Long Drag on Poems
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His days drag on, nights routinely the same.
Work and kids consume his time none left for the game.
With all his responsibilities, he needs none of the drama.
The bread winner, the daddy, and now even the momma.
Being what his little ones need
His desire is what he has no time to feed.
Cant invest what is required to have a regular chic.
Tired of playing with his own dick.
Out of his overstressed lips, passes a long drawn out sigh.
She steps out of the shadows smiles and says hi.
He looks down and sees a lady her curves are pleasing.
Thier eyes meet and he can see already shes teasing.
Not one single word or even a whisper,
You can feel the air heat and become crisper.
From the sway of her hips to her exposed flesh
It wasnt long and it was thier bodies that meshed.
Afterwards exhausted and totally drained.
He reaches for her but only her scent remained.
Everything around me is still
The soft lights ward off the cold
My worried heart is unsettled
Every minute makes me old
Time seems to drag on and on
Not sure I can take much more
I’m waiting for my angel
to walk in through that door
There is nothing to do but wait,
so I wonder about her day
but what’s taking her so long?
Did she somehow lose her way?
I think about my visit
My first time to see her place
In my glimpse into her life,
a weariness I can trace
She flew away to this isle
to try out her angel wings,
and in following her dreams
she untied the home spun strings
“Our children are not our own.”
Oh, great Gibran*, can’t you see?
My precious 18 year old,
Will always belong to me!
Oh yes, she may live elsewhere
Have a family of her own,
but she’s my little baby
and in my eyes she hasn't grown
I wait and wait and wait
Please, God, let her be alright!
I look out of the window
at the blackness of the night
I think of all those mothers
who wait for their children dear,
whose tired and aching arms
long to hold their loved ones near
The wait for them is fruitless
Its end is a tragic woe,
for death holds back their loved ones
The "Wait of Pain" will not go
My heart shares in their sorrow
My soul weeps for their plight
For though my daughter is late
She’ll be coming home tonight!
For Waiting Contest by James Rogers
September 9, 2015
*Khalil Gibran was a Lebanese-American artist, poet, and writer of the New York Pen League. There recent move, The Prophet, was about him.
Does Anybody Care?
Does anybody care, what you put in your hair?
or think, of the ink
you mail to somewhere?
With no thought, you lick the stick,
nor dawn on product of which you smear on.
To you, it’s all gum under your shoe.
Yet! In my home like crayon, you drag on floor with poo you left on.
And there you go, without a care.
Laying face first on the carpet, on which your dog dragged his butt somewhere.
Oh! How you don’t care,
to kiss me and touch me,
with that mouth you just shared.
And to think I would allow you in, with your cats!
And tolerating your roaming kittens, on the counter of my kitchen,
after they in the box just crapped!
The knives, the forks and the spoons you have licked.
The thought of it turns my stomach and makes me sick!
Corona Virus 19 you have nothing on my friends who are unclean.
It makes me angry, and want to destroy my TV with a brick!
Does anybody care? Nobody cares!
This is the world, the house, and the people who are so filthy.
It makes me disgusted; you have no thoughtfulness of germs.
Your consciousness to cleanliness is highly unlikely.
Don’t touch me.
Don’t think of me.
Don’t blow me a kiss.
You disgust me.
I have no care for thee.
You all can go now; you are kindly, and promptly dismissed.
by
Martin Braun
3/16/2020
I’m not a Mysophobic, but I play one as a poet.
Leisurely walk around Lords non stop pop of champagne cork
Scorecard dork does chalk the first over from Will O’Rourke
Another flowering Kiwi tree who gets the ball to talk & fork
While towering style of Kyle with guile & wile gall fans gawk
Doff your hat to Matt who really is all that aficionados squawk
Smith another hawk with similar riff for this tiff swing will stalk
Serious talent apparent not transparent with delirious torque
Balk one last refrain from the reign of Kane the Kiwi bulwark
If it grips rips what pips seeing Glenn Phillips flips & fillips
Golden arm charm can disarm like when baby Joe in skips
With Kane masters and pastors of snips missing the slips
Nudges nurdles overcomes hurdles as fans lick their lips
Never ruffled by kerfuffles silky shuffles and wristy whips
Express bouncer nips & dips caress the ball off their hips
Finesse not largesse witness their prowess heavenly sips
Zach having been so cack defence so slack got the sack
No coming back picked from the pack Gay to have a crack
Not out of whack got the knack this season has got a stack
Trust plucky Ducky again gets lucky no vastly ghastly hack
Stokesy becomes like Wokesy bat & ball gets us off the rack
Dirty Harry not shirty silly willy nilly hill billy flirty is like smack
In Ashes dung Tongue among the flashes of changing tack
No Josh tosh stung with gung ho bolts flung stumps thwack
Tongue climbs a rung with pace he brung others made us yack
Golly after much flak jolly Ollie the wally again leads the attack
After scold behold in from the cold part of fold & in the black
Coz after Oz fires our tyres flat just old hat we need a new jack
If not too chatty no cheeky drag on sneaky f*g or fatty snack
Hopefully no folly he will be fit on the track give us bit we lack
No off his trolley verbal volley Ollie could be return of the Mac
Creating nothing out of thin air
Seemingly impossible, and yet it will be done
To put an end to this world we have to bare
Halting even the light of the rising sun
Away from the hubs that this world holds dear
What matters to them means nothing to me
When I have built the stronghold to vanish all fear
A land I will discover, my guidance to lead
The screams of our demons buried away
Gone are the burdens that drag on our beings
No need to return, for here we will stay
Marked is the utopia for the worthy to be seeing
For eternal solitude I once upon a time sought
But now I have treasure I shall never release
People for whom battles I have fought
Their demons I shall banish, like a disease
What is a paradise if not to share?
With the ones who make life itself worth living for
Oh what I will sacrifice to show them I care
Behold this fantasy I shall lay out a lore
Surrounded by walls of nature's gifts
Rocks and rivers, walls of plants and trees
But once through these obstacles one has sift
At the center of it all, a cottage they shall see
Here there is refuge, for as long as you need
A stronghold to rest from the chaos outside
Take part in the magic and finally be freed
Peace and tranquility, here they reside
Moonlight enchants us, protected by its Goddess
Foxes prance and bless with their presence
Stars shine brightest in the darkness
Away from the world, and it's unpleasant essence
I lie beside you
Trying to keep still
Yet…this need is eating away at me
I sigh
Sure that my desire
Is working its way out of my body
Glowing out through my pores
I’m sure it will hover over you
And entice you with it’s aura
Pulling you awake…
And I wait….
The minutes drag on
My thoughts consumed
By images that sear into my flesh
What could be….
I can’t quench the fire
Sleep is impossible
Not now
“Wake up!” My mind shouts
Yet my lips are sealed
My breath comes in muted gasps
“Please…wake up”
“Selfish, selfish!”
My mind cries
“Let him sleep
It’s been a hard day
He needs his rest.”
I acquiesce
I toss and turn
In my mind I converse with you
“It’s been awhile
Surely…you want it too
I don’t know what to do!
How can I sleep
When I desperately want you?”
A movement on your side
I hold my breath
Hoping it’s true
The craving that will not sleep
Forces me to speak...
“Touch me!”
My most sultry voice
Breaks the stillness of the night
Your heavy breathing is stilled
I feel an awakening
Emboldened
I guide your hand
To my waiting breasts
Which I’ve bared for some time
In readiness
In anticipation
Waiting to bring me pleasure...
You pull me to you
And your lips close over them in turn
Making all my dreams come true
The open window carries out the sound
Of our frenzied sleeplessness
My every womanly sense
Is taut….alive
Wanting
Needing
Demanding
Pleasing
Energy born out of insomnia’s rage
I blaze through these moments...
Satiated…I sigh
The tenseness wanes
My body goes lax
My eyelids heavy
As a plant a kiss on your lips
I slip
I slid
Into that land
Of sleepful bliss.
July 3, 2013
For the Sleepless Nights Contest
Leonora Galinta
Oh Lord, it seems to me, You are a God of pain
without which some people say there is no gain.
There is only so much that we creatures can bear
and it’s sometimes I wonder if You really do care.
Throughout the world You’re generally loved, hated or feared
and there are certain times when You are very strongly jeered.
Most people have a hard time making up their mind about You
because of the trials and tribulations that You put them through.
It seems strange and true to say that with Your almighty nature
You somewhat force people to bend to Your imposing stature.
To impress on them that You’re the Only One they should please
You have to prepare and teach them all how Your Will to appease.
Is it because of You’re being Immortal and All-knowing and we are Your heirs
that You subject us all to such rigorous training to overcome illusion’s snares?
One only has to reflect on the lives of Your so-called True Sons of the past
to realize the suffering and attainment their example on humanity has cast.
If I sound to be a little cynical towards You and seem to complain
how could You be so insensitive and not help me get rid of my pain?
Though ignorant as I am to One Who is great as You’re made out to be
please show a little more compassion to those who are helpless like me.
As life in this world demands so much of our time
is it forgetfulness of Thee that You consider a crime?!
This whole world is a cruel proving ground to one higher above
and yet it has been spoken or written that You are a God of love!
If I don’t seem to see the bigger picture now of what really goes on
then You’re held responsible for allowing this situation to drag on.
And even though You have given Teachers to show people the way
the illusion is still so strong that most get caught and lost in the fray.
Remaining a while here where they play out either minor or major roles
being only a matter of time before they too become aware of their souls.
When after much disappointment and suffering that You seem to mete out
they gradually realize by pain that this world is not what life is only about.
__________________________________
Charles and my predawn jog was a sweat-athon and as the sun rose, a heat-dome brightness tattooed crisp shadows in every corner. Any lingering coolness was burned off - evaporated.
It was 94°f, 3 hours later, when I walked to campus - why don’t we use parasols anymore? Drag on, radiant afternoon heat, please.
That was 100 proof sarcasm, in case you couldn’t tell.
Hot days seem to drag-on slowly, like waiting for a microwave or a droning, liturgy. It wasn’t in the forecast but I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear, “Today’s forecast is slow, really slow.”
Let’s start an Internet theory that the atmosphere is thinning or we’re just ants under a magnifying glass.
The finally setting sun left a blood red line under the falling blue dark, like a gash of wound in the skin of young-night.
Once my nightly obligations are done (classes, homework, reading), the silence can seem oppressive. I’m used to the never ending hustle, boiling drama and noise of seven suitemates - so there’s that.
On now empty nights, I’m tortured by the high-beating pulse of youth, and I pace my empty apartment, like someone restlessly waiting for their venti-mocha-latte at a Starbucks.
Can anyone suffer like a young woman left all alone?
Why, oh whomever, must I sip from this deep, bitter, undrinkably salty sea of solitude?
In this, my prime season, why do I only manage to exist?
My needs are in a shameful state of decay.
.
.
Cruel Summer by Bananarama
Habits (feat. Haley Reinhart) by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox [E]
All That I Need by Ebony Loren, Matthew Ifield & Sebastian Kamae
(In a 19th-century legal judgment studied by all who
learn the English common law, Sturges v. Bridgeman,
the court found in favour of a "nice" doctor over a
"common" manufacturer, for reasons of pure snobbery.)
The Candyman Can’t
Some legal battles have the power to thrill,
while others never have, and never will.
Some touch on human themes which really matter,
and some do not. We’re dealing with the latter.
This present case is hardly OJ Simpson:
it lacks dramatic shape, and simply limps on
listlessly, with abstruse reasoning,
no sex or violence to give it seasoning.
One Mister Bridgman manufactures sweets,
in premises where Wigmore crosses/meets
its neighbour, Wimpole. Eighteen seventy-nine
of our salvation, two lives intertwine
when Doctor Sturges takes consulting rooms
around the corner. Disagreement looms,
for Bridgman’s grinding, pounding candy line’s
destroying Sturges’ peace, fragging his mind.
The law of nuisance really is quite funny.
It says, “he did you harm? Well, here’s some money”.
What if you’d rather dodge the damage, and
defer the dollars? How to countermand
the duty-breach-then-damages regime?
Suppose we interpose a better scheme?
Instead of “you must suffer, he must pay”,
we stop the harm? The problem goes away!
This ruse is known as “equity”. It functions
by granting prior relief (they’re called injunctions).
So Sturges stemmed stentorian sweetie sounds
by order of the court, and Bridgman found
his business gagged and bound by hoops of steel,
for no good reason. What to do? Appeal!
(For thus advise the lawyers. Such affairs
drag on for years. The lawyers? They get theirs!)
Said Bridgman: “I’ve been cranking out jujubes
for decades now. It’s all gone down the tubes
because some quack dislikes the earnest hum
of my devices. Why, then, did he come
to Wimpole Street? He wants tranquility?
Go hang his shingle in Highgate Cemetery!
I have a remedy for Doctor Sturges:
it’s swallowing his antimony purges!”
But Bridgman lost. One cannot help but feel
that making toffee wasn’t quite genteel
enough. Their Lordships said behaviour
that’s unacceptable around Belgravia
can find a home in Bermondsey. The latter
has lots of lowly types. It doesn’t matter
if they have noisome noise, and have to live
in filthy fumes – for they’re not sensitive.
“It’s a parcel for you, Sarge!”
the words hung visibly;
condensed in the bitter air.
Ice underfoot cracked
beneath the sodden boots
approaching;
each step releasing
fetid odours
of rotting corpses,
faeces,
death,
that it was hitherto
holding at bay.
A dozen pairs of eyes
stared, greedily
as the package exchanged hands.
Shaking,
the sergeant held the box
in its crude wrapping
of brown paper
and string.
Eventually
he pulled off his stiff mittens
with teeth
which shifted painfully
in complaint
at the effort.
He glanced impassionately;
three fingers of one hand
four, on the other
useless black stumps,
rotted,
from frostbite,
neglect,
and gangrene.
His index still there
as was himself;
he could still pull a trigger.
‘Friends’ eagerly helped
the unwrapping;
a taste of candy
a drag on a ciggy
their anticipated reward.
He stared at the contents.
A pair of red gloves;
each finger lay there
as fresh, as red, as a poppy;
with a note from a child:
“Dear Tommy
I knitted these for you in class
to keep you warm
while you keep us safe,
I hope you like them,
Lillian.”
Of What Use Are Gloves To Fingers That Only Understand Mittens Poetry Contest: Placed 2nd
Sponsored by: John lawless
Date written 21st December 2022