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Now I Get It by Krutsinger, Caren
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UNTIL WE GET IT JUST RIGHT by cooper, jack
Get it well by Ochwo-Oburu, Solomon
I just don't get it by Words, Piercing
Come And Get It by Acrich, Marc
GET IT TOGETHEr by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
Get it wrong or right by Ochwo-Oburu, Solomon
I Get It by Campbell , Rebecca

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The Best Get It Poems

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My view on seduction, is that what you're asking me? Specifically love, my thoughts on loving a woman, that's what you want to know? Have you ever seen the image of a woman in the ocean while walking along the beach? You know how the shape is all there but void of definition. You know how the shape is sort of broken, how the lines are not distinct. I wonder if that is what we men have done to women, they who we treasure most. How often do they have to hide as a replica in order to protect our egos. To take a back seat because we have a need to drive the car to be in control. So if we don't allow them to be whole... but you know what else, what if they are perfectly defined the fault is in how we view them. What if that is them we have no role, no blame to assume. What if that is exactly the way they want it to remain, shadows of different intensities. What if they want to be a series of reflections. What if the ripples in the water are of their making. I want to hold a woman. Hold her completely defined. learn more about her everyday because I hold her like a book I'm reading. I will tell you this I don't have a need to know everything. If she wants a locked room that she has the only key to, that makes sense to me. Still I want her heart, her laugh, her tears I want the feel of her flesh and I want her defined. I want to see her not just her likeness. I want her smile I want all the expressions of her face. So you're walking along the beach. The relationship is new for the most part you are with her facsimile but if you look down you can see her feet, not just her impression. I can build from that. She is steady she is with me. You want my view on seduction? You have to accept a basketful of contradictions, you have to read the book accept there will be constant re-writes you have to at least see her feet from day one. If you want to make it to the top you have to start at the bottom don't forget there are some great stops on the way up. Seduction? love between two people that's important. You wouldn't treat your career lightly. Get it right. Make sure she leaves footsteps along the beach. That is how you seduce a woman... ...listen to her ...respect her interested in her career ...her wants, her needs ...her opinions ...remember ...don't talk a good game act.
07/10/2014 Sponsor Justin Bordner Contest Name The Heart Of Seduction I understand this is a extremely different view of seduction and might not fit what Justin is looking for. This is his contest and I wholeheartedly respect that. For my taste this poem is very seductive. In it I share what I believe it takes to seduce a woman.

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014

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Politics and Poetry - is hate really the answer

Politics and Poetry – is hate really the answer

Why write a poem of hate about Trump
He’s been there just over a week
Though Hilary Clinton the people did dump
It still matters not what they seek

He cussed and he lied and they think that he cheated
While she was an angel for sure
Still not accepting that she was defeated
With her server on her basement floor

They say that this guy he don’t act Presidential
He talks like some dude in the hood
Just like a neighbor, a friend, residential
That proves then that he is no good

He lunges at beautiful women parading
This guy never can get his fill
Though they never minded the task of evading
Monica’s blue dress and Bill

I guess it just feels better when they are shouting
This terrible feeling they tote
To me it just seems like a big bunch of pouting
Perhaps some forgot how to vote

Now we see protesters clog up the city
Vulgar the words they do lob
If you ask me I would say it’s a pity
Why don’t these folks have a job

I’m guessing this problem, Trumps’ also to blame
No work must be fueling their fears
But wait now, I don’t think that he is the same
Who sat in that chair for eight years

They scream for the people his order is banning
This policy that they abhor 
Though back when the Donald was happily tanning
Barrack did the same thing and more

He called it a pause, whispered, it’s temporary
Kept them from reaching our coast
In secretive silence this news he did carry
Always a wonderful host

But I don’t recall hearing people complaining
No “you are a racist” was heard
No hate escaped from some loud voices straining
Not even one single F-word

Now Schumer is weeping, his fake tears are falling
Crying, “This man is so mean”
Though not long ago old Chuck he was calling
For banning and vetting extreme

Both sides of his mouth to me it is sounding
Claiming that he’ll never quit
I’ve got a huge headache, my head it is pounding
Can anyone say hypocrite

But Donald, that creep, he made fun of a cripple
Waving his arms in the air
While I don’t remember it causing a ripple
When Obama, the same he did share

The laughter on Kimmel was on the floor rolling
The POTUS excuse I am sure
When the Special Olympics were said of his bowling
Their handicap tied to his score 

But now we all find it’s a whole different story
Some didn’t get what they want
Cheering the sound of a Meryl Streep fury
While all the rest of us grunt

I didn’t cast not one vote for Obama
But accepted the office he won
Then didn’t whine and go cry to my mama
And think that the country was done

I never threatened to blow up the White House
Like some has been singer might do
Or paint on a sign about raping his spouse
That’s such a sick point of view

Yes you are welcome to have your opinion
Just try to use some restraint
And don’t try to change me, I won’t be your minion
Mine is a mind you can’t taint

Live and let live, now my penned invitation
Thank you if you stopped to glance
For I still am proud of this wonderful nation
Let’s give the new guy a chance

I am not very political and hardly ever include it in my poetry. But it is really starting to bother me the amount of hate that I see everywhere now about our President. The news, the internet and now hateful poetry. I get it that some don’t like the guy but if they don’t like someone at work or at school or at the mall or wherever, is attacking that person the answer? Is posting nasty things about them on the internet or social media the answer? Is destroying private property and threatening innocent people the answer?   Is acting like a bunch of uncivilized, ignorant, uneducated, DEPLORABLE people the answer? I am sure I will lose most of my readers here because of this but fair is fair. They way I see it, the guy deserves a chance and if he messes it up, then I will say I was wrong.    

“All we are saying, is give peace a chance” – John Lennon

Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2017

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I get it now…

it’s not about
momentous events

it’s about
memorable moments

moments that 
take your breath away

being in the moment
with your whole being

being at one
with the universe

that may be

November 6, 2018, Poem of the Day

Posted on November 4, 2018

Copyright © Line Gauthier | Year Posted 2018

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( Repost )

Somehow, her eyes expand with the disobedient sky
and there, she senses urchins filling water on the lake
her feet and thighs slide up changing hues,
with receding incarnations of the moon.

She bends down gazing at images on the lake
as limbs turn into seaweeds, a mermaid in pain
changing hues in the crystal white of sky…
and the moon with slices of split mirrors burn
on wiggles of unscented tresses in water.

She dips her hands to catch the sleek tail in a plunge
knowing not a word to describe the reflection on the lake,
and witness the need to flow randomly in its
entrance through the expanse of one silver sky…
trying to recover glimpses reflected in the water.

Without point of reference to unknown images,
she vaguely remembers how transparently liquid 
the changing hues of the moon become watery
like a  hint of coagulated  blood on a mermaid’s lake...
and the laughter of the sky drips into imaginings.

* Written for a fantasy contest that was discontinued; 
its theme required entrants to describe one's mirrored
image of the self. Few comments ranged from " Nice, but I
didn't get it" to " You seemed to have overused the word
"water?" In hindsight, I asked myself," what
were you thinking? This is sloppy!"

Jerry T Curtis' This Poem S***s Contest 

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014

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My Turn To Cry

I’ve distanced myself
I didn’t mean to
Didn’t set out to do it
An unconscious act of the mind 
For self preservation

My visits went to once a week
Sunday dinners that once lasted for hours
Became shorter and shorter
Until now its get in
Get it cooked
Clean it up 
And we’re out

Occasionally circumstances would
Happen and one would be missed
Oh well I’ll go during the week
Sometimes I did
Sometimes I didn’t
Today my heart cried to be near you

I entered the home and immediately
Settled my mood into the atmosphere
Funeral home-esque for lack of a better description
I speak in hushed tones
Slow my movements
And quiet my spirit

You want something
Oh thank you give me a job
What do you need???? Anything
I’ll gladly do anything

So many things hurt you now
You who were so tough reduced to such pain
Questions, answers, questions, answers
Over and over and over
This is the part I know
I’ve practiced this so many times before

You speak and in mid sentence you cry
Have I seen my sister,,you can’t remember 
Ever seeing my sister, have you seen her
Yes mom remember mom
My answers are calm
Almost rehearsed

You look searching in my eyes
Yours, sunken, confused,
Pained, with a depth of sadness
I haven’t seen before
I look away.

I meet all the needs you’ve asked of me
I pat you, hug you, pray with you
I look at my brother, the saint
He’s tired, worn, sad
I leave, I’m OUT
I drive
How’d I get here
How long have I been driving
The sky so desperately gray
Muted tones of nothingness
The air feels so heavy
Like a shroud encompassing me
Choking me

The river runs beside me
It rages from the wind
There’s no stopping its power
It’s dark and gloomy and brown
And suits my mood

I try to pray
Do I pray for healing,
Health, life, death
Joy, maybe peace

I cry out to you
I look to the sky and see
The smallest spot of the most beautiful sapphire blue
In a sea of nothing
And I cry

Copyright © Laurie Ginn | Year Posted 2009

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Mortality's Own Friend

(Inspired by Abe Lincoln’s poem “Memory”) Mortality's Own Friend So sadly here, among the dead, I live - mortality's own friend. Recalling all that's lost, I tread so sadly here, among the dead. Sweet memories are as a thread which link the living to their end. So sadly here, among the dead, I live - mortality's own friend. Here is Abraham Lincoln's "Memory," which really speaks to me (I could not get it to copy/paste from here to the box above: Memory by Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865) My childhood’s home I see again, And sadden with the view; And still, as memory crowds my brain, There’s pleasure in it, too. O memory! thou midway world ’Twixt earth and paradise, Where things decayed and loved ones lost In dreamy shadows rise, And, freed from all that’s earthly, vile, Seem hallowed, pure and bright, Like scenes in some enchanted isle All bathed in liquid light. As dusky mountains please the eye When twilight chases day; As bugle notes that, passing by, In distance die away; As leaving some grand waterfall, We, lingering, list its roar -- So memory will hallow all We’ve known but know no more. Near twenty years have passed away Since here I bid farewell To woods and fields, and scenes of play, And playmates loved so well. The friends I left that parting day How changed, as time has sped! Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray; And half of all are dead. I hear the loved survivors tell How nought from death could save, Till every sound appears a knell And every spot a grave. I range the fields with pensive tread, And pace the hollow rooms, And feel (companion of the dead) I’m living in the tombs.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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An empty throne - Part 1 of 9

An empty throne – Part 1 of 9

For this of castled velvet throne
A queen does weep a single tear
Bleak shadows of this night have grown
To cast upon her heart this fear

Reflection polished marble floor
Her silhouette of humbled reach
Now shutters via nightmare’s pour
Alone of bridges fought to breach

Beyond the window valleys sleep
Soft candle flame in slumbered night
Flickering her pain felt deep
Burning through in cautioned light

An empty throne aside her heart
Its warmth now chilled of worried feel
That day her love he did depart
Read messages to long conceal

Her single kiss of cherished due
A farewell bid, pled safe return
Lost amidst this sorrowed view
And loneliness again did burn

As if the dawn had been his shield
In misty haze on moor’s harsh breath
Of forest frame it had concealed
A moment quick of arrow’s death

She takes this single tear she’s cried
Into a glass of poison clear
This droplet or her love applied  
Her broken heart to wish him near

And brings this potion to her lips
Such bitter taste slow going down
A whispered thought in swallowed sips
To then remove her saddened crown

Upon his throne of gold now rests 
She breathes one final moment pure
Her eyes now close of wishful quest
To be with her sweet king once more

I am going to post this 9 part poetic series one at a time, 3 parts per day. (That way we can get it over with in 3 days) : ) I hope you enjoy this.

Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016

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It struts peacock-like when the rains have gone,
but visible from only the one side,
to folk who from behind sun shines upon,
those facing its bright rays will be denied.
Get closer, as the superstitious do,
and hopes arise with each step they draw near,
in vain seeking treasure, although they knew
the closer they get, it would disappear.
From far off we must seem the happy pair,
our faithfulness tied bow-like round the years,
but close up lie the strains, the wear and tear,
frustrated arguments that no-one hears.
Our hearts not washed in seven coloured stain
rainbow faded, long showers still remain.

For contest 'Rainbows', sponsor Craig Cornish

Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2018

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Elder Abuse

He sits quietly in the corner of the room
and dabs his face removing the blood that
still gently trickles down his cheek. Flinching 
from the pain he tries to be more careful.
He wants to ask but doesn’t dare, so he 
wonders, What did I do wrong? Running 
his trembling fingers through his grey hair, he
remembers, I only wanted a glass of milk.

                                     She grabs a rag and starts cleaning off the
                                     counter. As she wipes down the cupboard 
                                     she is still cursing under her breath. “Why
                                     did we have to take him, we can’t go out 
                                     anymore because we’re stuck here with this
                                     eighty five year old man who can’t even pour
                                     himself a glass of milk without spilling it. 
                                     With that she throws the rag loudly in the sink.

He wants to get up and go to his room, but he’s
afraid. It didn’t used to be like this, she used to laugh 
with me and we’d talk about when mom was still
alive. How many times we took the children so 
they could go away. Now she doesn’t even look
at me anymore without frowning. Maybe if I
just sit here quietly she’ll forget about
me. Maybe if……. Oh no, here she comes. 

                                     She puts her hands on her hips and as if
                                     he was five years old she scolded him over
                                     and over again. She’s so tired of telling the 
                                     old man the same things, but he just doesn’t 
                                     get it. She asks herself why the father she 
                                     loved so much had to go and get Alzheimer.
                                     She notices how he’s shying away and 
                                     protecting his head with his arms. 

He runs into his room afraid she could
slap him again, thankful that his door 
still has a lock. He hears her yell, 
“Just ask me when you want something.”
He stands leaning on his door and slowly
he slides to the floor where he curls in a ball.
Glancing around the strange room, tears
fog his eyes as he asks, “Where am I?"

Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 

Cyndi MacMillan
Contest Name	I CAN'T BREATHE: A peaceful Protest, An Anthology of Powerful Poems

Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014

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A Mouse Family's Christmas

It's Christmas Eve and through the house 
there creeps a curious little mouse.
He climbs into the big arm chair 
and finds the cookies waiting there .
He only takes the smallest bite.
Santa will find his treat tonight.

He gazes with wonder at the tree
and the bright wrapped gifts left there to be
a mystery tale to tell his spouse,
when he gets home, this curious mouse.
What an adventure it has been,
he has drunk of some spilled gin
that had been left upon the table.
His wife will think it is a fable
he has concocted to amuse  her.
She is homebound, we must excuse her.

He once came home all out of breath
to say he had been scared to death
by a huge rat with fluffy tail.
She noticed he was very pale.
"While I was nibbling off some cheese
to bring to you, my love, to please,
he almost had me in his paws.
I'm sure he wasn't Santa Claus".
But this night is so very quiet.
He spies some fruitcake, has to try it.
It reminds him of that sip of gin
and wonders if his head will spin.
He hears a noise, runs for his life,
carrying fruitcake for his wife.

Christmas morning, spread before their eyes
for the baby mice, a grand surprise.
Their mama had fixed a Christmas feast
from food their dad had saved from beast.
A bit of butter, a glob of jam
and a fairly good-sized piece of ham.
Bread crumbs saved from other forays.
They had enough to eat for days.
Those little mice would never waste it.
If they didn't like it, they'd still taste it.
This food their mama set before them,
their dad risked his life to get it for them.


Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2014

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Rap Game On

She knew this
 was going to happen
Mr psychopath is rapping
With his crazy beats in timing
Singing: She's so freaky
You must believe me
I'll spread my message
They better get it
Tearing apart logic
His tempo is lethargic 
Smearing the writing 
of her time in shining
But those who know her best
Laugh at him in jest
They know her worth
No need for a test
When asked if she's crazy
They evade the question
Thinking  to themselves
We are above this business
of railroading the gifted
So take your props and stage
and...perform elsewhere 
in the singing of your rage

Copyright © Holly Bohto | Year Posted 2016

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Mother -- Come Home

Sitting with her now
How did she get so old?
       How did I get so old?
So many pills
       Green, blue, white, red, yellow, orange
All kinds of shapes
       Round, oval, oblong – big and small
A tackle box with markings
       Monday through Sunday

We talk and laugh . . . then
       A knock on the door!
I’ll get it
      A police officer – young, clean shaven
As I open the door
      I jokingly yell . . .  He’s here to arrest you mom!
Sir, I do need to speak with your mother. . . 
      What, Oh . . . come in

Mrs. Meade, did you hit another car?
      Her face showed confusion, concern . . . fear
With a trembling voice . . . No officer,  I    dd i d        not
      I followed the young man to the garage
A scrape, red paint, a missing mirror
     My heart sank
Thinking to myself – is she lying?
     Or does she not realize what she has done?
Does it matter?
     The time has come . . . 

As I hug this frail old woman
     Shoulders shaking, tears soaking my shirt
I whisper in her ear
    Do not fear . . . everything will be OK . . . . I love you
Standing there I realized 
    Our roles had changed 
Come my darling 
    It is time for you to live with us
Happy Mother’s day
    I do love you! 

David Meade
May 10, 2015
Love Generously 

Copyright © David Meade | Year Posted 2015

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A Nightmare Come True

It started with one utterance that grew into a shout. That cry grew louder in his ear. He could not get it out. The bellowing prolonged itself, and then one cry was two. His frightened eyes searched faces on the teeming avenue. On the edge of reason then, he gaped at strangers’ lips, but mouths stayed shut and mocked the truth of his apocalypse. The cries that he was hearing came a hundredfold or more, a deafening cacophony, an oceanic roar. And nightmare revelations that had brought this din in dreams were now his actuality - enwrapping him in screams. The throng pressed on around a man who crouched, with eyes half-dead. And now inside a room he rocks to screams inside his head.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011

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erased to try and get it published

Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2013

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The fish is a creature cold and wet
Hooked by line and trawled by net,
Easy to catch and yummy to eat
Fried in oil or seared by heat.
I must admit I eat my share
So my guilt I sadly bear.
Handless and legless they strive to survive
Yet they are loved more....Dead than alive!
Fish cannot scream
Fish cannot yell
The pain from a hook,fish cannot tell.
Fish cannot scratch
Most do not bite
They go to the pan with little fight
What a frenzy,what a fuss
When one of them devours us!
It's on the telly,it's in the press
"Each shark killed is a monster less."
It's not in the press,its not on the telly.
How many of them are in our belly!
If fish could scream,if fish could cry
If fish had fur or big brown eyes.
If fish were dry and nice and warm
We'd never do them any harm.
We'd think them cute,they'd get respect
They wouldn't 'get it in the neck'.
Protest groups would march the streets,
And fish would multiply in peace.

Copyright © elsie haslett | Year Posted 2006

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Itsy, Bitsy, Teenie, Weenie Brain

To the tune of "Itsy Bitsy, Teenie Weenie, Yellow, Polka-Dot Bikini"
Dedicated to Nancy Pelosi

She has an itsy bitsy
Teenie weenie
Brain inside her little beanie
And she uses it infrequently

An itsy, bitsy
Teenie weenie brain
We get the heebie jeebies
Whenever Nancy's in our company

Two, three, four 
Don’t stick around, head for the door

  Oh, I pushed and I wrested for health care
  But no one wanted this lame, inane fare
  Still I managed to get it through Congress
  The court may now say it was pointless

Two, three, four
Please don’t give us anymore

She has an itsy bitsy
Teenie weenie
Brain inside her little beanie
And she uses it infrequently

An itsy, bitsy
Teenie weenie brain
We get the heebie jeebies
Whenever Nancy's in our company

  Some will tell you that my voice sounds too shrill
  But House members have followed me still
  Yet we have an election upcoming
  From my muse all my members are running

Final Chorus:
From the Congress to her home state
From California to the streets
Of San Francisco you will find her
Oh so sad to lose her seat

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2010

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My way

And now as I hold her near
I turn and draw the bedroom curtain
She made what she wants so clear 
She's going to get it tonight for certain
I'm to be a raging bull 
and ravish her not in a shy way 
I'm to drive her into the erotic abyss 
By doing it my way 

Regrets, There have been so few
but the chocolate sauce I'd better mention 
You were supposed to lick not chew 
That's why I'm full of apprehension 
but what a night on the golf course
and the hard shoulder of the highway
After just one romantic kiss 
We did it my way . 

Yes there were times I'm sure you knew 
When I needed a minute or two 
but you didn't have to pout 
Like a sour faced old trout 
because I was soon standing straight and tall
and did it my way . 

We've loved , we've laughed and cried 
My rigidity I was losing 
With passing years stamina subsides 
and you find that so amusing 
Is that it ? I hear you say 
In your own demanding way 
Oh no , Oh no ''cos after a cup of tea''
We'll do it my way . 

For what is a man , What has he got 
If he can't do it twice on the trot 
Wear your dress whenever he feels 
Practice wearing your high heels 
The record shows I love sucking toes 
and I did it my way .

Copyright © DARREN WATSON | Year Posted 2014

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Home Of The Hang Man

Home Of The Hang Man

The children are so full of doubt
No one is allowed to speak
No one is allowed to shout
Opinions are driven underground
Seems that every time they do it wrong
Always been the same old song
Never get it right
Never allowed to speak
Never allowed to fight

It’s a strange house
The children are so full of doubt
A strange house

The kids just don’t understand
They don’t see that this is the way it’s all been planned
Keep them frightened is the game
Then all those “other” things won’t need to be explained
Why is big brother always mad
Why is younger brother always sad
Why does he sit in his bedroom all alone
Because it’s a strange house
And not a home

It’s a strange house
The children are so full of doubt
A strange house

Everything they do or say
Is turned into to a weapon to build upon the barricade
And Dad pretends he’s not afraid
Of the sudden discovery of suffocated memories
The dark deeds linger in a cage
Of ridicule and violence that makes the babies cry
So Mum has buried her suspicions worryings away
In Sunday lunches usual farce
A make believe gathering of corrupted loving and pretended merry making

It’s a strange house
The kids are so full of doubt
A strange house

Big brother hit the self destruct
With pills and needles long before he decided he was gay
No one ever asked him why he was so mad
And  no one ever asked why younger brother was so sad
He sits up stairs in his room 
Surviving in a sea of doubt
The suffocated memories have all come out
He’s always sad and he’s always alone
The babies to they both have grown
But he doesn’t know them anymore
It’s been so long since he left that so called home

It’s a strange home
The children are so full of doubt
A strange house

Their children are so full of doubt
Brought up and made this way
All their futures turn to grey
As all the buried memories fight their own way out
Remember why they always felt so wrong
Remember what happened when we were young
And mother just closed her eyes she did not help
All the future turns to grey
Brought up and made to be this way

Father was the hang man who took their lives away

Copyright © colin mitchell williams | Year Posted 2008

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I have here an old solution
For conflict resolution
Not to mention domestic pollution 
I say 'Yes Dear!'

When the situation is tense
And The subject is pounds and pence
To a void sitting on the fence
I say 'Yes Dear!'

Though I sometimes feel sure I'm right
And would argue my point all night
That would really seal my plight
I confess Dear!

So winning my point I'll eschew
Won't debate 'til my face turns blue
I'll admit what you say is true
- More or less Dear

Famous men throughout world history 
Could have escaped conjugal misery
If they'd just given in to Her plea
And said 'Yes Dear!'

Julius Caesar would have stayed serene
In the senate missed a nasty scene
When his wife said 'your chariot needs a clean'
He'd said 'Yes Dear!'

Harold might have continued as king
Sent William home without a thing
But he paused to give his wife a ring -
Said: 'I'm a bit pressed Dear!

MacBeth would avoid so much strife
Live out a peaceful life
If he'd put off his ambitious wife
With :'Give it a rest Dear!'

Prince Albert made a good consort
Gave Victoria his full support
And nine children - a major export
Said 'Jawohl I do mein best Dear!'

Louis 16th got everything wrong
Made his exit quite short, not so long
Told his wife in a touching swan song
'Must get it off my chest Dear!'

The Iron Duke was in no mood for dallies
'Let's give those French a pain in their bellies'
But replied when his wife said:'You'd better wear your wellies' 
'By God! Yes Dear'

For myself, to fight would be absurd
I think conflict is just for the birds
And I know I'll always get the last words
Those being 'Yes Dear!'

Copyright © Geoffrey Brewer | Year Posted 2017

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I heard I might find a poet here Part 2

Time moves slower than a rusted windmill on a still day 
as I am unable to avert my stare, frozen in this spot,  
captivated by an intoxicating charm smoother than Tennessee whiskey 
that hasn’t seen the light of day since old Jack Daniels passed,
and in this catatonic state I am also hearing things too, did she say poet?  
Someone drops a quarter in the juke box, Sinatra croons from overhead speakers, 
“Strangers in the night” Appropriate I think as I fumble to form a coherent 
sentence while gazing, recklessly submerged in endless chestnut eyes,
drowning in dark melted chocolate sweeter than hometown honey
She pulls a slow sensuous drag from her half spent Virginia Slims,
perfect lips release the scarlet smudged filter, exhaling a stream of smoke, 
a light grey cloud cascading lazily but deliberately in my face
and with a sly smirk sighs, “Cat got your tongue?”

Blinking back to consciousness, or some reasonable facsimile,
I attempt again to respond as Angelo behind the bar, tosses me a life line
”Another?” he points to my near empty bottle pitching 
a white towel to his shoulder. “Yeah, yes… you?” I mumble awkwardly in her 
direction pleading silently to myself, get it together man

Flicking ashes in a Stella Artois ashtray, she lifts the glass to her rose petal mouth
empties it in one smooth seductive swallow, then removes the olive, 
glances at me through black swan lashes, brings it suggestively to her lips 
and places it on her tongue 

My breath exits faster than a 38 caliber screaming goodbye to a pulled trigger. 
“How nice of you to offer,” she replies in a hushed lullaby tone. 
I nod to the bartender and he gives me a wink.
He’s seen it all, I think to myself 

Placing a bewitching hand gently atop mine she inquires, “So, can you help me?” 
My stomach, obviously all along one enormous cocoon erupts releasing
every butterfly known to mankind, all of which now frantically flutter 
inside of me, I lean a little heavier on the bar for support, it’s almost not enough

Angelo returns, setting a fresh martini in front of her, a cold beer for me. 
Nervously I bring the bottle to my mouth, when I notice she raises her 
glass in my direction. What an idiot, I mumble as I retreat just in 
time from drinking to touch her glass with mine

“To the sexiest woman I have ever seen.” I can’t believe I said that, 
she looks away feigning shyness. 
We both take a drink, almost in unison, 
liquid harmony, the perfect duet 

The cold beer feels good going down my parched throat,
as a freak thunderstorm popping up over a drought stricken landscape might, 
only I plan on absorbing mine more rapidly
and having more fun as I do. 

“Are you planning on getting me drunk before you answer my question?” 
she giggles taking another sip, flashing a neon smile 
which ignites in me a prior unknown courage, “No, not all,” I answer. 
“I have been known to jot down a poetic line or two”

To be continued…maybe

Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016

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No One Listens

No one listens, do they?
No one really listens.
Trying to make ourselves heard
is like crying in a hurricane.
Trying to communicate
is like playing charades in handcuffs.
They won't get it.

Expressing to others how we truly feel
is like walking backwards,
blindfold, through a spiral maze.
Count the rings on Arthur's table;
we're alone and we know it.

Why do children invent imaginary friends?
Why do adults invent gods?
I'll tell you why:
we don't like to be alone.
But the nature of our psyche is such
that we are isolated and marooned,
among throngs of insulated clones.

How often does someone say to you,
'What are you thinking?'
How often do you think,
'I'd tell you, but it's pointless?'

Do you see? We seek to share minds,
but it's somewhere we cannot go.
It's simply that which we most desire
to end our inexorable loneliness.

Consider life as an impenetrable bubble,
blown to the winds of chance and change.
Yes, we can amalgamate, but never integrate,
as we float on the thermals of existence,
until circumstance or time
demand that we are popped.

Copyright © Jonathan French | Year Posted 2017

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My Own Pen

Sometimes when I’m alone --
                          I start to think ---
Had I not been an addict ---
                          What could I have been?
           What kind of life could I have given my children?
Of course these are questions not yet answered ---
                          A work in progress so to speak
Not a day goes by ---
                      That I don’t think about doing a shot ---
              To release myself from this pain, shame and guilt
           Because when I’m high I don’t think about any of that
I think only of myself ---
                         What I want and how I’m going to get it
I thank the Lord ---
                   For delivering me ---
                             From that way of thinking ---
I thank him for the gift ---
                           That gives me the chance ---
                                            To reach out to others ---
Almost every poem I write --- 
Comes from the bottom of my heart ---
                     And the very depths of my soul ---
Very seldom do I allow myself 
               The pleasures of writing a simple poem --
        That doesn’t carry with it a very profound message
See, I’m just like Jake and Elwood Blue’s
                   --- I am on a mission from God ---
God has transformed me into a poet teacher
The only way I can make any sense out of my life
Is by doing what I’m doing right now
                        Which of course is ---
                               Nothing less than ---
                   ---Owning up to my own mistakes ---
                             For the world to see
Thus allowing me to answer
                             --- The responsibility of my own pen ---

Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2009

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Don't Be Crying

Don't be crying, if you have been sleepwalking
Don't be crying, if you are lost and stumbling
Don't be crying, if walking the wrong road
Don't be crying, its time to lighten the load

Verse 1

Time to be yourself, for you to stand up and shine
Be kind and gentle, just gracious, loving and fine
Learn to love this life, all the sublime and divine
In sweet nature entwine

Don't be crying, just let me show you the way
Don't be crying, because this is a new day
Don't be crying, stop, there is no need for you to pray
Don't be crying, and let me take you away

Verse 2

Let the light in, find your compassion
Move past all your boundaries and fix what is broken
Be free and stand on the edge of the ocean
No tension

Don't be crying, listen to your wake up call
Don't be crying, enjoy big things and the small
Don't be crying, let each new step be breezy
Don't be crying, just let happiness be your journey

Verse 3

Sometimes we just stumble and sleepwalk through life
Cut sorrow with an imaginary knife
Find your purpose, believe in yourself
Get off the shelve

Don't be crying, go ahead and get it done
Don't be crying, be free and enjoy the fun
Don't be crying, fly high like the mighty eagle
Don't be crying, do this and your life will be tranquil

Repeat last 2 lines and fade to zero . . . .

December 7, 2017

Poetry/Lyric/Don't Be Crying
Copyright Protected, ID 17-9694-32-0
All Rights Reserved.  Written Under Pseudonym.

Written for the contest, End Of The Line 
sponsor, John Hamilton

Second Place

Inspiration - The Traveling Wilburys, End Of The Line, song

Copyright © Dear Heart | Year Posted 2017

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Pick a topic -Hope

Hope for sunshine on a snowy day,
Hope extra money is added to your pay.

Hope to awake and find you there,
Hope it was a dream and you still care.

Hope the world could be at peace,
Hope gun battles would cease.

Hope the countries leader would get it right,
Hope no more refugees take flight in fright

Hope when I am old someone will care
Hope someone will say, let's fix your hair

Hope each and everyday
Hope God listens when I pray

Hope he answers one or two
Hope he does the same for you

Penned 14/11/2017

Used topic c

contest:   choose a topic...Hope

Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2017

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Are you getting any

Although we're getting on a bit, we're not ashamed to say
that me and my good lady, well, we get it every day.
We try different positions when we're both upstairs in bed
if we're not lying down you'll find us writhing round instead.
There's tubes of stuff in drawers next to us on the bedside table
and manuals that we've bought (oh, plus the internet, when we're able).
When needs arise we get it, boy, we get it while it's hot,
it comes from out of nowhere and we're upstairs like a shot.
The word is out, and local swinging groups call to invite us
but then find what we are on about is rheumatoid arthritis!

Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2018