing shivered land,
Seeing the dead seas...
Through the edge,
Miles to go,
Rain may fall,
Through the nightfall,
Through the twilight,
Through the dusk,
Through the dawn,
Paths on and on,
'Till the road comes along...
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.
rolling in the dirt weighed down
strays every where and nowhere to hide
no will to die but the guys with you before yourself
crawling around in a foreign land sweating a gallon of wet
you can hear the whiz of war planes in the air
think back to the ships sending them there
most important the other men before yourself
How long as it been since you've seen your child
if you live will he understand be proud of dad
your daughter sweeter than life
do you miss her hugs
you know you're everything to her
you dominate her dreams
i want you to know as i sit here with you on my mind
as i sit here with my daughters because of your sacrifice
my heart wants to burst and rejuvenate your spirit bright
how do i thank all the soldiers who defend our democracy
thank you for everything you afford me
when even one of you dies a little bit of me dies too
i know no matter how empathic i am
i will never really no how bad war is
you are the soldier brave
with your face against the wind
so let me say this.
thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you
from every pore I possess
thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you
from every vessel in my heart
thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you
from every drop of my blood
thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you
before you get back on this side
we are doing everything we can
make sure on your return
there will be people to take care of your needs
do everything we can and more
just one last thing
September 1 2014
It was on a Christmas Eve
early in the morn
into a world so often cold
a little girl was born.
Her parents, they did love her,
the way that it should be
but her father, who's a good man,
had been raised with cruelty.
When he doled out punishment
for all her childish ways
the lessons that he taught her
would stay with her all her days.
Growing up was never easy
and she grew up so confused.
Other kids did more than tease her
and at home she was abused.
But she grew up all the same
then came to that time of life
when she thought she was ready
became a mother and a wife.
They faced a lot of hardships
but tried to love anyway
and her husband, who does love her,
has been so mean along the way.
Yes, life is hard for everyone
this woman surely knows.
Hate and misunderstanding
seems to follow where she goes
with so many quick to tell her
that she is always wrong
so many times she has been shown
that she just don't belong.
She tries so hard to understand
the reasons for her tears
and is punished for her feelings
as she has been all her years.
She knows that there is more to life
than what always seems to be.
All she wants is to be loved
without the cruelty.
Note: My dear friends, this is not an easy write for me but a necessary one. I was at a very
low point in my life and I prayed for God for direction or to let it end. I wrote the poem I Am
then joined PoetrySoup. I know God led me to this wonderful site for a reason. I may still
have a long way to go but I am starting to move forward. I want to thank you all for your
encouragement and kindness. Being able to write again is helping me and as fellow writers,
I know you understand. Thank you for sharing with me and teaching to become a better
writer. God bless you all and Happy Holidays! Love, Robin.
Under the microscope we are under watched by a near by species
For some reason they think we are a life form that takes it to easy
Over the years we were abducted; that was a mistake the aliens became uneasy
Unique in several ways we are human and that they see we are strange
Fooling them we act very hostile yet our mindset needs be rearrange
Opening our minds they started to look, but our minds seems to weird and derange
Upset, the aliens take our species to try to understand
Freaks of nature we seem to gather with costumes and sounds of band
Old as time they been coming to our planet and this is what they found, like us, land
Unrelenting we humans seem to focus on a different path
Feelings we have the aliens do not understand what we have
Odd we are, we are the only species in the galaxy that really know how to have a bath
Unrealizable that we do adore the stars and lights in the sky
From all our studies we look up and see the lights that make our world, we cry
Only now we reason with the aliens we are fools in our world and we sigh
A new path is what we seek.
The surroundings are taking a peek,
Going through, very meek,
Seeing no bleaks,
While hearing creaks,
In the new paths that we seek...
The new path is what is found,
Going through forests bound,
Going through the path inbound,
With soothing and raging water sounds.
Passed through burial grounds...
Seeking for another way around,
The paths newfounded,
Our instincts compounded,
Followed by the hounds,
Echoes in ultrasounds,
Passed through mysterious breeding grounds...
Going to stamping grounds,
Trying to get off this ground,
With those burial mounds,
Death moving the wheels around,
Silhouettes running aground,
Trying to leave safe and sound,
Passing through some hunting grounds...
Seeking for common grounds,
The mistaken path redounded,
Regretful screams abound.
Though some are fouled,
Throughout the paths that were found...
However, most are lost and wounded,
Most tended to walk out,
Some minds and hearts full of doubts.
Hearing salvation shouts,
From all these new paths walked and found...
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch some pails of water
Jack climbed some trees while Jill was picking some pretty flowers
After some hours Jack realized that he was wasting time
So he called Jill to hurry up before ‘tis half past nine
So off they went to continue their very long journey
‘Till they passed by an old beggar and gave him some money
When they both reached the well Jack and Jill filled up their buckets
Near the well were some berries which they put in their pockets
When they reached home their momma and papa were so happy
For dinner they had meatballs and soup and chicken curry
And five bags of bananas which a rich neighbor gave them
The good that you do to others will always be returned
My love of poetry started when I was still a five- year old child
When my parents asked me to memorize verses and rhymes
With all my feelings and actions, I recited my poems in front of a crowd
Innocently receiving adulations but not a handful of dime
The first piece I memorized was entitled, “Cradle Hymn”
I was a small girl sent in a poem competition, so naïve
When I’ve grown up , I realized it’s a song lyric with Christmas theme
So, I sang it and started to develop my good voice quite a bit
When I was a teenager, I memorized speech and declamation pieces
My teacher sent me in a poem contest for a campaign against drug addiction
I tried to deliver my piece like a candidate for a star award actress
Acting like a drug addict teenage girl longing for parents’ love and attention
As years went by, I turned out to be quite a flirty lady
With puppy love and sweet crushes to some guys around me
When one of them got me, so happy until I forgot all about reciting poetry
Relationship went long but when we broke up, it created another life’s story
All my heart brokenness has turned me out to be a poem writer
I also wrote few poems for my family, dreams and for close friends’ requests
My passion of poetry blazed and turned out to be greater
When I found a writing spot, motivated and inspired by my friends-the great poets
Feb. 6, 2013
Contest: Who What Where
Sponsor: Poet Carol Sunshine Brown
People are my weakness and hidden fear
I just feel that some words they say set me in tear
For example I gave a person a smile one day and they gave me a glare
I did not know that smiling in the world today cause people to stare
These types of stare gave me chills down my spine a feeling that made me blind
Why? why is my weakness the people who are very unkind
Hiding is all I can do when people give me a unkind view
I get to a point that my fear seems to wonder and stew
People are who they are and what should I even do
I don't understand that they are evil and some times nice too
My hidden fear are people just because they are always around
That is no argument and my feeling are perfectly sound
The hate builds up in my mind, but does not bother, how my heart feel
I learned to undergo a change that my feelings become like steel
Hard as it should be in situations needed I forget how to use it
So it becomes my weapon and it is to some people heartless just a bit
My hidden fear is what I see in people today
They harm others and they think it is okay
That is why I fear my feelings for others at times because it is so confusing
My hidden fear is some what bad and some what a blessing
Gun fire all around, bombs going off in the distance
It was some of the angry mobs and resistance
Father was the king of SafeHaven a small kingdom
Like all other kingdoms it fell in random
Fire started in the castle
And along with it came a battle
It was a distance memory now because the child has now grew
Many things in this child that made memories stew
My name is Mastrey, a young orphan who was there that night
Mastrey saw her in the distance and her father and mother in his sight
Everyone was loud that night and made all the children hide
But that evening Mastrey saw her mother and father die
She ran into the bushes in such a fright
And evil doers were running around with flashlights
Mastrey remember it as he distracted them
Her eyes was so confused with problems
Mastrey new that it was because of what just occurred
His feelings of what those people did was not awkward
The distraction worked, he went back to were she was
Hiding and very scared she was, he asked her, can you trust me just because?
Her answer that night depended on her lively hood
As Mastrey was their with his hand reaching out to her as he stood
Pulling her up from the ground he looked into her eyes that were SeaBlue
Mastrey had made a life long friend and love, She knew it was true
Next: My Story Telling, Who is this Princess
The night air made her feel tired
As she looked out side all the fences were wired
In the distance she hears crowds yelling
As she was to young to know they were rebelling
Father she asked where are we going?
Mother said to keep quiet and keep walking
Mother yelled in the night air
Father gave out a blank stare
They yelled run my princess run as far as you can
As that moment past her little feet pushed off and she ran
She ran to the nearest bushes and crawled into it to hide
She never smelled the air before as if someone just had died
As she lay on the ground under a bush she heard
A loud yell in the distance almost to absurd
My name is Angelica, I am just a young girl who does not know
Angelica just wants to live her life with help to grow
Angelica did not know what just happened she notice a figure in the distance
A little person just like her, a strong but gentle presence
Angelica saw the people who were shouting run off toward the voice
She was scared and she knew that she had to make a choice
Angelica fragile state was so confused and lost
She knew it will take burden on her at a cost
But in that moment of quietness a young but strong voice called out
Can you trust me just because? will you come with me with no doubt
My Story Telling Together In A Strange World
And so, I have made up my mind, once more.
I have decided to depart, to bid this husk farewell.
In order to do that, I must save coins if I desire to save myself.
For with it, I will be able to buy my ticket out here to a more blessed realm or the eternal void. Either way, I will be winning.
I mustn't, any longer, feel the starvation of affection and no more I shall be fed by the crumbs of fleeting joy they toss at me.
Thoughts of finishing are always in my mind, flooding it, making hard to go day by day, making hard to sleep, to have hope.
I fail to see where the hope is, I like to think that it can be find inside of one's heart.
But even so, I think I am mistaken, and when I glance at myself in the mirror, I quickly lose any spark of what could-be hope.
With the aid of the metallic sling, I shall leave this husf behind, heavy with its sins and sorrows, to no more nourish hatred.
For it does only to hinder my advance towards elevation.
With my metallic sling, I shall pierce, first, my heart, where lies the sorrow, then, my mind, where resides the sins.
Whilst the life in me start to wane, regrets I will not have, when my consciousness fade, my spirit will be no longer be trapped inside this imperfect cage of flesh.
Being free, my spirit shall roam far and beyond to, before, unseen places by men, to untouched places by men.
Another day,someone inquired me "Are you happy now?" and for that I just said "Yes". How else could I have responded if not with a lie?
How could I tell them that I yearn for a premature closure in order to stop thinking and feeling but I also yearn for love.
"I am not absolutely happy, as per say, but I do suffer less when I am asleep" I could never say that to anyone...
The Vice Poem shall serve,
without regard to need
or time of day,
being in line of succession,
should the Poem be
unable to fulfill its ditty
The Vice Poem will be
required to preside
over the sonnet
and break any ties
that come upon it
As is customary,
the Vice Poem shall be
required once a term
to debate the opposition
on the respective merits
of poetry versus prose
The Vice Poem shall
be sent, on a moments notice
to travel wide and far
to deliver the eulogy
for dead, leading authors,
and to do so with euphony
The Vice Poem can
anticipate being the object
of scorn and ridicule
from the wider citizenry
regarding the merits of
being a second rate poem
while anticipating to
someday achieve eloquence
© Goode Guy 2013-01-21
How can one easily express the emotions intact within?
Every day we are tackled by various emotions
I imagine just how strong they would be
If the entire world's emotions were all squished together into one
Surely it would be more powerful than any nuclear bomb...
Oh, when our emotions are expelled from being bottled up within for so long...
My, how strong they can be?
I don't believe my volcano of emotions has erupted yet but, man,
Something has definitely been cooking from within...
As for one individual, Laura Elizabeth Breidenthal, ("Breanderthong" for others...)
I have been juggled about by new emotions lately
Some really nice emotions, and others downright, miserably...
Indubitably,(had to use the word)...impeccably... horrible
But, you know, I can't possibly have the worst
I know others out there that seem to have it so bad...
I won't go into what I've been feeling lately
Because that would take longer than a sermon at church
And who really wants to hear a ranting preacher?
—Or read work by a ranting preacher for that matter...
But really, imagine having to calculate every emotion you have felt in your life
Imagine one person doing that
...would it leave an impact?
Imagine everyone calculating their emotions
How similar would we be to one another?
I've wondered this often...
It just intrigues me how intricately designed...how truly...sensitive...in tuned we are...
Hm... not sure how I veered off like this, but I just want to say...
Appreciate this opportunity
Appreciate the fact that we HAVE emotion
And through art…through poetry, we can show our true sentiments
...our amazing imaginations....our true, beautiful emotions
Even the negative ones, when we express them through art,
You can see the true beauty of having the freedom—
The emotions of one life can affect the entire world...
But most importantly they can affect YOU
And they have; whether through indifference,
Or inspirational happiness,
We are a fortunate race
How is it that I feel this way?
I don’t even know what kind of feeling it is
But I know it’s not a good one
I can’t even begin to tell you
Because I can’t even explain it myself
All I think about it you
I start to get these thoughts
They won’t go away
I wonder if you feel this way too
Like something’s missing
I re-read your texts to reassure myself
We lay on the bed in silence
I desperately want stories and laughs
I feel physically connected
But not mentally connected
day after day I’m the one puts in the time
Goes out of my way to make sure you’re ok
Why doesn’t it bounce back my way
Arnt I the one you said I meant the world to you
Then why don’t you show it
Im the girl that needs to be shown that what you say is true
That’s all I ask
This to me doesn’t seem like a big task
He betake himself to his room
Does a clear blue sky betokening a bright day?
His motivating memory needs to retrace the day,
The reverberating revival and the doom.
In the boulevard, sloppy and slippery
Derelicts yet living on the streets
Where are the members of the expedition?
Buster! Prominent players on the pains.
In his fatherland, full of luxuries,
Where he is used and kicked
With nothing like honey moon or period
His readiness is there forever,
Like compatriots who look to their history.
For words he wails in himself is not of doubt:
What goes around, comes around
And what comes the world goes the world.
A deranged attacker, could he be?
When it pains very hard
And when eyes can no more cry
The poet in my mind whispers
The words that I write
When I am happy and gay
And when my soul wants to rejoice
The poet in my mind hums
The words that I write
When I feeling discouraged
And my spirit is very low
The poet in my mind croons
The words that I write
When I am serene and animated
And when the child in me is boogie
The poet in my mind sings
The words that I write
The poet befriends my heart
And listens to very thing he say
Resonances of my heart are
The words that I write
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© Goode Guy 2012-12-02
Torn in all places It’s a whole in my heart
A box full of thoughts but empty promises equal too this awful crisis can you find the solution? How much dividing and multiplying do I need to add too put smile on your face? You bother my conscience which result in silence you confused me with your lack of emotions / communications became unbalance like a seesaw/ Pain is the weight I carry on my shoulder love is a word that trigger my Soul.
Torn in all places It’s a whole in my heart
Now you try the balance the weight from this free-fall/ Is your glass too full now I give you something too chew on You eat up I hope it’s sweet in your mouth like velvet cake now you just wait have you shaking like a penguin. Can you feel your feet dangling? Have you ever felt cold air in July before? too many people out here play games its chess not checker Jokers! Now what your next step because now you walking on suicide precautions. Have you feeling like a blind man with no directions. I kept my eye set on my targets/ This not practice shot/ I am at the range like NRA instructor
Torn in all places It’s a whole in my heart
Wake up fall asleep back in the same position laying in this king size California bed. Rotate back in the same stands where I left you in see you are like a Street Corner you never change your location same step same person same position same mindset. Now the Preacher Preach the sermon out of Psalms the choir sing the same song every Sunday can I get “A MEN” JCMT
The day seems long and very bright and the sun light is strong,
I do not dare to stare at the window, because I feel wrong.
My feelings of the morning is quite intriguing but unbelieving,
That the morning dew is just a calling for how much the day is stealing.
The sun above comes out to make it warm and revealing,
I of coarse have studied this and I myself like darkness for achieving.
Life in the dark is so pleasant at times that I do not dare think of day,
So my night becomes a twinkle of little lights that I feel is okay.
This is a write that I helped Vera with, as many people have asked her to write something. I helped to make it a better read for her, though I did not think she needed my help….Peter
Hi everybody, my name is Vera as some of you already know, and I am the wife of Peter Duggan. I came on this site to cheer Peter on, and also to read some poetry which I do enjoy at times. I have made a few friends on this site and correspond with some, and a few of them have asked me to write something. Now I have never done anything like this before, but I decided to humor these friends any way.
I could not really think of anything to write about, but then I thought of a subject dear to both myself and Peter; the transformation that he has gone through in the last five years. This might be of interest, and indeed some help to others who are having problems within their relationships with others.
We married in London in sixty five, Then emigrated to Australia in 1967 and our marriage was going very well, filled with love and laughter. But then Peter decided to join the army, and volunteered to fight in Vietnam, because he wanted to do something to repay this wonderful country back for letting him live here.
When he came back to Australia, this was when it all went pear shaped. Peter started to change; he become very aggressive and Psychologically cruel to myself and our three children and was like a keg of dynamite just waiting to explode. He would argue about everything and anything, and got involved in many very nasty fights. No one could tolerate him for very long, and myself and the children often felt like we were walking on eggshells whenever he was around. He turned to alcohol, and cannabis, and he was always off his head on any one of those drugs. Having said all this, Peter was never physically aggressive to me or the children.
Anyhow, this all came to a climax, when he suddenly walked out on us all and decided he wanted to live like a bum. Said he wanted his freedom. This was the last time I saw him for a year. When because I loved him so very much, I asked him to come back to us again. He came back, but nothing really changed, in fact I told him he would never change, and I honestly thought our marriage was beyond repair. He had done so much counselling, read every book on self-help, and tried religion [all the major ones], but nothing really helped.
Then one day about five years ago, Peter was perusing through the net, desperate to find someone to help him get rid of this evil that lurked within him He came cross a man named John Sherman, who claimed that he could help people with this simple little action, that he gave Peter to do. In his desperation Peter put his whole life into this simple act.
He never strayed from this path, and after a month or two things started dropping away. Each day he seemed to get more, and more happy, so happy in fact that he seemed to bubble with happiness. His anger started to drop away gradually until it diminished completely. He still loves to argue, but he never has to be right all the time and treats it all as a game. How anyone can change so dramatically, is completely beyond me, but the miracle happened; the evidence is before me. If I ever won the lottery, I would donate half of it to the Sherman foundation, and would be totally happy to do this. But the only thing that we can do Is spread the Sherman’s work any chance we can get. We both owe them so much.
Anyhow, this is my first write, and I hope that many people might gain something from it. Peter and I are now the the happiest couple that ever walked the face of the Earth. I thank all of you that chose to read, this. Whether I’ll ever make a second attempt one never knows. But I surely enjoyed writing this. Peter helped me to arrange the words, as I had no confidence in my own abilities…..Vera
I remember when I wrote that memoir at The Fix, when The Fix coffee shop was still on Tenth Street.
That was the year that my sister moved to Pocatello to become a nurse, you know that awful place about three hours away.
I was running a lot then, mostly at the YMCA. I took showers there and I’d stay until it closed, then I’d tell my parents that I was spending the night at a friend’s house when really I was downtown reclining the seat back in my car.
I’d wake up and go to The Fix early in the morning and type on my little netbook until my finger pads got sore.
I never really liked that netbook. It was so small and I could barely see what I was writing but then again that was back when I didn’t have my glasses.
I remember that man, that man that looked like a father who never saw his kids because he was too focused on work. He would always ask me if I liked my netbook and what I was working on and where I went to school. I don’t really remember what I said to him but it was probably something nonsense like.
Sometimes I don’t really think I wrote that nameless memoir. Maybe it was the pills that spilt blood on the page; clever, earnest, and blunt – an out of body experience because my stomach was inhaling these aliens – almost twenty a day.
I loved pecans then, pecans from the co-op and coffee, any kind of coffee.
I thrived then, solely on those things; ghastly I looked.
My dad called me the little string bean.
You know, sometimes I hate that time – looking back at the wondrous things. And I still don’t know how I wrote that, such a long piece in so little time.
I guess after all stimulation from the pills and caffeine and pecans and madly running, running, running my fingers across the keys.
And when we think we are alone
Because my family barely talked to me, that page in front of me being the only thing I talked to besides the Barista lady who memorized my order
And I went home yelling with sewing scissors in my hands because my mom hid all the real ones
And I had already read the book Running with Scissors but I ran anyway, straight to my bathroom, standing in front of the mirror.
And this time I wasn’t alone. I was with that string bean standing in front of me – moving how I moved.
And I took those sewing scissors and I cut off all of my long locks.
I don’t know why I did it. Sometimes I think that maybe I did it so people could see more of me and if they saw more of me then I wouldn’t be so alone – so much hiding.
And I remember writing that memoir - so many pages.
And once I left for that hospital in Arizona, the one that could take care of my heart and that could mold it into something heartlike again; I had left the piece all alone.
I wonder if it edited itself, like how I cut my hair, to see if I would come back to it
Scream at it
I haven’t read that piece in such a long time, since I wrote it actually.
But now I might just go back and read it and mend it and make its heart heartlike aga
With pens as our paintbrushes
and the world as our canvas,
its our hearts,
that provides the ink to our pen.
The only way to make the world change ,
is to change their ideas
of what makes a real man.
Of course this all starts off with
the slightest drop of ink
from our pens.
At times our pens will leak
with our blood,
sweat and tears.
But that just shows the world
that we are man,
and that we have real feelings.
It's more honorable for us men
to show more of our humility,
rather then to show more of our abilities .
Yes this might sound silly,
but remember, a man's humility
can always over shadow their insecurities .
A Poet may think, he or she is good
A Poet may write of daffodils of white,
or a roaring stream, capped, enraged
running for a quiet place, a solemn place
A Poet may dream of higher aspirations
of floating on clouds of powder cotton candy
while riding a Bull, in it's stride to rid the rider
then turn suddenly, to a field of umber wheat
A Poet may wish for greater things to come
when in reality, wealth will only come when
The Poet is dead and gone, more remembered
in death, than in life so aimlessly lost
A Poet may think they are at their best
in younger years, when thoughts are fresh
new, and easily come by, yet form experience
I find that not to be true, This is what I have found,
A True Poet is wise, whether from age or the
experiences they have lived, and died for,
A true Poet, Has a heart, Lives their heart
and can tell their Heart from all others,
I am a Published Poet, yet I am a Poet
I am a Poet Laurette, yet I am a Poet,
I am an International Poet Laurette,
To me,I am just a Poet, with a Heart
With all my Kudos and all my friends,
the Kudos I have thrown in a trunk,
My Poet Friends I hold dear, I say this
Do not write for acclamation, Indeed no!
That will truly, only come upon death,
Write from the Personal, your Love,
Your Heart, Your Heart break, Lust
Desires, Lorne, Beauty, Ugliness
These things a Poet makes, Not Glory
Not Fame, Not institution, Heart....
Write of yourself, Your weaknesses,
Your Strengths, Your Desires..... You!
You will come to know who you are
others will come to know you,
Your Fame will come to be in that which
you tell, And you will have PEACE!
I have Learned.... God Bless all my Poet Friends...... Live .... God Bless you all!!!!
Eight authors were killed today,
some of them, somewhat prominent,
and an unknown number were injured,
when a very large crowd of words
came rushing toward them, and
crushed them under the throng
Hundreds of onlooking readers were aghast
at the sight of surprised writers,
running from the tens of thousands
of words, phrases, and stanzas shouting
loud rhyming, some carrying sharpened prose
A bloody mass of heaping humanity
was cast over the civil edge into
a brownish-reddish swaled blog beside as
poets, slammers, and lyricists fled
Many widows and orphans sat beside the ruck,
weeping softly near the edges of their pages,
stunned, stupefied, even utterly dumbfounded
as multi-syllabic words flashed their anger,
and chased the writers to a gruesome end
Diphthongs and anagrams on the scene said
that they'd never seen such a riot of language
or a plethora of grammatical constituents
rise up against their mortal masters
The literary community is expressing
their deepened sorrow and angst with
a spontaneous outpouring of pens, pencils
steno pads, and small digital tablets
left at the scene of the rampage
Editors, secretaries, and linguists unified
to say that the guilty will be found, caught,
and expunged from the lexicography of
modern civil discourse and authorship
"Words cannot express our feelings" they said
© Goode Guy 2013-02-12
or The Mysterious Lost Love Quest
The old man dusted himself off and quickly started on his merry way
this his last port was where his desperate soul sought to forever stay
Decades of sailing ships from far flung distant foreign shore to shore
now to settle down, live happily the wealthy large life he always swore
This London town was so very large and busy , seemed just so right
no more dueling spirits , common sense had won the mighty, bitter fight
A huge bag of gems he had hidden in his weathered and trusty old sea bag
great massive and fabulous wealth of which he dare to never ever brag
Tomorrow he would soon seek out his trusted old London banking friend
buy that great huge mansion , so very much money he had to now spend!
Years had flown buy and his name and fame had so very greatly grown
so had the dark rumors, gossip of his wealth and all that he owned
He laughed heartedly as the overly outlandish , mysterious tall tales
was he a mercenary, a murdering pirate or lost son of the Prince of Wales
Had he not just bought a fleet of the fastest ocean going merchant ships
hustling back so very many costly wonders in dozens of daring trips
Now his very bold plan was just about to bear it's much sought after fruits
a legend he would birth and forever establish his name , fame and roots!
In secret he alone would assemble this very massive, awe inspiring gift
to better serve this great city, the nation, the world, and to so uplift
Much more time was all he was praying for and ever going to now need
such fame was sure to come for accomplishing this truly fantastic deed
Months turned into years as he worked intensely, franticly night and day
never allowing too much rest, sleep or pleasure to ever impede his way
So very close was the great journey coming to it's blessed, joyous end
soon, so very soon, the world would welcome this magnificent Godsend!
At last, Eureka! the massive undertaking is finished, so very well done
all sweat , pain , great costs aside he had now finally, finally won!
Never again would people look down or insultingly call out his name
the nation , the world, all mankind would declare his great fame!
Life would finally mean something and his long lost love would now See!
she had chosen the wrong man and now together they could finally be
Early next morn he flung open the massive double wide solid oak doors
revealing genius, the gift that all the world would now so richly adore!
Just then the moment became far too much for him to ever withstand
the success, the great crusade, the magnificence of his winning plan
First the dizziness and dull roar blasted deeply into his aching head
calamity struck so quickly , he fell knocking over the lamp instead
Flames now raced around his body lying face down and so very small
nobody saw the gift he had moved heaven and earth to secretly install
All burned to ashes, the success that his "lost love" was never to see!
such love, force of will came to naught, that's how wicked Fate can be!
A tale that a grizzly old sailor drunk on whiskey once dared to tell me
finished with the declaration that only He knew what that gift be!
For many hours I bought my new friend drink after drink to cleverly find
the secret , the secret he guarded so well and held deep in his mind
As the tavern was about to close he leaned over to whisper softly to me
mysteries abound, life is hard and devils hide in the deep blue sea
Hardly a day goes by that I don't remember his last words and smile
life is a loud roar on a mighty wave , so ride it in good cheer and style!
Robert Lindley, 06-06-2014
Of course, as soon as a new poetry contest was posted I had to immediately enter. In this
contest, you had to email the sponsor to get your own, unique theme.
Off went my email; back came her reply: “Write a poem about what inspired you to write
She even included one of her poems as a sample of what she was looking for. A beautiful
poem indeed; relaying the story about how her Grandmother inspired her to write.
So, I tried to emulate her with my story.
I wrote a poem about my football coach who taught me real men can write poetry without
feeling emasculated. A nice poem, albeit, total fiction.
I penned a verse about my first love encouraging me to write about our romance and how
the subsequnt breakup inspired me to write about the sorrow of love lost. A passionate and
beautiful poem, although pure BS.
I rhymed the touching story about how my mother, on her deathbed, confessed that she
knew I was writing poetry by reading my secret journal for years. Her last words to me
were to follow my passion and write poems for her in heaven. Problem is, my mother is
alive and well and has never shown any interest in reading my poems.
The fact of the matter is, I cannot pinpoint a moment in time; a person; or, an experience
that inspired me to write.
Just as I need no inspiration to breathe in order to stay alive; I write poetry as a reflexive,
Just as I need no inspiration to eat in order to satisfy my hunger; I write poems to placate
my yearning inside.
Just as I need no inspiration to dream when I close my eyes at night; words, rhymes and
stories fill my mind whenever I find a moment of peace in my hectic day.
Whereas, I envy those who know where their inspiration came from, I am less blessed with a
birth of inspiration and am more cursed with an innate need to write.
In my email to the sponsor, I bragged how I was up to the challenge, but, alas, she
presented me with a theme I cannot relate to.
I will continue to breathe words of poetry through my keyboard.
I will continue to nourish my hunger through prose.
And, I will continue to dream in rhyme and meter.
But, I have no story to wow you with about what motivated me to do so in the first place.
The irony in all of this? After admitting this truth about myself to a complete stranger in an
otherwise meaningless contest, I am inspired to continue to feed my curse and write poetry
i'm beginning to know them
a bit smudged at first
like spots on my readers, but
gradually, after a few gentle rubs
of my fingers between something soft
like a spritz of sonnet,
they slowly come into focus and
recognition comes to me
i know that one - and that one
and oh, how i loved the something or other
that that one wrote awhile back
i don't remember what it was about exactly,
but feel clearly, know, that it touched me
it's hard to know just how that happens,
yet, dear countenance, you are a friend now
i sit by the fire, welling up at your words,
i stand waiting for an elevator to
take me up, and i rise to your eloquence,
how good of you, to take me along
i lie in bed at night, occasional insomniac
and dream of your touch, your clever wisdom
your warm smile crafted across centuries and
continents to me, a once total stranger,
but now, devoted friend
© Goode Guy 2013-05-23
Igniter the Diver
Once upon a time, in a time next to mine,
A writer named Igniter decided to become a diver.
All he knew was writing, but no one cared about that,
not even his admirers. For they didn't know how to read, you see,
so the light in his passion for writing subsided abundantly.
And it died as quiet as the flame of a small candles fire, sorrowfully.
But diving wasn't hard,
although the swordfish promised to be unarmed.
And the loud hiss of conversing dolphins could not be
missed however hard one tried.
So soon he got the hang of it,
and soon he became of it,
The oceans King Poseidon.
And all the living, swimming, shimmering fish
that were inhabitants, gave Igniter the tang he lost
when he was just a dumb writer on fire.
That old dream was shattered when he climbed the social ladder,
for a more valued title, in a tide more powerful.
And isn't that all that matters?