Long poem by
William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |
My beautiful Daughter, walks life’s paths alone,
She does so, by design – not of hers – on her own.
She travels heavily !, from place to empty space,
from space to vacant place – in what kind of race?
A race towards where ?, towards what I do not know,
for, to me – an age and place beyond – she does not show
where it is, - where she wants her future to go
if ?, going anywhere – accomplishing - is a guiding
force in her life, seeking out, chasing after lightening.
There are times, when I hear, in my words
the sounds of need, – empty in their experience –
looking for some of what has been offered.
What has been offered, I see, it is not meant for me.
I keep being dragged back into this nightmare,
a nightmare ?, so I am lead to believe, could it be ?
Within the stories, the tone, I hear, I perceive it to be
but have to wonder ?, is it ?, really but a dream
that can find no reality on this plane , never comes true,
therefore it truly is !, becomes the nightmare.
In the words that tell, I see, I hear, I feel
the sword that plunges deep, with which to defend,
to destroy the foe – the lover – a man not to know
yet not forgotten, not left alone, not let go of.
He - the nightmare – is always there, he doesn’t care,
he is a rotting residue in, a part of life’s moments.
He is your nightmare, in your dreams, in every waking hour!
These sad eyes see, these sensitive ears, in pain, hear the pain,
this old heart feels, but this useless blade, – a knife that hides
within my, closed mouth – seems not able to cut away at the ties
that bind you to life’s strife – to the nightmare.
Could it be unfulfilled desires ?, unrealized dreams ?
What has taken forty nine life times to create,
might be attributed to nature, nurturing or fate,
but may not be digested, accepted, understood or dissipated.
Regardless of the words, the meaning, what else can be stated ?
I know that in forty nine hour days, my thoughts my feeling
will never find a way to reach out and touch a solid ceiling
and so, in my many words, in my actions, I pray
that it all can be set aside, and all can be put away.
A walk from the dark side, into the darkness.
Little, to nothing could this impotent old man / dad offer
his Child, his oldest Daughter, in so much need.
Nothing could he bestow upon his Child, or his lover,
with her insecurities, doubts, his insatiable greed,
and so, escape not, she walks along with his need
as it has been something he has decreed.
Oh !, how remiss to leave them on their own, to agree
to their coarse, a course that could take them on
to complete the journey they started, then gone.
Time, enough !, distance is past
Time to stop !, turn around at last
and face what the outcome will be.
Open eyes, a new beginning to see.
May I leave sun set’s path, face the sun rise
coming through that black velvet screen before me
with it’s spattered, day-glow dots, all aglow
opening inner sanctum doors, allowing me to know.
Thoughts for me, alternative for them flash before my mind.
What will they do ?, am I being so unkind ?
Will one, the other or both be bussed back to Ontario ?
As I walk back to the room, I ponder the scenario ?
Will we ( all three ) carry on with our little adventure
into the canyons and gorges, the city of all nights lights
– the city where angels never sleeps – I cannot be sure ?,
sure if they will end their – for my attention – fights.
Will we see the city ?, where one man built his fantasy,
walk among dreams brought to life, a fun reality
of cartoon characters, animated for the child in us
or in the end, to Ontario on a Greyhound bus ?
Will we see stars ?, stars on a walk, in the city of angels
At this juncture, what will be the story one tells ?
Will the Golden Gate carry us ?, will we ride the hills ?,
on their steel rails, tell tales of all our thrills ?
Will we end these moments in gods country ?,
the city of the British, the salmon run, a hollow tree,
mountains, bays, bears, a Princess, poetess gone to ash,
her rhyme, this forth cousin of mine, they did stash,
hidden from obvious view, in the woods of Stanley park,
where few knew, and for a hundred years, lay in the dark.
Many know not where Native, folk lore doth reside ?
In her books, hand in hand and side by side,
along with as many nationalities as there are nations.
In this place, women brought to life her creations.
Before I leave this bleak walk, in the arms of this black night,
My thoughts are, hope that all will come out all right,
when one of those day glow dots, in that black velvet sky,
all a glow, took off, streaked south, caught my eye
as it crossed the heavens, fast as the speed of light,
in the pattern of a Zed, then disappeared from sight.
( Strange !!!, this speck of star light, it’s unusual flight
as it star-ts out from nothing, speeds south on a
horizontal plane, pauses a split second, reverses direction,
drops down vertically, on an angle northward, towards a point
where it started out, again paused for a split second, then,
on a horizontal plan, zipped south before disappearing into star,
in the starry back drop from whence it took life, for a moment. )
This story, – twenty five years old – in rhyme, comes to life,
for a brief moment, from a memories hoard, rife
with so many stories hidden from sight
coming from rhyme - into light.
B. J.“A ” 2
May 30th 2002
Long poem by
Funom Makama | Details |
How the housefly gets attracted to organic decay
and an infant child traces the voice of its mother
are nothing compared to the intense attraction
Michelle and I possess on the guy owning not a strand of hair on his head
but is in command of all forms of feminine arousal
Our weakness was too glaring; our lust, too embarrassing
the chance to act rare and expensive we've lost.
All we've got is to dance to the tune of his authority
as he smiled and consented to our 'not so hidden' desires.
Now, he walks straight at us his every step, an additional load on me
I seem to carry the entire solar system on my chest.
My heartbeat, pulsations and breath are as loud as a live rock band
"I've never seen you here is this your first time?"......... He said
"Yeah, actually!".................. I said.
My friend and I responded simultaneously
our answers gushing out like a group of running horses,
mine seem to carry more weight as it tames any challenge from hers.
"So, how did two love Angels fall in such an unworthy place as this?"......... He said
"How unworthy?"........................................... I Said.
I've championed the game of words and emotions
and just as what inevitably defines the day is sunlight
so is my testament.
Michelle showed glimpse of disapproval to my replies
but my exclamation of her name gave adequate caution.
"yes, this place is unworthy, because I need to pass through seven Oceans
and seven hills to see someone like you"........... He said.
"Then you'll never find me there. I'm not a specie going extinct." ............................ I Said.
The gods of luck have smiled on the Lions once again
in preference to other cats.
The father of favour, shaking hands with the Eagle
while by-passing the other birds.
This is my exact situation as jealousy builds a castle in my friend's heart.
"So, what's your name, sweet damsel?"...... He said.
"Anna"........................................................ I said.
This is a familiar routine, his plan is as detectable
and as obvious as watered grass
but letting it turn green is what I must not allow
so that the security of my reputation is not compromised.
"Anna is a lovely name, do you like poker?"........ He said.
"No, I don't!"........... I said.
The looks of my friend, spoke 'awe' mine replied in aggression
then she flowed in complete understanding on its message on not acting cheap
especially to the one we've shown so much likeness.
"So what do you like?".......................He said.
"Going out to the Cinema or the beach or engaging in salsa".......................... I said.
Already scoring goals and dominating the game,
I felt my opponent was completely toothless and flattened.
But playing along is my aim to make him beg on his knees
which adds to my fame.
"Can we try any of those sooner?"......................... He said.
"How do you mean?"............................................... I said.
Another punch brings about another shield
and sometimes a strong defence feels more fulfilling than a heavy attack.
"Let's go out to the movies this night"............. He said.
"I'm busy tonight!"........................................... I said.
It feels like punishment to him but he takes it like a challenge
and this keeps me far from winning.
Being on top is my birth right and a step lower is deemed a sacrilege.
"What about going to the beach this weekend?".................. He said
"I'll be out of town"................................................................. I said.
Persistence could be rewarding but my protective walls
are just too thick for any form of penetration;
too high for any form of infiltration
and too deep for any form of condemnation.
"Then, when would you be free to teach me Salsa?"............................ He said.
"I'm not stable, neither can I determine my free time"..................... I said.
The game of attack and defense is never absolute
as the attacker may fall victim of a rare counter attack
or the defender, gets wary of his defense
with no chance to pull an offensive string.
Either, ending up as the vanquish despite the brilliant strategies being set up.
"Michelle, are you also unstable like Anna?"...... He said
"What!"............................................................... I said.
Envy plans on a historic transfer
while my friend poised not an aota of difficulty
and this makes me extremely furious.
She was just at the corner waiting for this opportunity
and even before it avails itself, she snatches it into her well guided belongings.
Looking at both in confusion and disappointment;
they share contacts and crack jokes.
"I'll give you a call this evening".................. He said
Nothing I said because now, Michelle is running the show.
Long poem by
Louis Borgo | Details |
To know your history is to know your literature a lesson to learn, which will
Stand the test of time and what one founds of their in heritage no matter how enduring and grim it may seem it something you should embrace-
I came from a small city with big roots and routinely I was ask “where are you from”, especially from girls, if it wasn’t that it he thinks he cutie? And I’m asking why I would say something like that. Or He thinks him smart, God!!! I’m just answer the teacher question? But when I got older, older woman told me they probably think that ascent was sexy and I’m thinking where in high school what do they know about sexy? Man is her computer seat warm? America woman I just don’t understand them? I wonder what they do if they heard me speak a few difference language at same time? Thank god I’m quite because it not like they can read my mind. But it got me thinking from and questioning
What I found was the name Borgo had many difference Ethnicity & meaning with it as well as nationalities and that Borgo is Small Island between France and Italy. And if history may not mention it was a Borgia who captured Napoleon? How do I know where did it take place?
No wonder I like Caribbean woman and it is this one that get my heart beat beating up to 400 beats per seconds if that is possible I can’t say it is a forbidden love but what I will say is breaking the ice and melt when think out loud? And yes she knows my name but why ask not why but why are some lyrics so deep my dear? Remember some old friends asking don’t you make beats? As I have some bread and tea.
And that Bourbon is a drink, a Pecan Pie and a Street I’m thinking man if I have girlfriend
What date it would be-
Then I dig deeper and found the prime sources that seem to let to these events the Borgia or borja married into royalty which happen to be Louisa Borgia who married Philp De Bourbon or Philip V of Spain. He was rejected as King Louis legitimate son because born out of wedlock but later accepted but Philp never forgave and where he could have been both king of France and Spain he was just the king of Spain. Question I ask do any one know today the real reason why France has no nationality? Hurtfully to write or hear but i heritage mean full name as should other take to one, I have heard rumors that true bloodlines of nations of Kings that don’t rightfully take the throne it is a reason for that but not my place to say the way history is written is just to say to remember men wrote history but literature holds another tell? Who can tell the differences, but one question for god I always ask
Why so much war my lord, I truly feel like a man without a country and
Just walking away-
I myself never came from money I start literally from nothing but as I got older I was given legitimate connection legitimate ideas and principals and the understanding of wealth but so trying of spending night and days with no day off of a seven day week wonder if I can make those principals work for me as sick as I am there are reason undefined why I do this things and money is not the endorsement my life is more complication then eye may receive to capture but if you listen you learn more than just hand written if you get the drift-
I was never told of my in heritage put as one will it something like a scare or tattoo I had to found to adjust to my nick name is “Jason” but my full name is Louis Antonio Borgo III as I’m about to fall to sleep and lost all aim of conscience I see a email with my full name spell out in Ancestry.com question how did they know I was search for them and if I ever be accepted from this other half as I am a man literally without a country and in love with French woman more than American the phone rings and a woman from Canada called speaking French I drop the phone and finally I fall to sleep and As I sleep dreaming could anyone imagine wanting to go home but where? Remembering the ringing noise of girls ask
” where are you from”...
Long poem by
Katie Pukash | Details |
When I was a child I only ever wanted to be strong.
I wanted to be able to compete with the boys
and when I foot raced them at recess I won every time.
They called me ‘She Hulk’ because of my muscular frame
and from the way I only ever wore soccer t-shirts and sweat pants.
After that nickname was implanted into my brain like a growing weed,
I’ve only ever wanted to be feminine.
I started wearing skirts and dresses
and in middle school they shrieked at the site of my makeup and done up hair.
But that weed inside of my mind only grew, and grew, and grew
until I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part anorexic and two parts lonely,
because I thought that the definition of feminine began with the word frail.
No one ever realizes how greatly words affect us,
how a simple nickname can turn a pretty girl into a skeleton.
I stood at five foot two weighing seventy nine pounds,
so cold and frozen,
yet I still considered myself a ‘She Hulk.’
You could see my ribcage through my t-shirt
and my spinal cord protruded loudly through my weathered skin,
as if somehow my bones were dirty knives
just trying to cut through the flesh of judgment.
As I grew older I became the girl that was never enough.
Not good enough to speak poetry.
Not good enough to lay paint on a canvas.
Not good enough.
Not tall enough.
Not big enough boobs for them.
Not primped to perfection.
Not undeniably straight.
Not smart enough.
Not dumb enough.
Not ditsy enough.
Not cool enough or fun enough.
And I began to believe, too, that I wasn’t enough.
I never told my mother that I had been in madly in love with a girl.
I never told anyone about the night we first kissed
because I was too vulnerable for the judgment.
And parents always justify saying that ‘kids will be kids’
But when we are kids our brains are still growing
and the smallest of seeds that get planted will one day bloom
into one giant regret,
will one day affect the choices that we make,
will one day influence us about the clothes that we wear,
will one day shape us into the person who we thought we would never be.
I only ever wanted to be strong,
and as a child I thought strength was only about being able
to lift a bar stool above your head.
I thought that strength was only about being able
to beat the boys in bare foot running races.
I was told that strength was something only
a man could have.
But as I’ve grown older I’ve realized that strength
isn’t about muscle at all,
but it’s about weakness,
and the ability to overcome the social anxiousness.
It’s about carrying around a lifetime of baggage
on your broken back
because the ones that kicked you when you were down
are going to be the ones that were ultimately wrong.
I thought that the definition of woman
began with the word disappointment.
And I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part freedom
and two parts Sailor Jerry
because every girl needs a stiff drink once and awhile.
We are not disappointments.
We will never be the ones who gave up on hope.
We will never be the ones who gave up on each other,
or our mothers.
We will always be enough;
enough for the ones who shunned us
enough for the ones that cursed us
enough for the ones the hurt us
and destroyed us
and beat us when we were covered in bruises.
But you see, bruises fade
and the scars of our flesh are only stories
things we have overcame
and there are things out there that we will overcome.
When I was a child, I only ever wanted to be strong.
I hid my vulnerability.
I hid the parts of me that were true.
I never told my mother about my girlfriend
because I was afraid she wouldn’t understand,
kind of like all those people who never understood
just how much words effect us.
I can’t say that I can beat the boys at foot races anymore,
because, well, I smoke cigarettes now.
And I can’t say that the nickname of my childhood didn’t affect me.
But I take that name now and embrace it.
Because I am strong.
I am the ‘she hulk’.
I am a mixed drink cocktail
with three parts greatful.
Long poem by
Teenage Frustrations | Details |
I hate the birth mark under my right eye
I hate my extremely static hair
I hate my big bottom lip
I hate my spotty nose
I hate that I have really *****y times
I hate that people only remember me for my really *****y times
I hate that the real *****es hate me
I hate being cautious so they don’t ***** about me
I hate that I cry over everything
I hate that people know I cry over everything
I hate that I hide from them anyway
I hate that they actually don’t care
I hate the fact that my brother is leaving home next year
I hate the fact that I cried when he told me that
I hate the fact that I hid my tears from him
I hate the fact that he’s all I really have left
I hate my father for making me feel like he doesn’t care about me
I hate my mother for making me feel like she picked him over me
I hate that my brother had to look after me when they couldn’t be bothered
I hate that, in my eyes, they don’t deserve to be called mum and dad
I hate that when I was younger I had to run away from my father
I hate that my mother and brother left me by myself that day
I hate that they left me closer to my father
I hate that they went somewhere I would have felt safer
I hate that I feel like my friends are slowly fading away from me
I hate that I feel like I’m a third wheel
I hate that I feel like my friend’s don’t trust me
I hate that I feel like I can’t trust my friends
I hate the feeling of loneliness
I hate that I read books to escape to a world better than mine
I hate that I write to create a better life than my own
I hate that people want to invade that one heaven I invented
I hate that people ask me why I made Katy Clover Taylor
I hate that I had to make a role model for myself
I hate that she is the person I desperately want to be
I hate that she is the one thing I will never live up to
I hate that I feel like my grades would grasp my families attention
I hate that feeling of disappointment when I get a bad grade
I hate feeling like I have to live up to an expectation to hold their attention
I hate that I am relied on because of my grades
I hate that I am an older mind trapped in a younger body
I hate that I am limited in what I can do because of my age
I hate not being trusted upon
I hate people treating me as a kid
I hate not telling people how I feel
I hate hiding behind an invisible barrier
I hate not being able to share how I feel with people
I hate being scared that they won’t care.
I hate people judging me
I hate judging people
I hate that feeling of giving up
I hate the feeling of losing when I didn’t give up
I hate the choices I have made
I hate that nobody thinks I can live up to my dream
I hate people thinking they are so much better than me
I hate the fact that they are right
I hate that I will never make a good girlfriend
I hate the fact I know nobody would fall for me
I hate knowing that no one would help me pick up my life
I hate that it has fallen apart
I hate hurting the people I love
I hate them not loving me anymore
I hate knowing that what I would do would hurt people
I hate the fact I do it anyway
I hate knowing that I do all of this
I hate knowing I hate all of this
I hate trying to change it
I hate that I am not able to change it
I hate that I try not to give up hope
I hate knowing all hope is lost
I hate that I still try and cling to it anyway
I hate knowing I failed at that too
But most of all
I hate not being able to express this until now
I hate that this still won’t change a thing
I hate thinking that it still might
I hate knowing that no one cares
Long poem by
Odin Roark | Details |
by Odin Roark
I was well aware of the Hollywood bubble,
The Washington bubble,
The 1% bubble,
But my own vacuum couldn’t be that permeable…
I might have chosen insulation,
Just had many others.
Even her cat.
Did that make us all unrealistic,
Or merely protective,
Who wants to be vulnerable?
Who yearns to be bilked,
Oh, I had a thesaurus of justifications.
Here I was, sitting on the bus bench, eating my Big Mac… waiting.
Not for the bus, but the next panhandler.
Some kind of addiction, eh?
Of course I had the right to judge.
I worked hard.
Kept my job.
Never bummed around.
Never got into drugs,
I was a good guy.
Minding my business in my well constructed bubble.
Why did today start the doubts?
I was just sitting there, when, oh, Jesus.
Here comes that fucking mongrel again.
What’s with this mangy dog.
Give me a panhandler to reject, any day.
This damn mutt was a deal breaker.
I was fixed in my ways.
And this little shit was always…
What do you want?”
Mr. Grunge sat back on his haunches. Just sat there.
I fingered what was left of the burger.
He tilted his head.
“Yeah… So what? Man’s gotta eat.”
I took another bite.
Mr. Grunge didn’t move. An ever so quiet sound slipped through his panting now.
Hell, he knew me. Seen me enough times on this bench. Knew I wanted to be one way, but always found myself being another when he turned up.
So gentle, his lean forward. A sniff first. (Even he knew it was always a good idea to sniff a McDonald’s first) His eyes looked up at me, then gently took the piece I’d torn off for him.
“So…you got what you wanted. Beat it.”
See…this is what I mean. He didn’t run off like all the other times. He laid down at my feet, his muzzle resting on my shoe. “You’re fucking up my thing. You know that, don’t you? Panhandler is going to avoid me now, thinking you’re some kind of rabid monster that will bite his ass if he comes near.”
Then, it happened.
Down the sidewalk strolled his guy. You know the look. Made the mutt look freshly shampooed.
I got into my “Go fuck yourself” mood. Readying up my usual protective…
But, this guy just sat down on the bench. Didn’t look at me. His eyes looked down at the dog.
And I’ll be damned if he didn’t reach into his pocket, pull out an old dried up half-bagel—yeah dumpster or waste basket cuisine—broke off half for Mr. Grunge, sighed and munched on the other half. “Nice day,” he says.
So now there’s three of us munching away. Fuck it…I give what’s left of the burger to the guy, and I’m wondering if I’ve picked the wrong sphere for myself. There’s got to be one that’s right for me, right?
Oh, c’mon. Don’t get all superior on me now. We’ve all got our bubbles. How you gonna survive without one. Fear’s natural. I just need to pick my dreaded whatever better. You know, the kind of threat that’s really worth being afraid of. Like maybe never seeing the mutt again. Never witnessing a panhandler that’s handing out. You know?
I guess I should go with the flow, ‘cause it never gets easy.
Long poem by
Evin cruz | Details |
WHEN I GOT STABBED
The blade went through my flesh like a knife through melting butter.
Thoughts ran through my head as I bled out, like no more will I see my mother
Anger and rage streamed through my veins so I didnt feel the pain.
Im on my way to my car and get into the passenger seat.
My girlfriend Sareina runs to the other side, I hear the thud of her feet.
Getting into my car was quite a task, it was lower and
close to the ground.
Time seems to freeze as my are starts to throb and my head
begins to pound.
I hear the car turn over and roars to life, as I sit there and
mine drains out.
As were driving I look around me and see the crimson splatters
I hear my mom on the phone asking my big brother Rikki
whats the matter.
He hears the trembling in her voice and doesnt know what to say .
He said mom Evin got stabbed but dont worry he'll be okay.
Sareina swerves through traffic trying not to crash.
I lift my blood soaked shirt and remove it from the gash,
She sees the slice in my wrist, panice and begins to scream.
At the time it didnt seem real, like a fable or some bad dream.
She pushes the pedal to the floor, the engine gets louder and louder.
Already in motion the car lunges forward releasing all its power,
My fingers go numb and my hand beging to follow.
Sitting there in a pool of blood its getting harder to swallow
we make it to the hospital, skidding in front of the door.
I open my attempt to get out, but almost fall to the floor.
Rikki and Sareina help me as I stumble into the lobby.
My blood soaked cloths send velvet liquid dripping down my body.
As I stand there among the rukus and comotion,
My mind seems to fade away no worries or emotions.
I woke up in the back on a table I hear singing,
A womans soft angelic voice this cant be real I must be dreaming
Extreme amounts of pain let me know that this is real
the singing nurse says welcome back with a smile like it was no big deal.
We cant get the bleeding to stop so we had to give you more
I hear sobbing so I turn my head and try to focus on the door,
the crying was coming from my mom who was sitting by my side.
The doctors tell her that theres a problem and were going for a ride,
we dont have surgeons here to help you.
Sounding hopelss and exhausted she sighed, we've done all we can do.
We're sending you to Portland, they'll make you good as new.
Falling in and out of consciousness, we reach our destination.
On the verge of giving up hearing family say stay strong, gives me motivation.
Getting rushed off the ambulance and seeing my loved ones tears
made me feel more strength, but striked some sudden fear.
Like will I make is through the day to see them smile again,
Or is this my time to go will this be my end.
Later I awoke to see everyones relieved and anxious smile,
I asked how long I've been out it seemed like quite a while.
My mom said you've been under for a couple days,
you've had two surgeries but dont worry both of them went okay.
I closed my eyes and smiled to myself I'm thankful the angles heard me pray.
By Evin cruz
Long poem by
Edmund Siejka | Details |
What Is Love
by Edmund Siejka
My parents argued frequently
So love was an elusive something
Usually found in someone’s else’s home
In high school
A little more sure of myself
I dated my first girlfriend
In the go- go decade of the sixties
When Kennedy was President
And the race to the space
In working class neighborhoods
Sex was a taboo subject
Ours was a puppy love
Gail was intimidated by the city
Rarely ever leaving her Queens neighborhood
I, more adventurous
Worked in Manhattan as a messenger
My simplistic view of life
Was Midtown was Midtown
Above was Uptown
And somewhere near the misty Harbor
Hedged in a hodge podge of narrow streets
Oh yes, there was another simplistic truism
Don’t knock up your sixteen year old girlfriend
Eventually when we split
And behind her back
I choked on my tears.
Going to college under the GI Bill
I lived in the East Village
One night a couple introduced me to their friend
At a place that later became CGBG’s
She was quiet and ignored me
After our second meeting
She asked me to go with her to another place
Seated in a booth
Drinks on the table
I felt eyes on me
Especially from the tall well dressed waitress
Whose arrival was announced by the fragrance
Of sex scented musk.
It turned out my quiet date
Was a poet/artist
Some years older
She knew everyone in the art world
She drank a lot
But I was not known to pass up a drink
Sex, a necessity
Was often expected
She gave me advice
Introduced me to artists
But despite the casualness of the people
The first names
And pretty smiles
I soon realized that the art world
Was a world within a world
Of dog eat dog
Lost, she needed to find herself
And I was just too young to take on the added burdens of stepchildren,
House and home.
Judy was a no nonsense woman
Who went through the motions of sex
Our mornings were awkward with not a word being said
She didn’t drink
Which in my jumbled way of thinking
I could never talk to her
It was then that I began to doubt that
Sex and the bar scene was the way to go
Some weekends I just stayed home
Or drank with my buddies.
Our conversations inevitably coming to
What was a good relationship
And what did we want to accomplish
Once we hit thirty.
I met Elaine
It was the ease of how we met
It just happened
But what was the key to our relationship?
Or was it that I finally grew up
Ready to accept responsibility.
I trusted her
I listened to her
She was on my side
Maybe that’s what love is?
Whatever defines love
It’s something the great philosophers can’t explain
A compound of many things
Mixed up in some crazy laboratory
Stronger than any emotion
That binds one person to another
And allows two people to live as equals.
Long poem by
Vee Bdosa | Details |
THE VALENTINE PHOTO--2014
Bubba was tired and his feet were aching from walking so
much. He and Carly had walked up and down the block 5 times
looking for his wallet. It only had $46 in it but he didn't
want to lose the pictures. There was a snapshot of them
making love on the sofa in their first apartment that first
valentines night and then a photo of Carly when she was in
her valentines dress. His drivers license was in the wallet,
too, but it had expired and he never could remember to re-
"I don't think we'll ever find it, Bubba," Carly
said, resting her backside against a brick building. Just
then Raston came around a building and saw them.
"Hey wots 'appenin Bubba?" Raston said.
"Lost my damn billfold," Bubba said.
"You lose you wallet in this neighborhood and it's in
somebodys pocket before it even can hit the ground,"
"Who lost they billfold?" a girls voice said. It was Patti;
and she had followed Raston around the corner of the build-
ing. "Is they a reward for that billfold?" She asked.
"Maybe, you know who gots my bill fold?" Bubba said.
"I seen that guy over cross the treet lookin in a
green billfold just now," she grinned.
"My billfold is a green one!" Bubba said, heading across
"You be careful now Bubba, that dude is one mean dude!
He chew you up and spit you out."
The guy was over six feet tall and looked like he should be
able to win some kind of a muscle contest.
"Hey man you find my billfold?" Bubba asked him.
"Was they a picture of you wife in a valentine dress"?asked
the guy, a big grin on his face.
"Sure there was," replied Carla. "Now we know you got
that wallet for sure."
"I ain't found nobodys billfold." said the guy, spitting on
"Did too," said Patti. "I seen you."
"Give my billfold now!" shouted Bubba.
"And if'n I don't?"laughed the guy.
"Well I just havta take you apart I guess,"
"You talkin pretty mean for such a little fella," laughed the
"You gonna give me my billfold now?" asked Bubba.
"Sure I give you your bill fold," said the guy, grabbing Bubba's
ding-dongs in a hammer hold. "But first I'm gonna make it with
your woman right her on Broad Street in broad daylight, and you
gonna hold my coat while I do it, and you better not let my coat
sleeves drag the ground neither."
Bubba was still wrenchig in agony and pain when the
guy finished and disappeared around the corner.
"Boy that guy sure was mean," said Carla after the guy
"Now I told you not to mess with that guy, I told you he
was one mean dude." Raston said.
"He sure was mean," Carla said, a sly little twinkle in
"I don't know about that," moaned Bubba. "I done let
his coat sleeves drag the ground three times!"
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet.
Long poem by
J. W. M. Earnings | Details |
The stranger treads the sidewalk,
Walking his happy-go-lucky canine
Solitude is preserved in him…
He’s as hard as a rock
Faint melody is heard on his cell phone
As quick as lightning strikes
Acting chicken with his girlfriend,
Calling him unexpectedly during his fine walk with his buddy
He picks up the phone timidly in a hurry
He talks on his phone at a quarter till nine
Dance with me with the bells chiming in the distance
Are you a ghostly friend or a fiend, being a feisty, greedy predator?
In the background, I see you swaying right this instance
Are you alone or are you with someone else?
I don’t mean to intercede…I want you to lead the way, you heroic leader!
Get out of your comfort zone
Share with me your angelic features – a secret left unknown
Whisper into my ears and I’ll never feel alone
I remember those moon-drenched nights we made love,
Now I’m as hard as stone
You blow my mind with sunlit serenity
Yonder come night, moon-drenched nights come our way
Leaving behind all heartache, piling upon us with poverty
Render your dreams to the peace-abiding angels and they’ll paint us
A thousand more moon-drenched nights,
Spoiling us rotten with peace paradise, not disarray
Lift your head off the floor and look upright and see the eye-catching sights!
Move forward and be the light of the world of woe
Are you a clever angel or a devious devil,
Stimulated by blood-fire and stealing away our moon-drenched nights?
Cemented ink splotches the skies with menacing lies
I can hear your echoing goodbyes, I see you vaguely, making high-pitched cries
My ears are bleeding…can you hand me a tourniquet?
I’m feeling sorry for you…can you pass me a handkerchief?
Are you alone and want everyone to be on your level?
I don’t mean to be rude or anything of that nature,
But you resemble a brainless follower!
Can you see the sun beams,
Streaming down beneath the surface of the sea?
We’re breaking by the seams
It’s NOT what it seems…what happened to your glory?
Has it transformed to envy and melancholy?
The stranger treads the sidewalk,
Walking with a peculiar, stray feline by his side,
Too shy to reveal herself in front of him
Fearing rejection…fearing judgmental comments
But still feeling that same whim
The sky was overcast and the clouds were grim
The dog and his friendship were blazing aflame…
God knows what the cat felt,
Knowing that deep down inside – this nameless shame
This shady, yet dazzling sensation is bottled up in him…
He’s smoking a cigarette –
I wish him moon-drenched nights with his fiancé
He’s walking on thin ice as his violin voice projects louder than ever…
I wish he would shut his mouth and be with his darling
Forever in a single moon-drenched night
All along, he was chit-chatting
On his phone at a quarter till midnight