my mommys love was a loves room I knocked until my Knuckles bruised.
she taught me Silence like a bed time song, and bitterness in breakfast.
Her hugs were shark -skin
smooth if you dont move
but alisia moved
alisia always moved
She gave me her tired
like a hand-me down sweater
too tight in the chest
loose in the soul.
I learned to fold myself
like laundry she forgot in the
washer.
I wanted her wanting
but sne wanted drugs.
I wasent the drugs was
he child and i needed
her but
She needed them.
Now I carry mommy
In my Jaw in
in dreams
In the way I panic in someone
Says "mommy”
by alisia bentley
Without food
Means to change station
As go the dying poor in document
So must I
The forager
Origin of contempt
Translation of bureaucrat
My headaches not for information
This and this alone
Finds the civilized item
Creating civilizations
Spaceman
Sour Apple Ice
A hand me down
From a news friend
On our street
Whom possessed the capacity
Of a bad gateway?
A spacemare lands her bright
Simplicity and amaze
Without charge
Her lounge and a courtships ending
Where and how does a man resemble
His fortune after beings are conquered?
The post of California
In lost postage
Where has liberty wronged?
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Hello Poetry
LRH11ZY1
I recently received a cookbook
that was given to my older brother
A hand-me-down from my dad
that was passed down from his mother
After I use my cookbook, and before my time is done
I'll keep my family's tradition going, and I'll give it to my son
Black top was miles and miles away
Dirt road as far as you could see
The future just a minute away
Was everything you wanted it to be
Taking our time but not slowing down
Heads in the clouds, bare feet on the ground
Up with the sun, chasing the moon around
Dirt road living with a real country sound
The black top was miles away
The dirt road was here to stay
Or so we thought
In younger days
Hand me down clothes and used cars
Knowing right from wrong wasn’t so hard
Sunday School and parties at the lake
Life like this is too damn real to fake
We were young on that old dirt road
Didn’t listen to half the things we were told
Fishing poles and twenty-twos
Cowboy boots and tennis shoes
The black top was miles away
The dirt road was here to stay
Or so we thought
In younger days
On a dirt road we were living wild
Free and being nature’s child
Free and living nature wild
Black top was miles away
Thought that life would stay
But the dirt road has gone away
And though the black top’s here today
My heart still runs that dirt road way
The black top was miles away
So very very far away…and the dirt road…
Goes on forever
In my heart
A covert narcissist dressed in a hand-me-down victim cloak,
Master of the tear-tantrum tactic —
He sniffles, sobs, and simpers until your defenses drop,
Then slides a betrayal in your back so smooth you almost thank him.
A codependent parasite latched to his mother’s emotional tit like a tick,
Bound by an enmeshed dynamic so tight you'd think she birthed him twice.
He’s 40 going on 14,
Displaying classic symptoms of Peter Pan Syndrome with a sprinkle of Oppositional Defiance Disorder every time life whispers “grow up.”
Zero employment history,
But extensive experience in triangulation, gaslighting, and learned helplessness.
He’s the CEO of deflection, a PhD in projection,
Weaponizing guilt like a toddler with a grenade.
He calls you "too emotional,"
Right after he weeps his way out of another confrontation
Like a soggy Machiavelli.
He’s not just a mama’s boy.
He’s her emotional husband,
Their emotional incest dressed up as devotion,
While he lets her make every decision
Between his gaming sessions and tantrums.
He’s the kind of man who, if given a mirror,
Would still find a way to blame the reflection for his failures.
Seagulls and Saints of Emmaus
David J Walker
I see Seagulls and Saints
And icy sills of Window’s
Restraints of blurred realities
And unaccompanied Complaints
But clearly every pray ends
In amends and Amens
And incitant constraints
I see syllables in Sawgrass
A syllabus of things passed
Down in hands of hand me down
Phases and phrases
Of false praise promises of
Devine Salutations extended to
The someone just behind me
I see sunsets and bad bets
In this and that complications of
Unfinished pages of equivocations
On the road to Emmaus,
(about seven miles from Jerusalem)
“Stay with us” we plead
for it is nearly evening and the day is almost done.”
So he went and broke bread
And then fled as their eyes opened.
And That’s when I saw
Seagulls and Saints
Dining in fields
of locust and wild honey
Walking down the old country road,
Hand me down clothes in the bag.
Clothes with holes, and tattered robes,
There’s no worries in getting dirty
We’ll wash away the dirt in the stream,
Whilst you stand there, smiling at me.
Sing the songs that nobody’s heard
As we look above, at singing birds.
We’ll sit in meadows, of golden bed,
As we dance without shoes, into scarlet nights.
I’ll hold your hand, as I hold your heart,
I’ll make you happy, you’ll see.
I’ll publish my words, and sing my songs,
For other people to hear,
Of the days we went on the country road,
And by my side you’ll be near.
But for now I’ll wait, by the tree we met,
And I’ll wait there for your presence,
I’ll write my words, on paper with pen,
And forever I will wait, my dear.
Two skinny legs dangle from hand-me-down frocks.
Elastic bands holding up her socks.
Scuffed shoes on her feet so small they barley fit.
Water leaks through the crack where the sole had split.
Wheat coloured hair pulled away from her face.
Tied back in a pony tail with a crimson lace.
Blush Full lips hide a row of crooked teeth.
Always on show when she opens her mouth to speak.
Deep blue eyes and pale white skin.
Her frame is petite and she is painfully thin.
Her existence is humble but she is rich beyond compare.
For she lives in a home with love in it, a bond that they all share.
Many years have passed, a woman is she, respectful, beautiful and kind.
Now re living fond memories of the happy child hood she left behind.
They arrived in rusted cars and ancient trucks
slugged blue collar champagne from coffee mugs
playing one eyed poker with calloused hands
laughing like jackals -cussing like burning crabs.
They solved all of the world's problems
through unfiltered thoughts and whisky logic
smoking swisher sweets while nodding heads
agreeing that a godless world is better off dead.
The next morning, the sky was hungover
they tallied tackle and fired up grandad's motor.
That night, they gazed upon Gods waning embers
beholding lost lunkers and the ghosts of old friends.
Sunday morning, they slowly packed up paradise
hand me down tackle and one-eyed smiles.
An angel in the shallows waved them goodbye
down a dirt road they drifted away like misty skies.
The following year there'd be one less caste
in a sacred place they lay an old fisherman's hat.
Sunday's cold feet
My mind can go out for a journey
It will relate to things I've seen and fill in the gaps how I would if I couldn't see
As I see things I see no good and I see no bad
I need not tax my mind with have or have not
I prefer to struggle as I can not be seen any bit greedy and I was brought up as a hand me down last of a large 7 sibling family and always walked the edge of poverty and a class removed neatly and ugly by the system
Witches won't talk of the souls who run free
Joan of Arc thoroughly trashed and burnt by a church I shall never respect and the deaths of millions because someone won't except other beliefs has made our paradise a special place called hell.
Stories told and answers revealed
Tortured spirits wandering souls seeking spirits who journey to visit loved ones or people who made a mark deep in their soul
They may be blind
They may not have thought or body
But they are no bird in a cage
You will feel their chill silver sliver shiver through your spine
The eyes to stories from the heart the ears hear all calls for help. The mind is only capable of responding just alittle more than enough to keep us surviving
Those that I now love
are the dead who yet live on.
They are no longer memories,
but dwell under the rib cage
of this world.
Their lungs breathe in and out
magnifying every iota of creation
into a universe unto itself.
These are the hidden wombs
of all births.
Love is in them,
not as a past or future wave,
nor in any hand-me-down ocean,
but as an ever cresting Now.
Such a breath continually recreates
what the God seed has planted just once.
Books stacked in the floorboards,
her breath on polished glass
Together you would drive,
skipping yet another class
Playing hooky in a hand-me-down,
if only it could last
The memory of her fades each day,
like long neglected brass
Thank the Lord for that car,
& pray you don’t forget her laugh
They stand on the pointy end
of compass arrows,
friends and strangers
scattering, flickering now
like fireflies in a jar someone else
is carrying yet further away.
The young are born
on the far side of the moon
where nobody looks
for the earth.
Of course the dead have left,
but you still have their business cards,
debts. owed to you or to them
not money, but hand-me-down memories
those 'post-its' once pinned to the hope
of a shared journey.
You suddenly know you are alone,
the only fish in a shrinking pond;
rooted now by the very long roads
that brought you here.
Will you follow the calling winds,
will you backpack up to another peak
that goes nowhere?
Your are a veteran of foreign engagements,
time has so slowly
placed your heart in a box of pressed flowers,
a box muffled by plush and velveteen
one as large as any coffin
its four walls marked
'Do not open until the last train
leaves forever.'
Unlike the Famous Five,
with capers, japes and adventures,
boats and well stocked picnics, we lived
a back street life. With a sock and masking tape ball
and mucky fat sarnies.
The Family Allowance Five.
Each one of us an extra pound.
With facsimile school photos,
in hand me down jumpers and carving knife tread pumps,
floorboard cricket bat and under the bed air rifle.
Crab apple scrumping and tresspassing for mushrooms,
rabbitting before school,
paper round before school,
milk round before school.
Everything came before school.
Sunburnt scoundrels but "never any bother"
Corrugated asbestos roof walkers.
Cinema ticket hawkers.
Unseen, inconsequential, together but apart.
No roots or football boots.
Hot pot bollocks.
One foot here one foot there.
Immigrants finding their way,
but without the ginger beer.
Hand Me Down Past
David J Walker
As if to say
What if It came to pass
Taunting the future
With unproven ideas
Rearranging
the constellations
Rejecting
the hand me down past
As if to say
How quaint
And
Thank you
Anyway
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