Long Cat out of the bag Poems
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Hey guys, thank you for reading this. Ok it has come to my attention from poets who are my
genuine friends that some uncouth people on here are gossiping about me; saying
I'm "preying" on (soup women). You know who you are!! I don't have to call names!! R U guys serious?
Number one I am single, I flirt, Number two everyone knows there has been several,
relationships formed here on the soup and yet they say I can't flirt or find love, instead they
say I am "preying " on women.
So I offer a challenge my soup family; Any woman who feels I "preyed" on her...leave
a "comment" for this letter for all the soup to see. If I have asked any woman for money
etc. (that I did not know and who aren't in my friends circle) please leave comment.
It is time to pull the cat out of the bag. No need for any more gossiping. So you people
that accuse me of this, WHERE ARE ALL THESE WOMEN AT?
Let's ask some of my personal friends, Carolyn Devonshire, Laura McKenzie, Amy Green,
Audrey Carey. These women I consider friends, real friends, and all these women are
respected on the soup.
Because I'm an inmate, I can't find love? A good woman? I am a part of this site, I can't
get to know a woman on here? Collaborate on poetry w/ a woman? Remember family, I
collaborated with some of these people who are gossiping and we wrote some beautiful
poems. You people doing this know who you are and your lying is catching up to you...lol
I come home next year soup family. I've served my sentence for a crime I did not
commit. So I'm not entitled to friendship and love??? Let me know. Love you guys
Jimmy M. Anderson
He looks outside the window of the moving train,
Watching the dripping pattern,
Made by the drops of rain,
His mind far away from the present happenings.
His eyebrows twitch,
As he wonders how he is going to drop the news,
To his expectant wife,
And four little kids.
Retrenchment till further notice...
She sits at that bench in the middle of the park,
Staring into space,
The wind blows strands of misplaced hair into her face,
She tries weighing alternatives,
Their pros and cons,
Let the cat out of the bag,
And possibly end two lives,
Or simply get rid of the developing one,
And save her own...
Unexpected pregnancy...
C.E.O,
Carefully and tactfully engraved,
On that wood stamp,
He swings on his chair,
Enjoying the dizziness that comes with it,
Because for a minute or two,
It takes his mind from all his worries and care,
But fantasy doesn't last long,
And he is back to reality.
His status and wealth,
Couldn't do much for him,
He wishes he could turn back time...
HIV positive
We are lost in our own jungle of worries,
Either that or this,
Where to get money, love, food, shelter,
What to tell him or her,
How to change our weight,
Height,
Complexion,
Complaining why things don't go our way,
Forgetting someone somewhere,
Wishes to be in our shoes,
Because their own situation,
Is way worse...
And from up above He looks,
The only thing in His mind...us,
Wondering why we couldn't simply trust,
Obey...
At his feet our burdens lay,
Forget what others will say,
Ask for His help...control,
And in His presence choose to stay,
He could do anything for us,
We just have to ask...
There is no other way...
Love.
I sat beneath a Veteran-oak,
In awe of His strength—
Here was a solid spirit!
Sympathy you get from Willow,
But stiff upper-lip from old soldiers,
With forged bark —
His limbs flexed, cut, rippled against the wind…
No chinks in this warrior-wood…
“Divide and Conquer!”
Then I thought of my Father—
A cook at the end of the war—The Big One!
You know the One I mean, as if there are small ones—
When the commanders were through eating
He was instructed to toss the leftovers
From the belch of plates—
Trashcans were in the alley,
The steel that seems intrinsic to battles
In one form or another—
The hungry German children
Would sneak pass the guards
And line-up;
My father would sneak pass his superiors
And his honor
To dispense carefully wrapped scraps…
Well, soon the line was out into the street
As my father was compelled to seek food
From wherever he could steal, beg or barter
To procure—This brought attention—the cat-out-of-the-bag,
And all hell down on my father,
As the captain screamed: Gus, these are the enemy (the children in the alley),
What in God’s Name are you doing?
He was forced to stop—no Court Marshal though…
I looked up again at the old oak,
Through the snarled branches
Deep into the staunch soldier,
Where I spied a nest
In a small, compact fork—
Having a canopy of extra leaves
For shade and shelter from the wind—
I smiled—hum…
His bark reddened, but like my father, no apology from this weathered soldier…
I began planning your surprise party over a month ago. I’ve spent many hours over the last few weeks conspiring with your friends and family, all of us working towards the goal of keeping you clueless. Although, that has been a nearly impossible task, I have to say. Considering, you are always so aware of your surroundings, and never let your guard down around anybody. You don’t know how many times I almost let the cat out of the bag, because when something exciting is happening in my life it is you, I want to tell first. I have wanted to tell you since day one, but to see the look of surprise on your face, in that moment of pure happiness will make all of our hard work well worth it. It has taken some true teamwork to pull this off successfully. The date has arrived and it is almost time for you to come home. Soon, you will be walking through that front door. I can’t wait to see your face when you see all of the streamers and balloons that took us all day to hang, placing each item in a precise location. All of the preparations are coming down to the one moment that is almost here. I hear the doorknob rattle, and it slowly begins to turn. We all scatter and run to our hiding places the way a cockroach does when the light comes on in a darkened room. The door cracks open and in you walk as we all jump out from our hiding places, shouting “surprise!” at the top of our lungs. Then, with a stunned look, you hit the floor.
The facts of life, O birds and bees,
how getting aroused, can trigger a sneeze,
Weird as it seems, science explains,
this behavior’s no contagious disease,
Apparently nasal erectile tissue,
caused this quirk during evolution,
Was used to discern erotic pheromones,
isn’t that a nice upstanding resolution,
Autonomic reflex gets overloaded,
in which we have no control,
If you have a secret admirer,
an Achoo! could betray their goal,
Now I’ve opened Pandora’s box,
let the cat out of the bag,
Instead of social distancing,
sneezes might encourage a shack,
This poem has some side effects,
even strange permutations,
God bless you! never be the same again,
could construe carnal allegations,
Strange this evolutionary mixup,
is still embedded in our genes,
Contemporary signals of interest,
usually belay bulging jeans,
I’m going out on a limb here,
for better no definitely worse,
Did we humans in our primeval past,
grunt prelingual dirty words,
So many questions surround,
basic instincts of procreation,
Least of which erogenous zones,
are open to interpretation,
Like whispering sweet nothings,
a turn on, in each other’s ears,
Call out the ex’s name by mistake,
your lusty night might end in tears,
So if dressing up like Snow White,
and think someones getting sleazy,
Take it easy on the small guy,
he may just be acting out sneezy.
By
David Kavanagh
cyou ramble with his poetry
book after book
but you are not a rose,
you are not a thorn
neither virgin, nor the whore
of his better days
under neon lights
and the sweat of inspiration
crying with Orbison and Lang
the touch that caressed
you deep
in the psyche of
your human jungle
you its prey,
and you build another empire
in the dust of your involution,
exhaling the animal instinct of a poem
you are its flame, but never quite
catch on fire
dirty dishes speak on your behalf
half-smoked
cigarettes stare vacantly into your eyes,
wine-stained sheets mix with
the semen of discontent,
the tenderness
of his poem,
escaping...
don't bother me with the logic of precision
just now,
don't look into my weaknesses:
your lacerations have disaffected
any meaning;
my residual defenses
and your "abstract" poetry
gnaw
my barefoot goddess image
like rats on an outing, like a chain
gang
don't let the cat out of the bag:
take my picture from your frame,
it's ten miles to the finish line and
one thousand and one feet from the edge,
I'm not finished reading
my headstone, my epitaph
blurs in the distance.
summer leaves are falling into the
missionary position,
somewhere a lotus blossom opens
and a newborn baby cries,
rivers flow into the wellspring
of what poems offer:
the unlikelihood of courage.
Form:
First crawl
I learnt to crawl in a tie,
Banker’s suit and smile on a lucky tot.
Learning the secrets of trades and service,
I’d make a difference with my skills,
And earn some money on the side.
I learnt to crawl with tons of rules,
To master the job, I turned a thousand pages.
To prove my worth, I hugged every mentor,
And cleaned their messes without a fuss.
A good tyro carries the teacher’s boots.
And like a robot, I emptied the bins,
I crunched the numbers and wrote memos.
The keys devoured the prints off fingers,
With no responsibilities, I could endure,
Endure for hours past closure.
Only crickets heard my crackling back at night,
“When learning to crawl, you practice, you know,
Perfect practice makes practice perfect…”
I was too young to care, they’d say.
Even so I withered to a bag of bones.
Still learning to crawl,
I bore her bag without a word,
And at the seat of grilling for review,
Never let the cat out of the bag for,
Sometimes it scratches the bearer;
T’was a secret sauce of wisdom, lucky to learn!
I was learning to craw and,
I walked the miles for a scrap of unfair share.
And never tasted a slice of the cake.
A toddler never runs the race of grown-ups.
A crump is enough to blind the eye.
Questions
If form follows function,
why does everything have too many bells and whistles?
Especially cell phone.
If everything is so simple a rocket scientist could do it,
why aren’t we all Werner von Braun’s?
Checkbooks are a mystery.
If the early bird gets the worm,
why are there birds out getting worms in the evening?
I get up early but I don’t eat worms.
If you are letting the cat out of the bag,
why are you telling the secret?
Why was the cat in the bag in the first place?
If curiosity killed the cat,
why aren’t more cats deceased?
I don’t like cats so_______.
If it is raining cats and dogs,
why don’t we have sturdier umbrellas?
Must get kind of messy when they hit the ground.
If we paint the town red to have a good time,
why are all towns pretty drab looking?
I only like red cars not buildings.
If someone is coming out of left field,
why don’t we just ignore them in the first place?
I played center field in little league.
If we can’t have our cake and eat it too,
why even bother having cake at all?
I just made an orange pound cake, so_______
I like words. I like the way they can be mixed with other ones
to make a sound soup or a puzzle
or something that sings and resonates with me during the day.
Writing is hedonism, too. It's very personal, and private.
Not all solitary pleasure-making is auto-erotic, you know.
I don't care if anyone dislikes how I say things
-- although I am careful to watch my language…
That would be letting the cat out of the bag.
I am careful not to let my true feelings about religion
or politics
or popular culture
or rap music or
media sweethearts
or ignorant bozos and bozettes
get free on the page
that others might see.
Writing is cheap. It costs nothing.
You can borrow a pencil from the cashier at the counter,
or the guy at the next table.
You can write on napkins.
You can write on the edge of the magazine pages
or the newspaper that someone left on the other table.
Writing doesn't require you to buy paint
and brushes
and turpentine
and an easel
and canvas
and have a room with good North light.
cutting corners to let the cat out of the bag feeling under the weather adding insult to injury Break a leg A piece of cake costs an arm and a leg killing two birds with one stone Speak of the devil hit the nail on the head Once in a blue moon You can’t judge a book by its cover