thoughts fly into my head at all times of day
I capture about a tenth of them
The others disappear, never to return
Sometimes I wish I was a recorder
or a robot with an inhouse video camera
Maybe I could write more poems
or create more paintings
why are you laughing?
you think sixteen hundred and twenty-seven paintings are enough?
I am a skunk with burgundy hair
it flies around my head in a non-style-like-way
If my roots could grow in burgundy I would save time
But no, it has to grow in white
Thus, I am usually a skunk
Because my hair grows about an inch an hour
thanks Dad!
scottie mcperson yesterday
into a tavern seeks a fray
carrying a log
he finds in a bog
instead he meets heather macrae.
I was almost happy.
Happy,
like a cup of tea
in the months of snow and family.
Happy,
like I used to be.
Used to be,
as a child,
dreaming about what I wanna be.
But me,
wanna be anything but me.
I just don't.
Don't want to be anything,
if it's not the being inside of me,
being inside of you,
which I want to be.
You.
I don't wanna be anything but me.
I just don't want.
Don't want to be anything,
if it's not in your arms,
and heart,
and any lovely part of you
that I want.
I want you to love the Me, which loves you too.
Deep in my heart, I know you do.
That hurts me the most.
Because that's exactly
why I have to keep going on:
Living the Me, I'm used to be.
My honey and me
are going to sea
The terra firma, UC
is not for her or for me
Living in the wood
is not any good
Summer’s full of fleas
not to mention bees
Winter’s chill freezes my nose
not to mention, I’ve lost three toes
So off we go, out onto the ocean
my jar of honey and me, devoted bosun
The root cause of hate is fear
And so if you hate me then you fear me,
Which in some cases would be totally justified.
Such as if I’m a Muslim jihadi without a clue
What jihad actually means
And so wants you dead simply because we disagree,
Or say I’m a trans activist willing to kill
You and your helpless innocent children as they pray,
Because of something so arbitrary as I want to.
Everything we do sends a message
A message out into the infinite sphere of space,
Often called Heaven,
And out to everyone me meet
And these actions flavor us, our words, our looks
And most importantly our impact.
Do we seek to calm and please others
Or disturb and disrupt them?
It all depends on what they are doing.
If you’re in love with blowing yourself up
Or shooting children
In the name of some narcissistic cause
I can tell you, you should be scared,
Terrified and truly phobic,
Of my sanity, basic decency and normalcy.
Who am I?
I may be six, sixteen or sixty-six but,
“I am Charlie Kirk.”
(9/17/25)
Your monologue put on pause
don’t interrupt to feed me more platitudes
~ listen or say something nice
- Wordku: 5-7-5 words
What would you choose to do if out for fun?
You'd read a hundred pages of ‘Tom Sawyer?
Eat lentil soup, and hug an old sequoia?
She’s seventy next year, and she’s no nun –
the Jackson number five is called La Toya.
Perhaps you’d like to serve on a destroyer?
Attack a kindergarten with a gun?
Compete at auction, to secure a Goya?
Or are you, by your nature, an annoyer?
Trump Tower bound, to desecrate the foyer?
(Have patience, Gentle Reader: almost done!)
Beware the bear-trap, verbal hurdle, pun.
It’s not pronounced ‘La Jolla’, it’s ‘La Hoya’:
Just take my word. Just trust me. I’m a lawyer.
Well said.
I can’t hold a conversation that is not in metaphor.
I can see through your lies as I show you my all.
It’s not a pretty sight seeing as you do.
It’s a mixed up Zen in a world of broken fools.
It’s a beautiful time to destroy everything.
I fall at your feet to ask you for nothing.
(C)2025 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Just one last kiss, my little stotty-cake!
You are my cate, my sweetmeat, dainty dish.
Be happy, hinnie, for your "Old Man"'s sake.
You've made me happier than I could have wished.
My sugar dumpling, custard, treacle tart!
Let's part with smiles, and try to hide the ache.
It couldn't last - we knew that from the start.
For us, there'll be no happy ever after.
Go off, embrace your future. Love and thrive.
This thing, this fling, was just a young girl's dream.
It was a pudding "de nouvelle cuisine"
- that's short and sweet - but how we raised the rafters!
Remember me. And, (if I'm still alive!)
I'll often think of you with love. And laughter.
I look like the wild child of Borneo
My hair is all over the place
It sticks out like a distorted tree
I inherited this mess from my Daddy
It grows a foot or two a day
In every direction
Even directions that were not invented yesterday
It is thick and stubborn
Combs have given up
So wild child of Borneo I shall remain
on tv shows everyone drinks red wine
I would rather drink toilet water
Say something
What do you
Want me to say
Expect me to say
Hope I'll say
Expectation holding sway
The words fall short
Of the chasm
We chiseled out
From growing silence
silvered waves glisten on choppy sea
peek-a-boo moonbeams enchant me
Etun Atay
The Sword of Stars pierces the veil,
To expose the universe to a holy female.
She will bring peace throughout the lands.
The shroud will lift and there will be a man,
Who walks alone all dressed in black.
The sun on his back is a chasing fireball,
And his only escape is in her mind,
If he can find and see through her eyes.
The two will meet in a moment of perfection.
The world will unite beneath the lights of Heaven,
Which reign down upon the throng of singers,
Who sing their songs to the unbelievers,
Who shall be convinced by a story of epiphanies,
That light up life like a rain of sunbeams,
Blinding the darkness,
Making all unseen to be seen,
Creating meaning,
Dreamers dreaming,
Silence the screaming,
For only joy can reign this day.
Glory, Glory, etun atay.
(C)2025 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Specific Types of Me Poems
Read wonderful me poetry on the following sub-topics:
bio, forgive, friend, girl, healing, hurt, love, loving, marry, myself and i, personality, without you, you, you forever,
and more.
Definition | What is Me in Poetry?