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Best Cookie Cutter Poems | Poetry

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The Best Cookie Cutter Poems

Details | Cookie Cutter Poem | Create an image from this poem.

When I Leave this World

When I leave this world
It won’t be silently
NO, I will leave behind a note
A note of reproach
For the sin of humanity
In the inability to feel with…to feel for
To truly love
Another human being
Who has the curse of being….

When I leave this world
My words I’ll behind
To a world that was unkind
To a world that only loved
Cookie cutter shapes and sizes
A world with a status quo
That couldn’t be tampered with
A world that embraced
The lovely
The beautiful
The happy….oh the happy
Those with perpetual smiles
With lilting voices of angels
And with beauty of the ages
Those worthy of love
Serene angelic doves
Who never felt despair
But were always bright and fair

When I leave this world
I will leave behind
A legacy for those
Who were unloved
Who didn’t have sound minds
Who struggled along the way
Who tried to be beautiful
Who tried to smile
Through ripped and aching hearts
Who tried to stay afloat
When others would just gloat
Those who tried to be brave
But longed for the grave
To those I will say
“You are beautiful 
You are worthy
You are precious
You are priceless
Your mind though tormented
Is full of beautiful treasure
Don’t blame yourself
For not being able to fit
In this selfish and crazy world
You are not a misfit
The world is unable
To make itself fit
To the dazzling beauty of you
So, just do what it takes
Just do what it takes
To get through the pain
To get to tomorrow
Maybe, maybe
You’ll hear my voice
Whisper to you in the breeze
Telling you to make the world
A better place
A more caring place
Because of YOU!"

Eileen Manassian Ghali

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013

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Rainbows Dreaming of Gray

Scrambling tooth and nail for a patterned fate
I approached the lofty mansion of Learning's Gate.
All cued up for a slip of paper - the one they call Degree,
halfway convinced that I hallucinated humanity.
For who under their own free will would venture
into this spiraling sameness:
this illustriously-in-debt, this Regal Club
of the Nameless?
I bellowed my voice into the air
(This great atrocity!).
But not a single student seemed to care:
So well fashioned they were,
adorned in their prized medals of mediocrity.
Along with their unwillingness to ever stray,
all too content to be but rainbows dreaming of gray.
I hung my head in such morose emptiness.
As I fashioned myself: the uniquely ubiquitous.
And what a fool I was to join the crowd - and yet so halfheartedly.
Striving for the cirrus clouds, the silver moon, and then the galaxy.
For my actions didn't match my cerebral creativity
I was statue still cursed with a meandering mind
(and other such extremities).
Exploding with hopes large enough for two
I sat clearly convinced languid leaps would do.
But one cannot daintily decide to dream the Dream
for it is merely the seed, another earthly deed.
You're not allowed to walk away, gandering as it grows,
for we are likened as the summer sun - keeping the rivers a'flow.

"Picturing profits in your hands
do not till the all too ready land"
explained the elderly gent with leathered palms, 
"Someday soon you will understand."

And though we aim to be ourselves
gravity inevitably
brings us to the grid.
Imagination like a heavy rain;
we the paper people
so helplessly hid.

But fear not ye denizens
of the cherished cubbyhole:
where you keep under lock and key
your dust-laden soul.
If one burgeoning blunder
tore it all asunder
surely one single spirited spark
could heal even the most
dormant of hearts.

So fare thee well oh Cookie Cutter Coop -
Another day on that wretched plain, and I'd surely die.
I'm glad just to sever sameness in one fell swoop
by hanging on a star in the midnight sky.

NOTE: I always enjoyed using alliteration when I could... and with this particular one I went a little bit nutty... but I think it turned out okay.

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2014

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Poetry is... Art

Poetry is... Art
       by Amy Swanson

Poetry comes in all


About all kinds of


It can be

free verse
.... and so many more-!

Poetry's authors are

from everywhere
all ethnicities
or even no-haired

Poetry is 







strongly stated.

It is about




and in-between.

It is

          word art

                           from the heart.

It can make you

or even goo-goo eyed!

Poetry ... just is.

There is only one thing
        Poetry is not ...


Each verse as unique
        as the heart that wrote it

Each line as unique
        as the soul that felt it.

And so
simply said:

Poetry is... art.

Copyright © Amy Swanson | Year Posted 2009

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Silhouettes on the Stage 1953

Lying still on the class room floor,
brown paper for a bottom sheet.
All the children were gathered round
and my outline was complete.

A cookie cutter girl was I
in bright black paten leather shoes;
with a gathered skirt, puffy blouse
of blue polka dotty hues.

Drawn silhouette, a paper doll,
not ashen as deaths cold harrow,
and I regret, my parents get
left Hiroshima's shadows.

Eight years gone the Rising Sun
was challenged in an earthy sky;
for bombs Little Boy and Fat Man fell
and two-hundred thousand people died

The Man of Steel, old Stalin
passed away in Russia this year;
the hot cold war was in full bloom
and our children hid in fear.

Beneath our desk tops we scrambled
as the shrill sirens shrieked away
the Committee of Five ruled Russia
and Khrushchev was on his way.

Dwight Ike was in the White House
as a veteran, he'd fought hard
the GI bill was now in affect
and bomb shelters filled our yards.

And little girls with ringlet curls
still made dollies on paper sheets;
while the doll shadows left by WWII
bombs blackened in Japan's streets.

*On August 6, 1945, the United States used a massive, atomic weapon against Hiroshima, Japan. This atomic bomb, the equivalent of 20,000 tons of TNT, flattened the city, killing tens of thousands of civilians. While Japan was still trying to comprehend this devastation three days later, the United States struck again, this time, on Nagasaki. Nagasaki was bombed on August 9, 1945 only three days after the bombing of Hiroshima. And we worry that other countries may develope atomic bombs???

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2009

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Part 1: FORE SIBERIAN FATE silk wings wet - angel on the lake. starlight glitter separates from the golden wheat. her docile hair, prophecy of ice. winter pink, pinched cheeks. ice skate scrapes - flecks of flakes. the snow queen before her relentless reign, a pretty thing. her smile warms the water, her eyes true glacier blue. Part 2: APOCALYPSE glacier blue eyes thunder, icy waves surprise the tow. it goes under… homemade flakes, bitter bite of solid shards, assails the wicked night. it’s her laugh that shackles the wind, splitting islands, toppling icebergs. her marionette claws control the climate. her blades precisely suffer the ice. mercurial avalanche. thermometer drops. children burrow under blankets. atmospheric fear. dry lines, etched into the snow-white canvas. Part 3: COLD SHOULDERS entrenched in idiopathic insanity a steadfast echo ‘he lied...he lied’ when she could cry no longer her tears crystallized, her iceberg eyes - epic blue. friends’ cold shoulders like disembodied shrugs. misery she cannot shake. one thing she managed to stand over mountain peaks graceful with siberian tiger teeth, shoulders perfectly rounded. her slight figure wrapped in majestic blue - the raw color of her bondage. curiosity of wool-white hair. she often dallied with it’s softness, in the mirror. it could fall to her feet in umbrage, or be whipped up blizzard-like - placated as a braided crown. ‘the fool - he hides!’ she tortures any reminder of his kind eyes, warm smile, kissable lips. Part 4: NO ONE KNOWS she bleeds deep inside - a cavern of stalagmites. her warm heart plunges into an echoing abyss. ‘no one knows…’ sharing would be death. and so she’s buried that bloodied embryo, in the gallows grip of fate. he’d promised her silver, gold, diamonds and pearls. he’d promised her forever. she sought his child. she’d only sire sorrow. thus fate would kick her to the ground. he didn’t know his seed lay in her soil. a fist of fury would pummel all dreams. there’d be icy jewels where eyes pretend. her clairvoyant blues burn for her unborn son. her innocence lost in her north pole irises. she’d not even pause to release him from the grave. evermore, she’d cradle, the doom in her womb. she live for him. the queen vowed to find the absentee father. she’d make him pay, then she’d shatter. spine trembles as the wind howls with increasing fury... Part 5: DESPERATION a tomb buried under snow. the villagers wear eskimo overcoats. unaware that despair drives them ever colder... stern snow whips at lashes and outstretched noses. no longer playful little snowflakes. the tongue cannot endure the sting of ice. knees tremble through compacted snow. shovels a commodity – crippled wooden handles splinter and break. those near the equator also shiver and shake. Their tormented orb hangs precariously in the darkened sky, as the villagers wonder out loud, “why?!” (the snow queen has seasonal rests. she collapses upon her slab of stone. her mind in requiem - cold and comatose.) villagers furiously plant, chop, eat everything green. winter has no habit. it comes and goes with caprice. committee selected to search out answers “when and where did this insanity start?” “is there a who or a why?” they fret not over words, for emotion has become their friend. Part 6: SNOWMEN AT ARMS contact made, with each icicle tap on a man’s shoulder. just in case of age or disguise, she examines the face, the eyes, the expressions of love and hate. she shakes the women, wraps serpentine around their waists, jealous of their size, their youth, virginity. each child she doth despise. her own would be greater, more talented, more handsome. in the winter’s mind these ideas greedily sold, like the shape of a perfect flake. snowmen armed with icicle spears ready to go to war. the village that lends itself to this selfish man will pay. its walkway would become snow-covered gravestones. the one thing that makes her frozen lips curl upwards - the thought of death. her heart of stone does not beat. it bears down like an athlete’s barbell sitting upon her chest. she seems wretched and regal atop her empty sleigh. like an eagle perched, ready to swoop down upon its prey. Part 7: THE RECKONING he laughed when she found him, “snow looks good on you,” humor bit her in the jaw. he had no remorse for his sins “why you were just a pitiful lass.” “look at you now, much lower class.” he grinned, serpentine smug. and she saw her coldness reflected in his eyes. ‘what had she become? his queen?’ an ice queen, indeed! the child she lost, forever ago, bled onto the death pallet of snow. her inner ego humbled. not before him! but before mankind... she recognized the epitome of evil and once again, saw her own shards in his eyes. she didn’t blink, just stared until he broke, splinters from his icy mirror of glass. a minute ember felt in her unbeating heart: ‘they could never forgive me’ ‘winter will fade away’ ‘the best i can bless them with is spring’ ‘they will wonder where i’ve gone, but should not spend one second on that thought’ ‘i shall leave reminders in the stars, in the trees, in hidden caves, not of myself, but reminders of how to love.’ ‘that’s the best i can do, not for me...forget me!’ and winter turned into spring, with lovely things, until the people needed autumn and snow. cookie cutter shapes of hearts, diamonds, and lucky clovers in blue, orange, yellow, red leaves. and love could be smelt again in honeysuckle, roses, lilacs, sweets, and fresh-baked bread. in caves they’d find no more war. just joy and happiness of families holding hands. filling their hearts with pregnant joy, turning them away from jealousy and hate. a time so great...and somehow the snow queen’s heart beats from far away, far below, forgotten but unfrozen, still. The End

Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2017

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Where The Antelope (Used To) Play

Where the antelope used to play is now shopping malls and plats.
Man in his insatiable greed has encroached upon its ancient habitats.
Not so very long ago on the plains just a few miles out of town,
Were herds of these graceful creatures that now have dwindled down.

Also, pushed from the verdant plains are the mighty buffalo,
That grazed upon the lush, green grasses not so very long ago.
Upon these sacred grazing grounds are now concrete parking lots,
And densely cluttered cookie-cutter houses on quarter-acre plots.

Where have all the magnificent wild turkeys gone,
That used to preen and strut about at the break of dawn?
Even the lowly prairie dogs, their burrows they've had to flee,
To accommodate covetous developers who've gone on a building spree.

Of the wily fox and skulking coyote, there are fewer to be seen.
They were forced from their hunting grounds and have fled the scene.
Desperate flocks of grouse and pheasant have also taken flight,
To raise their young elsewhere, escaping mans' spreading blight.

Deer and elk that once peered shyly from almost every copse;
Their environs now occupied and overrun with tacky shops.
'Twould be novel if man would recall that these creatures were here first,
And consider them when pursuing their unquenchable expansion thirst!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010

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princess of suburbia.

blue eyed beauty.
cookie cutter girl,
princess of suburbia.
she's sick,
because she likes it.
blood confetti on her notebooks,
the twinkle in her eye.
staining words on twisted minds.
her followers.
they want to taste the berries on her lips,
feeling the metallic taste in her mouth.
they love the broken things,
mangled shoelaces,
hearts torn apart.
they look up to her.
she used to play with barbie dolls.
turning them into baby prostitutes,
coke heads,
models who rose above.
she used to sing to herself in the basement,
or where ever there was running water.
math makes her brain itch.
wal-mart makes her claustraphobic.
so lets break out,
she thinks,
slipping valium into her teddy bears head.
no need to hide from the monsters of her mind.
theyve already gotten to her.

Copyright © Lisa Barton | Year Posted 2006

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Cookie Cutter Day

              On a whim, 
a demon will grab a fist full of mind
slap it down- roll it out- sprinkle it with lye, 
then pull out its cookie cutter heart
press down hard...real hard...
feed pieces of sanity to its hoard....
half devoured they crap you out
into the shadow of an indigo night.

           Clear the eyes 
of the craggy miles,
slug down a cup of fog:
what is that sharp pain-that dull sound
just beyond the cobbled soul...
Something just isn't right...
stroke the cat
sweep the floor 
croak "good mornings"
wash away that crazy gray:
snakes are in the showerhead...again.

          Go for a long walk 
pick some daisies 
sometimes that helps ...
but not today 
hissing is in the swaying veins of the leaves,
the locust eat throat deep into peace...

Stagger toward home 
into a hearth of talking bones,
read the daily dread
stroke the cat again
take another nap.
Pray for a warm breeze dream
to move the bloom of life
back into its golden vase, 
temper the pendulum 
sweep the suckling demons from the chest...
where the hell is my rolling pin god
in all this ffin mess? 

Copyright © Anthony Slausen | Year Posted 2013

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Yet another year
To bake spring cookies;
Time now to endear
Gourmet treats you see.

Just the way you plan,
These three days you squeeze;
Recipe and trends
In a steady breeze.

A mini workshop
Of processing steps;
Each working non-stop
In a brisk mind map.

Crafting fond delights,
Each moment makes more;
From dawn to late night,
A harvest galore.

Each man to a stage,
To muster and make;
Cookie cutter gauge,
Flavours on a take.

One by one attend,
Cookie on parade;
Mix and match the span,
Freshly baked charades.

Oh the sheer delight
Of hand-made cookies;
See tasty treats bright
Made for you and me.

Heaven is on earth
As cookies come forth;
Taste finds grand re-birth
As our work goes north!

I can hear the spring
Sing in tasty bakes;
Tea and cookies bring
Warm moments we make.

Ann now flings surprise,
Serene can add form;
Chong works the reprise,
Leon sets free the norm.

Three full days to bake,
Zest sets the bar high;
Lots and lots to stake,
Feast comes when time flies.

Leon Enriquez
08 February 2015

Copyright © Leon Enriquez | Year Posted 2015

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This is a cookie cutter culture
We all must think the same
If you're outside the PC box
Talking heads call you insane

You better hold all their values
Zombie minds.. must be lead 
Christians are old fashioned
Everyone knows, God is dead

There are no absolutes today
What counts are opinion polls
Kiss the ring of our great king
Or you might end up in a hole

Blinded by group arrogance
In ignorance we all pledge
To follow cultural relevance
As we step closer to the ledge

I'm about to go James Dean
A rebel who can think and feel
Quit trying to program me
Your perfect utopia isn't real

Copyright © Dave Wood | Year Posted 2015

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Life isn’t fair 
Legions lament,
Noting there’s no equal share.

Some have the wealth of dreams.
Some have little to spare,
Fated to fail it seems.

But if life were fair
What makes us unique
Would grant us no reason to care.

We’d be cookie cutter clones
Stamped out in a row.
You could be me, and I you.
This life is fairer than we want to know.  

Copyright © Paul Schneiter | Year Posted 2015

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Desperate Escapes

Desperate Escapes
                          By Odin Roark

They see only what they need,
That desire to see beyond
The heat and squalor,
The effrontery to their species' senses,
These sentient beings whose 2nd bedroom
Remains the fire escape.

How haunting
The mangy dog sniffing the gutter below,
Ribs needing something besides vanishing hair
To protect his fragile existence,
His pride long gone
Like the optimistic glow of a downtrodden eye
Slowly closing in the darkness of lost hope.


Somehow the animal survives,
Knows no ring-of-battle towel to throw,
Not ropes to hang upon,
No round bell of ending to depend upon.

We contemplate…

High above TV antennae sway precariously,
Moon's glow the spotlight,
This era of cable
Beyond reach,
HD a dream for many,
Rabbit ears struggling to survive
Yet another era of poverty.

For such mutual survivors,
Resting on window sills,
Splayed on cast iron escapes
Atop pillow and laundry,
The square screen offers fantasy survival,
Providing dreams in the bed-of-hope
Even though void of reality,
Their innocence clinging,
They survive greed's harsh weapons,
Enduring further nights of longing,
Endemic to cookie-cutter imitations
A grandiose Manhattan perpetual struggle,
Perhaps even tomorrow's utopia.

When does the glad hand of deception disappear
The reach of power's greed meet its end?

To talk,
To negotiate,
To be human,
Some believe
Remains futility's endowment.

Never perhaps an epiphanies’ platform,
But fire escapes, stairwells and rooftops around the world
Will always afford relief for the moment,
Trusting someday
There will be
No need
For such painful dreaming…
Such desperate escapes.

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2015

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From out...
Of the Cookie Cutter
My love for Christ
Shall always be
When I think of His Love
It brings' things' back to me
In and around Eternity
I simply must reply with-in
I know that their is a reason
Why thing's shouldn't have been
Let Thy Will be done'
Why Gods' only Son
Had to die on the 'CROSS'
That day, to revive the people
To make them Pray!
And surely did they Pray!
Yet, by no stretch
     Of the imagination...
Was the title lost?
But for the price of freedom
Jesus paid the COST

                    Poet Author
                    Gary Fields

Copyright © Gary Fields | Year Posted 2012

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Twisted Reality

When I step inside your twisted reality ...
this is what my spiritual eyes see,
your soul revealed in it's totality
A scaly skin of self-serving morality ...
you always ask, what's in it for me,
what can you do for me materially?
Got emotional raging volcanity ...
spewing verbal pyroclastic debris,
you say you only speak Pompeiiese
With your serpentine smug urbanity ...
prefer a gated community,
only mingles with high society
Spread suburban mundanity ...
selling cookie-cutter, debt prison housing to families 
with furnishings of faux upholstery
Invest in commercialism inanity ...
everything must be sold is your belief,
even used products with expired warranties
Keep a get-rich-quick mentality ...
you think everybody envies a successful thief,
need only confess to your corporate priest
Suited sharks all have an aggressive vitality ...
eat or be eaten is the mindset to be beastly,
you pick the bones clean with ravenous mendacity
Hiding your lewdness in the cloak of formality ...
giving gluttonous divinations at pagan feasts,
your rented body is the patron jinn of soiled sheets
Cutting all soft hearts with the blade of hard brutality ...
unlock the cages of your rapacious menagerie,
killing souls has been your most primal urgency
Tampered traffic lights creates a mass fatality ...
your hand pushes the button and turn the key,
creating carnage for all to witness your legacy
You pepper life-and-death stakes with vile profanity ...
a seasoned, master provocateur you be,
poisoning the minds with rancid digital obscenity
Rejecting all that is good for humanity ...
cursing the fruit of the life-giving tree,
you rage against the people of the holy
Time to step outside of your straight-jacket insanity ...
the evil that lives within the madness of your psyche
The truth of the cosmos shall consume you utterly

This poem is submitted to:
Contest: Word Challenge
Sponsor: Silent One
Date: 01-30-17

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017

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Next Chapter

Life is lived as a book, so I’m told
and we live out this story in chapters.
And we even write of the stories we’ve lived
and regale with tales of our adventures.
Our childhood is a myriad of stories
filling chapter and chapter with discovery,
wonder, angst, joy, everything in growing up.
Our teens are chapters of pain, confusion and
experimentation. Temptation. Rebellion and growth.
Young adulthood … ah, sweet love. Career, family.
First foray into independence and building a family.
Then chapters for kids, school, braces, college …
Then they grow up and move out. Weddings, grandkids
retirements and IRA’s. The book is expanding.
But this book is predictable. This is the Brady Bunch.
Where is the crisis, the divorce or the addiction?
Where is the mental illness or the adulterous affair?
Where is the poverty, the abuse, unknown calamity or death?
If life is truly a book, then we write our chapters as we go.
There is no cookie-cutter life to stamp out and imitate.
Life is fluid, moving, changing, consuming, powerful,
destructive in its unrelenting, impersonal path.
This is the end of this chaotic chapter, a fresh page awaits.
Too many of my chapters are chaotic and destructive.
While the next chapter can’t be written until it has been lived,
I will make it a chapter worth remembering.
One I will want to read again, and again.

Copyright © Anthony Amero | Year Posted 2010

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The Outlander

I am an Outlander
Who lives on a high hill
Overlooking a man-made lake
That once was a rapidly rushing river
Along whose banks the Ozarks Bluff Dwellers and the Osage and then Delaware
Hunted, fished, and created shelter
For their families
Where their children ran freely
While red-tailed foxes sneaked softly
Through the forests and the
Wise Night Owl chatted with the
Whispering Whippoorwill.
I am a child of Outlanders
Who came from the North
To live along the banks of the man-made lake
Where a small fishing resort, built by my father,
Nestled at the base of yet another high hill, and from the crest of that hill
The southern arm of the lake could be viewed unhindered.
Miles of blue and white water danced in the afternoon sun.
Between Table Rock Dam on my right and Long Creek Bridge on my left,
The main channel branched off- broke loose- and formed the cove
Which we shared with Dan and Cuba Norris at their dude ranch
Located by the side of the Devil’s Pool-
That ancient, sacred, cleansing spring of the Osage men.
The back waters of the cove edged our front yard.
The steep, timber and rock strewn slopes cloaked the sides and back of the 80 acres that
Mr. Curbow sold to my father shortly before the dam’s completion.
Perched between the wooded areas, and the cedar glade,
A ledge rock served as my look-out, like
A sentinel standing guard over acres of scrubby plants and limestone that my father
Transformed into grassy green patches and rocked-up retaining walls,
Laboring as the pioneer settlers had a century before-
He and my mother, pioneers themselves, carved out a home where
Dogwood and redbud trees scattered themselves amid the cedar.
In the spring, they checkered the hills in pink and white and green. 
Later, verbena, black-eyed Susan, coneflower, milkweed, and Indian paint-brush
Fashioned a palette of ever-changing tones and hues.
I am an Outlander
Who went to school in a small town that
Once was a humming railroad station where
Farmers marketed fruits and vegetables and wild game,
Shipping their goods out of the land from that
Tiny railroad town, snuggly fit among limestone bluffs, the White River, and Turkey Creek.
They tell me, long years ago,
There by the creek, an old woman lived
Who washed her clothes on a rock each Monday,
While her boy played contentedly in the deeper water nearby.
Generations of children splashed gleefully
In that once glistening, iridescent Granny Hole.
I am an Outlander who continues to live in a growing town whose people
Once, only provisionally, greeted the laughter of holiday makers- those
Wealthy sportsmen and their wives
Who stepped off the train
From far off cities
To camp along the water’s edge or
To lazily float the river with Jim Owen in locally crafted Jon boats
Or, having read Mr. Wright’s celebrated novel,
Trekked the rough and rocky roads in search of
Old Matt and Aunt Molly and the shepherd of the hills.
City-dwellers came to embrace, for a time, the goodness of a fading life-style
When native hill folk families gathered neighborly to
Fill the valleys with songs of long ago troubadours.
Outlanders came, time and time again,
To find balance in themselves within the exquisite Ozark hills, and
As did my parents, and those before them,
Many returned to stay.
Pioneers and Transplanted Outlanders
Forging common values and visions for the future
Mutual conservers of the land
I am an Outlander’s daughter who looks out over
These hills and hollows now choked with highway billboard signs, half-empty theatres,
go-cart tracks, and flashing neon lights,
I find myself mourning deeply the invasion of
Greed-driven, treasure-seeking speculators, whose
Coaxing with cunning words triggered an invasion of outsiders
Seemingly unconcerned about preserving the natural or cultural landscape
I watch family farms transform into cheaply-built, cookie-cutter housing hubs- and
I grieve the loss of the quiet, family-owned fishing resorts.
Time-share vacation condos, signature golf courses, and shopping malls have
Swallowed up centuries -old oak trees
 Today’s visitors, looking for faster-paced amusements and thrills,
Arrive in the “Land of a Million Smiles”
Hell-bent on having manufactured family fun and patriotic fervor.
They rush from venue to venue and shop to shop, then
Leave without ever questioning the cost.
Progress rides across the landscape as did the
Bushwhackers and Baldknobbers of old
Assaulting the environment,
Usurping the ambiance, 
Eroding the ecosystem
Deaf- deaf to the living symphony of nature floating softly in the evening sunset.
I am an Outlander who has lived upon these high hills
For more than a half century
Admittedly sharing in the alteration of the environment, regretfully-
But mindful of the historical richness of the land, the need to preserve its character
As does the doe who brings her speckled twins to the clearing in June and the
Turkey hen her brood of bobbing-headed babies marching in single file across my yard.
I watch my grandchildren
Run and laugh and chase fireflies on this ancient slope.
They swim and fish the same waters that shaped the adjacent hillsides eons ago.
Yes, I am an Outlander who lives on a high hill
Overlooking a man-made lake
That may, in time, again become a rapidly rushing river
Along whose banks other Outlanders may come to
Hunt, fish, and seek shelter
For their families.
Hopefully, their children will run freely
While red-tailed foxes sneak softly
Through the forests and the
Wise Night Owl chats with the
Whispering Whippoorwill.
©2010 Michelle Waters

Copyright © Michelle Waters | Year Posted 2017

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You've been a peon, lowly pawn your whole life
Never amounted to much,
nothing much ever went right
Grew up dirt piss poor,
never knew the reason why
you were put on this earth for
So you start cyber chasing every get-rich-scam or scheme,
cashing out is a lame loser's favorite daily daydream
While waiting in a single file soup kitchen line,
the dumbest idea ever entered your muddled mind:
escape poverty's prison through a life of crime
Mean magistrates moved you around the board ever since
Inconsequential has been the sum of your sorry existence
You're a headless, karaoke knight riding a pale horse,
traveling aimless, without honor and shameless ...
singing drunken songs about imitations of life
Given a choice, riotous living you lasciviously endorse
Spurred in the direction of death,
you always make wrong way decisions
Trying to move up a spot or two in a mobile mercenary life,
ain't difficult to do, if given the right princely price
Loose loyalty has you always fleeing the specter of the sword,
side stepping death's demise more than once or twice
D.W.B are your birth initials, David Weyland Bishop;
spelled diagonally, bingo, Dates Women at Bordellos
Signed up to be a Catholic consigliore priest once,
when mother of the brood said she reject runts
Couldn't keep the vows you sacredly swore,
because you loved chasing after widows and whores
You like getting paid pretty to recite the verses,
you like getting laid, lustily piling up the curses
Every angle you play, leads your defrocked soul more astray
An inept rook, who tried to pickpocket the key
to the castle of God's kingdom
when you joined a secret society of thieves
Learned how to steal several different ways,
got tricked out when you started believing crime pays
Just another swindling, small-time crook
other people possessions you pilfered ...
fell horizontally in love with the things you took
Destination: vertical down, looks like you're hustling hellbound
You dream of living large, like a king on a throne;
but court jesters tend to live where fools belong
Presently, your domicile is the dog pound,
got a rap sheet stretching a mile long
Must be planning to purchase a palace underground
Your CO warned you to only take one step at a time,
but your MO is simple though: keep committing crime
using the same cookie cutter plan,
which chuckling cops say, always makes you so easy to find
Being bailed out yet again by an icy queen you love to hate
With a dark, domineering woman like this,
expect to be bitten by a bloody black widow kiss
When it comes to wielding willpower over men,
she's manipulates with an air of regal royalty
A poor puppet like you is way out of your little league,
you don't have the mental moxie to capably compete
Jezebel has you tangled, 
trapped in the throes of damnation --- 
it's getting loco late
You never cared to seek salvation:
now game's over ... checkmate!

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2016

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A Word From Gonzo

Atlantic city had been a haze of slot machines and watred down drinks and loud nightclubs
that often  remendedme what disney land  could have been ifthatdam mouse wasntallowed 
to take over.

Never trust a talking rat.
 I had to go through a hellof a divorce because of it.
Good thing her brother was a lawyer cause  I might have
actully had something left oh well things are overrated like indoor living.
it's hell gettinga good internet connection in a tent.

But enough  time traveling  i had more important issues at hand
like my return and some unpaid parking tickets and that whole 
court case nonsense your place of business  burns down for the fifth time
and people all wanna  get uptight  hey i preffer to moron my lose 
in a casino they said i shoudnt be alone so  im just taking doctors orders.

But i had a deadline and it was almost happy hour the library was gonna be packed.
The subject   true art and  cenorship.
The world around us is totatl chaos so how could you restrict how people expressed 

Heaven forbid little tommy reads a bad word 
while him and and his best friend huff paint  
dear jesus man and i hope they dont play a violent video game.
Sure susan  go  have random sex with guys of fthe internet 
but dont read no cuss word on a poetry wed site 
you just might drop dead where you stand.

Its kinda like running a asylum and pretending that everyone there
isnt totally nuts.
No sir lets ignore the real world cause lord knows people 
cant filp on the tv   and see murder rape fires and war ya gotta 
love kids programing.

You cant restrict art for if it"s all the same cookie cutter stuff.
Then is it truley art or just a pretty dellusion.
Ignore the world and it'll run you over.

Life good bad  traggic is ment to be shared 
the secrets of the soul can rattle in that closet till 
madness breaks that perfect image we put.
but what I know.

Never restrict your mind for you will sufficate the soul.
stay proud and crazy forever 
Dr Gonzo

Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo | Year Posted 2010

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Cookie Cutter

Driving through the broken, potholed streets Lined with houses spanning decades Each with a thousandfold more character than that of the cookie cutter impostors they call homes I appreciate the creaks and groans Much more than the sheen of granite stones Value comes down to values. What are yours?

Copyright © Cooper Fitch | Year Posted 2015

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Boxes Before Nebraska

(Re tiny box-like homes lining the west side of
South Bundy Drive, north of Nebraska Street, in West LA)

The soiled feeling comes not
From the indignant paradise
Scurrying past their frontal lobes 
It arrived in silence
Borne of being first to the party
And the ensuing, deafening wars
With the partycrashers
With their cranes
Their progress
Their eclectic sense of
Civilized degradation
Squeezing the life from
The Boxes Before Nebraska
That modest set of
Stoic pre-war cookie-cutter domiciles 
Perfectly groomed
Impeccably aligned 
For Ozzie and Harriet, and
Their silent parade of nasty
The Boxes, they struggle
To remain relevant in the haze of
Modernity's hammer and
Banality's autoimmune disease
To avoid temptation as
The developer's succulent lips and larceny
Get wider and wetter
To simply let be amidst the swollen busy 
Not to mention a new cast of characters to contend with:
     - The brackish bendejo careening in stride, unaffected by the Boxes' sidewalk's ill-timed permanence and oblique conundrums, left from quakes and lashings of yore
     - The livid madman embracing his next lethal dose of humanity as he marches, barks and feuds with phantom nemeses camped out at the Boxes' doorstep
     - The ragged cougar across the street, squeamish exterior gone bad, pounded into Angelino submission by the tricks and spells she conjures and endures
     -  The dual threat of LA Fitness night trolls, basking in cardio vampire glow, while the next morning's brew of rainbow children percolates into G-d's bitter latte, sipped cupless on fresh asphalt.
And yet...they stand
Together as one
By accident
By stupor of justice
By de jure
By no better place to go
Testament to legacies
Begging to remain
Living proof that
Bounty, modesty and sanctity
Can be achieved
When you stop thinking outside of the box.


Copyright © Suburban Lovechild | Year Posted 2015

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Yacht Club Dreams- Part I

She couldn’t believe he was real
But there he was…
Chatting away with someone
Who was from his realm
Modern day aristocracy
The clothes, the very air around them
Screamed of wealth
She squirmed in her seat
Her discomfort mounting
Feeling out of place
But what caught her eye
Wasn’t any of the trappings
He was the flesh and blood embodiment
Of her wildest dreams
Her ideal man
Had JUST materialized before her eyes…

An older man
Early fifties
Black hair showing some white
Trimmed goatee
Sparkling white teeth
Which readily flashed 
In his tanned face
She thought they MUST be blue
Everyone knew
She was partial to blue
What she kept to herself
Was the reason why...
Blue eyes brought back the memories
Of her childhood sweetheart
Whose eyes
The color of a clear blue sky
Had been seared into her heart and mind
Along with her first kiss

This man standing so close
Had one hand in his pocket
White linen shirt
Blue jeans 
He took a sip of his drink
Then was enveloped in the embrace
Of a woman...
Exaggerated breasts
Pouty lips
High cheekbones
Reeking of plastic surgery
Short skirt
Flashy bronzed legs
She felt sick to the core
But she couldn’t look away
He was a piece of heaven
That had been cut out 
By unseen hands 
And placed on this very spot 

He looked her way
Straight into her eyes
And then....he smiled
He lifted his champagne glass to her
Everyone around him turned to stare
Ashamed, she looked away
Berating herself for gawking
For letting her admiration show
She had to get away..

This was her niece’s graduation party
Her brother was well to do
Well known in the world of academia
A professor in THE most prestigious university
Well versed and confident in this atmosphere
He and his wife fit right in

She had begged off
But how could she say no to her beloved niece?
So here she was
Uncomfortable and unsure of herself
“Who cares?”
She always talked to herself when she was nervous...
“He was just teasing you for staring.
Well, I’ll show these snobby rich people
That I don’t give a damn….
I don’t care if my clothes aren't top of the line
Or that I’m not another one of some plastic surgeon’s
Cookie cutter perfect women
I’m not in their league
So, I’m NOT going to try to impress
Just going to celebrate being me….
A forty something woman
Unlucky in love
Simple and plain
But with a heart that will put any of them to shame…
Watch me strut!”

Eileen Manassian Ghali

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013

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Grass clings to our arms,
And sweat-lines of dirt,
Nestle in the folds of our necks.

The sun beats down on crew-cut heads,
And bare feet are cooled,
In the tub that waters the cows.

Our playground of trees and fields,
Unchanged since we arrived,
Makes summer’s end unthinkable.

Then comes the morning when all is packed,
And a cloud of dust masks a last view of paradise,
Once visible through the car‘s rear window.

Moving from road to highway,
Greens fade to gray,
And pastures and trees yield to asphalt and cement.

Bricks and mortar replace wood and nails,
As cookie-cutter buildings,
Blot out the sun.

Our arms sense a chill,
As the shadows grow long,
And without fanfare, it is fall.

Copyright © Jerry Troiano | Year Posted 2015

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true confession time stands and gears
itself to concede in honest declaration
the guilt of heeding to the scrutiny of
veiled opinion from self-seeking minds

the process is set in motion as worldly 
influences pull you to match the mould
and modify yourself  pleasing their moral
principles tweaking your uniqueness dry

one of a kind we are inimitable and rare
our essence blends our behaviour and
appearances selected in singular specs
rarely  the ‘cookie-cutter’ version we

© Kim van Breda—May 2014

Copyright © Kim van Breda | Year Posted 2014

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Different Colors


No time for any sucker 
Since I'm not getting any younger 
Got to stay up, before getting permanently put under 
I don't need no maid or butler 
The same can be said for any cookie cutter 

Anyday, as I do and don't discover 
Among things intact and punctured 

Straight up gutter
Near and far away from any buzzards 
Onto something rougher and tougher
Year round, fall, winter, spring and summer 

A world full of so much different colors
As well as things labeled and numbered
Either disorganized or well structured

Mass quantities of items have been plundered
Much of which became asunder

Nobodies perfect we all make blunders
Respect and love your sisters, brothers and mother

Similar yet different from one another
Near and far from lumber
During sunshine, rain, snow and thunder
I can't help but wonder
Due to my own curiosity and hunger

By: Dalton Ogletree

Copyright © Dalton Ogletree | Year Posted 2017

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Affects on Property Values

Affects on Property Values

If you are group who will maintain authority
Why must other groups exist with inferiority
And no matter what the group may say
End up having feeling with much dismay.

Up others authority may often try to butter
But when houses appear to be cookie cutter
To many facts ourselves will have to resign
In property values there has been a decline.

When wrong way porta potty now does face
What a terrible shame and such a disgrace
And then how horrible everyone will feel
Occurred a decline in eye and street appeal.

A happy medium has to exist somewhere
As together things we will try to compare
So why should to owners we really sock it
Remove money invested from their pocket.

James Serious Mysterious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet

Copyright © James Horn | Year Posted 2016