Members Poetry and Writing

Inspired the first paragraph and your picture of the ocean caused me to, actionable passions and well lol. Thats what happens when I get like that angel. Thank you.

 

I likes me Cream Cheese Poetry

Hay ... ova dey ... Like you there
Little Miss Riding hood.
Like rides for me ... this.
Take dis and stick it in yer
plum pie as I jack me nimble
and jack be quick
Like Lickety baby.
do me sums banana splits.

 

Searches For Destinies

When will we cease to drink
the day as it rises for us again
in this our now? Lightly we
cast our pearls out with their
broken strings, to the last part
of yesterday we called ours.

Searches for destinies causes
leave us placed in the, wild’s
of reason ; she who, catches
the wind and in the end is gone.

Aloft and free from life’s
stains worn scarlet and lettered.
From those who know, we
cannot hide. Instead we ride
along using ourselves as shells
for calm.

Reckonings furled in frustration
when our future is surely gone.
Ended through more of
what will not come.

Rains wet never touching the
ground, strange fallings all.
Winds blown to us stop. As
breezes we will never know.

Running and playing child
like thru minds timed to hide
from nothings tide. Past’s
sought as realizations are fought.
For beliefs settled in as naught.
Loves true meaning sadly caught.

Shadows of trust blooming a
beautiful telling gloom.
Visions of seasons unchanged
forever. Then we must shelter
knowing. The densely weighted
path walked to those lost.
Who now pay it’s final cost.

The coals are cold, the flame
gone. Remembered, now left
like ashen pieces mostly wrong.
Remnants of a fire that gave
warmth, comfort and
Companionship.

Embers darkened from view.
Cold blackens this thickening
sight. Lights absence an eerie
space . Now a memory with
only a face.

Tongues lie. Eyes are for the tears
to cry. Heads bow giving sorrow
a place to hide. Praying hands are
for asking why. Goodbye.

 

Still. Moved.

Still. Moved. Like two
fragile leaves, not blown
in a wind that cry's around
them. Motions left stolen
from our eyes. Ready us
for another try.

Flowing rations of sensed
needs to those things we
become. Us chased for so
long our passions garnered
wrong.

Reflections cleared, left to
lay on still pools. Visions
never reaching us as right.
Images of kindness are our
dark as night. Tried an true;
still left longing and blue.

Drops falling to the ground
racing to an end. Splash together
then part as rains last pieces are
rushed down. Like us, where
they and we begin again. Others
coming after us and ; them.

Together falling as parts, and then,
the clouded thoughts tending to
our unfriending roll in. Undoing
us begins. Paying for meetings sin.

Moved. To chance this standing
known from what we have already
almost grown, only needs to take
root and be nurtured by us to meet
its doom. Never allowed to bloom.


Still. Like two fragile leaves one
loosed and freed, yet not moved
in a wind that cry's around it. We
are left with motions stolen from
our eyes that ready us for this:
The bliss of goodbye.

 

Love and Marriage, Love and Marriage,
Go together like a horse and carriage,
This I tell ya brother, you can't have one without the other.

Love and Marriage, Love and Marriage,
It's an institute you can't disparage,
Ask the local gentry, and they will say is element'ry.

Try, try, try to separate them,
It's an illusion.
Try, try, try and you will only come
to this conclusion.

Love and Marriage, Love and Marriage,
Go together like a horse and carriage,
Dad was told by mother
You can't have one
You can't have none
You can't have one without the other.

 

Dance

The desk, screen and lamp her cool soft chair, the music changing the mood from calm to productively seductive, filling the room everywhere. Her movements slow and directed, becoming infected with the rhythms invading her body. She swings an shift’s then
sways as the tune moves in and down. Her motions slowly start to total one. This sensual awareness growing as a testament to her sleek control forming torrents as she goes. Up then now over as she moves her shoulders. Lower into her hips the swings get bolder going down into her legs led by notions from parts of needs forced to move through her. Then to her head the music starts directing the feeling everywhere over an back, making her body write into the dimly lit room. Ordained in this feeling of doing something to celebrate the intimate innocence of her prowess she lifts her belly. Her shirt falls open slightly as she pushes forward into the air rolling her middle out then pulling it in again. Waves appear to rise an melt into her everywhere. Her body’s commanding performance collected as sights romance. Sweet music from motions spoken with her hips, thighs and eyes by slips, pushes, pulls, shifts then twists, turns and rolls filling the screen like a dream, on she goes.

 

When May with all her blooming
train
Came o'er the woodland and the
plain--
When mingling winds and waters
made
A murmuring music in the shade,
I loved to hear that artless song--
I loved to stray those groves
among.
And every sound of rustic pleasure,
Waked in my heart an answering
measure.

--Gerald Griffin (1803-1840)

 

Jabberwocky
by Lewis Carroll


'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

 

This is a poem I wrote about my Dad. He was very straight, and as long as I had known him he had been clean-shaven, always with a crew cut and no facial hair, not even sideburns. Then when I was a teenager, out of the blue, he decided to grow a beard. This was so out of character for him that I didn't know what to think, and I wrote this poem.

My Father's Beard

My loving Dad had made me mad,
Decided to go weird.
Although I raved, he didn't shave
And now he had a beard.

All that rubble and that stubble
Looked so out of place.
He should have known that fully grown
He'd have a hairy face.

But even though it all was so
I did think, with a grin
That it was good, since as things stood
It hid his double chin!

Then one day I heard him say
He'd simply had enough.
He put on cream and wiped it clean
And shaved off all that stuff.

Some things on earth fill me with mirth
While others are just weird,
But nothing tops the day my pop
Went mad and grew a beard.

I love you, Dad. R.I.P. Sept. 6, 1930 - April 6, 2011

 

I close my eyes, only for a moment, and the moment's gone
All my dreams, pass before my eyes, a curiosity
Dust in the wind, all they are is dust in the wind
Same old song, just a drop of water in an endless sea
All we do, crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see

Dust in the wind, All we are is dust in the wind

Don't hang on, nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky
It slips away, all your money won't another minute buy

Dust in the wind, All we are is dust in the wind

(by Kansas)

 

The condition upon which God
hath given liberty to man is
eternal vigilance; which condition if he break,
servitude is at once the
consequence of his crime and the
punishment of his guilt.

---John Philpot Curran
(1750-1817)​

 

Inspired by my local news

There's a criminal in Memphis
Corroding society
A father that steals to feed
A family of three
Crablegs, ribs, some candybars
They never got to eat
High-speed chase, flashing cars
Crimson bled on the streets

 

Father's Day

The first Father’s Day without you
And though we are apart
Because you’ve passed on to another realm
You still live inside my heart.

I was so very fortunate
To have had you as my Dad
A loving, funny, caring man
No better could I have had.

A wonderful husband, father, worker, friend
No better could there be
I see how special that you were
And know how much you loved me.

Life won’t be the same without you
But you taught me love and strength
So I’ll be fine from this time on
Since I know love never ends.

So here’s to you, my special Dad
I light a candle for you
I look forward to seeing you once again
When my time here is through.

I love you, Dad.

 

When I first found love I thought it was a balloon
All shiny and red and bulbous
I tossed love into the air so it would float listlessly back to me
I squeezed love so hard I thought it would pop
I displayed my love to make envy my friends
It was then I learned love was not a balloon, love was power
...
I tested my love
Do this for me love,
and love did
Go away love.... come back love,
and love did
Hurt yourself love,
and love did
I conquered love,
and love wept
I forsook love
I kissed a girl right in front of love
and love withered
I lost love
...
I found love many years later at a bar
Love and I talked about the times when we shared
and I thought, just maybe, I could win love back
when I saw love's ring
Love told me she was happy, and that everything happens for a reason
I saw pictures of love's daughter
That was when I knew love would never return
I turned to leave, knowing I would never see love again
and she whispered loves name into a bottle

 

​

Moon struck with luck a picture of perfection and the motions of my worn hearts abolition, entering into sight and floating flawless a beauty of the night. A mystical mythical outline shown with lunar rays falling a magical haze. Coming nearer and growing dearer. Through desire my eyes see to hear as I am caused in my waiting where dark shadows are overtaking.

Dense lit cloudiness falls and rolls moving to rise then drop into the night vanishing from sight as this apparition comes nearer, becoming clearer. Commanded in this spaces place where time is fixed upon this moments grace. I am held a witness to this ghosted drifting where I see better the being of my feeling strode up to this eves quaint, an image vague and outline faint a strolling figure growing prettier.

Glazes of emeralds, her eyes are as shimmering reflections of sparkling light piercing the clouded shroud she wears. Calling in me to those deepening things caught and felt, that later get fought until again they are sought only to be guarded an kept stove. Silenced inward, mourned by sharing then neatly tucked away with caring. Radiant as she walks with glances to chances held in precious solitude.

Followed by the majestic moons glow as it floods her steps with luminescence pouring from the sky. Filling up the moment as she enters it like a "pool of moon bright contained in a pond of dark rising around her," flowing into the night and rolling into the thickly clouded air that gets colored a celestial luminous shade.

With heavens sparkly dance firefly's are courted from above by nights starry romance. Twinkles playful trysts, orchestrated in the fields of darkend mist. Lively spectacles appear then stop as if to hop into the sky catching my eye. Star light-firefly bright sing to me this wonderous night. Where sighted voices flit then flick a chorus from above to a tempo of the harmony of natures earthly lighted bliss. Ended now she glides yet softly here, a moment of time owning more than I can see. She exits my thoughts to enter as a memory. Leaving spirited as she appeared. Still a mystery.

​

Thank You Lady Luna

 

A Stained Cup for Joe

Alone, crowding my corner booth as you have
on countless past Saturdays. Familiar arctic
greetings of a welcome long worn.

No special-of-the-day. No smiles.
No percent chance of a cleansing rain.
Moot point: This world of hope is
"no good place to raise a family."

With each cup poured,
a grip steadier than the last,
Blackness floods my fertile heart,
thorns in hideous bloom.

Unyielding, unapologetic gaze.
Insidiously vacant irises,
kaleidoscopes of your past.

Same duo met the funeral parlor
attendant with your prestige:
"Three sweetest lil angels you ever saw."
Brain matter smeared across the
glass of your Chevy hearse.

As you devour your supper of catfish
from the lake where you
dragged their corpses to cleanse,
taste my hunger for a world,
devoid of your suffocating breath.

 

Broom out the floor now, lay the fender by,
And plant this bee-sucked bough of woodbine there,
And let the window down.
The butterfly floats in upon the sunbeam, and the fair
Tanned face of June, the nomad gipsy, laughs
Above her widespread wares, the
while she tells
The farmers' fortunes in the fields,
and quaffs
The water from the spider-peopled wells.

---Francis Ledwidge (1887-1917)

 

A haiku. From me to you.


(*)(*)(*)(*), I'm out of beer
And it's 4 in the morning
Guess I'll drink mouthwash

 

Nipple, sweet nipple
Why must you stare at me so?
I shall not tweak thee

 

These steps caused by time from bearing this weight I couldn't wait to know for you are now through. To say bye is all thats left for us two, too do. Part ways and seek better days, where we are free to analyze the cries from our eyes, for the dreams of us to our needs and loves pleas, giving us reflections through tears and helping to abandon our fears.

These reflections of visions, showing us the strength sorrows build to hearts broken with loving care and untended to with a firm forgetting; turn to pleasures of pain worn outward and painted by grief. Projections indeed of surety, and wearing the knowing of tears mirrored through years from workouts to hurts. Exercises to strengthen falling in and out of togetherness.

Falling like night, stark contrasts to the day commissioned to play times cruel symphony. The dark lays and moves rolls and meets, touches then rushes around her outward grief. Black slivers don the landscape of rich tormented applause. Like a crowd they gather in places and congregate to watch the unfolding of loves toneless melody.

A saddened fixture, now set like a monument of stone placed here on display. Carved out of memories from paths walked with steps to promises that were broken. With a silence only she can hear, left statued and mourning for the mornings light to run the bitter darkness of love away so she can remain still, frozen and lifeless a picturesque shell on display for another day. A sculpture to the best of the worst for the last of her first hurts. Giving whispers to her whole hearts parts. Starting to stop the hands of feeling as the minutes and seconds turn to days and hours. Holding her here for the begining of an end to a now without him.

 

" A small red squirrel often visited the hut.
After a meal it would dance a jig in the yard,beating it's tail,uttering
tiny squeaks,rolling,jumping,and terrorizing the chickens and pigeons.
The squirrel visited me daily,sitting on my shoulder,kissing my ears,
neck and cheek,teasing my hair with it's light tough.After playing it
would vanish,returning to the woods across the field. "

excerp from - The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kosinski

 

Frantically busy,wasting little time,for the hour would be near
and it's said that Oliver Crangle HAS the power.Scanning the huge
big city phone directory and using his thick index finger,thick from
years of pointing out ordinary people on the street as possible
subversives,commies and anyone attempting to buck the State.
Oliver Crangle is happy in his work.Picking out random names in the
directory and calling them,informing of what happens to someone at
a certain hour.That hour being - Four O'Clock - ,the hour in which all those
he deems unworthy will be transformed into Two feet tall.Thereby
easily noticed by all and no longer able to practice with such ease
their subversive activity.
In a rather humble apartment,as if furnished by the State,with little
in the way of odds & ends or even bric-a-brac,let alone the occasional
religious painting hanging,the place is staid and cold and wooden like
the floor,and also Oliver's state of mind.His conviction is steely-hard
and sharp as a butcher's knife,yet just as cold and wooden of feeling
as if using the floor as bed.But determined Oliver Crangle is,to see to it
those he determines are made into Two Foot Tall gnomes.Seeming
rather convinced of that,he turns quite often now,to glance behind his shoulder
at the wall clock.The time is anear and none too soon.Before long the streets
should be filled with little people,barely able to see inside store windows
without standing on their toptoes.The thought makes Oliver almost dizzy
with fascinated delight,as if doing the Devils work had just reward.
But for now Oliver has to fix a late lunch and maybe take a nap,in order
to replenish his strength for that ominous hour.The Hour he has ironically
chosen for himself,since Oliver is fast asleep and will surely awake when his
phone rings to warn him of his new station in life.

 

Nervously pacing his room,a single's pad,or to be more blunt a
four dollar a night flop of a place.Grady,is still clinging to the hope
that they'll forget and let it slide,and once again he'll be back up on
a possible winner,the jockey he once was,proud yet small,the way most
good jockey eventually justify an existence.However,not so with Grady.
No longer capable of clutching on to an existence,let alone those horse
reigns,Grady has been relegated to sweating it out in his one room
flop,with only a telephone as companion.Unless one considers the
Newspaper fitting company.Right now,Grady doesn't consider anyone
or anything fitting company.Banned from horse racing,even the
bookies steering clear of.Convicted on horse doping,a very grave
matter,and some in the Horse world consider a death sentence,especially
for a jockey.Nevertheless Grady uses the phone,in desperation for another
shot.But always the same response at the other end ..." Who ? What
paper ?.Sure I read that column.The guys a creep,I need a stomach pump
just to get through one of his articles.I had nothing to do with horse doping,
OK you Fink.Nothing " as Grady slams down the receiver,yet another failed
attempt to get across to the outside world.
Now,more aggravated than before,if that is possible,he takes off his shoes.
His pacing and yelling has garnered yet another pounding on the wall,
meant as a message to Pipe down,already.Yet,yell some more,grady does.
Flopping back on his small bed next to the dresser where his phone
lies,he removes his dogs { shoes } and lays back with arms folded
behind his head in thought. " I wanna Be BiG " he thought. " Yeah,
that's the ticket.BIG.They'll have to notice me then.They'll have no choice."
As the thought caused him to stand abruptly up and consider this novel
idea.That's all he needed.Just keep wishing upon a wish for Bigness.
Yeah ... that's the ticket.

Part One of { The Last Night of a Jockey } 1963
Paraphrasing by :

Me,ME,ME,ME,ME ... Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

 

With this new life of Bigness being born in his head,Grady had
something to hang his hat on.If he wasn't gonna be allowed back
on the track,at least he'd make a splash somewhere.Probably on the
street as he went out for a newspaper.But first Grady had to wish
really hard for his bigness.He had to keep repeating after himself,
' I wanna Be Big ... I wanna be Big.' So back into bed he went for that
nap and maybe he'd find more inspiration after some Zzzzzzzzzz's.
Time almost flew bye and before Grady knew it,he was awake again.
Feeling refreshed,for the time being at least,until the phone rang.
It was his bookie.Wanted to know about that bet he placed last week.
Seems little Grady kinda split the scene when another horse bet went
down the drain.This was like 5 bets in a row.Grady was into his book
maker for a small bundle now.As he hung-up the phone,he noticed,still
a little tipsy from his nap,that the room seemed different.It was smaller.
Either that or He was bigger.Oh well he thought,must be his new imagination
at work.Anyway he had phone calls to make.To the different tracks.
Maybe he could get work as a trainer or trainer's aide.He needed dough.
Still ... the room seemed really quite different now.It WAS smaller.
Now,how did that happen.Plus when he went to put his shoes on,they
were too small.Like WAY too small.And the phone was much tinier in his
now rather large hands.In fact,when he went to dial the phone his fingers
were too big for the holes on that rotary relic he had atop his dresser which
also got smaller.Grady stood up and things started to gel.He WAS Bigger,by
golly.In fact he felt kinda better also.He felt Big.Like Important big.
Yeah ... he thought.I'm bigger now.Almost big enough.

Part deuce { I Wanna Be Big } 1963