Tag Archives: pome

Take Me

Where does wind come from?
And where does it go?
I’m not really sure that the wind even knows.

May I ask you a favor?
When the time is right,
Take me where the wind blows.

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Nice to Meet You

Let me introduce myself.
Let me pick you up at seven.
Let me show you a good time.
Let me put my arm around you.
Let me drive you home.
Let me show you how to have fun on the way.
Let me watch tv.
Let me leave the seat up.
Let me eat.
Let me compliment you today.
Let me hold it all in.
Let me live.
Let me come home late sometimes.
Let me explain that.
Let me think.
Let me change the subject.
Let me pack my things.
Let me cry.
Let me say goodbye.
Let me lie.
Let me come back.
Let me talk through the door.
Let me introduce myself.
Let me drive you home again.
Let me come in.
Let me show you an even better time.
Let me say it wasn’t my fault.
Let me say I’m sorry.
Let me love you.
Let me have a second chance.
Let me hold your hand nine months from now.
Let me see them on the weekends.
Let me apologize.
Let me back in.
Let me learn from my mistakes.
Let me start over.
Let me introduce myself.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Love Poems

A love poem from a person with Dyslexia:

Roses are red,
Violents are blue,
Sugar is sweat,
And so are you.

A love poem from a person with ADD:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue–
But not only violets;
The sky is blue, too.

A love poem from a person with OCD:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue–
Roses are red,
Violets are blue–
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I plucked off the petals,
And sorted them too.

A love poem from a person who’s Bi-polar:

Roses are red,
I wish I were dead.
Violets are blue,
I’ve got the happiness-flu :)

A love poem from a person with Terret’s:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
F@$%!
…I love you.

A love poem from a person with Schizophrenia:

Roses are red.
Roses are red.
Roses are red.
Roses are red…

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

WARNING:

WARNING: Contains sexual humor, drug references, and language.

WARNING: Do not use in the shower.

WARNING: Hot contents may burn you.

WARNING: Aim away from face.

WARNING: Contents may explode under pressure.

WARNING: You may stop reading the word “Warning.”

WARNING: Do not ignore this warning.

WARNING: This could kill you.

WARNING: Contents not suitable for mature audiences.

WARNING: Do not use this product under any circumstances.

WARNING: Don’t get too curious.

WARNING: Keep out of reach of children, teenagers, couples.

WARNING: This end up.

WARNING: Contents may shatter when broken.

WARNING: Alarm will sound.

WARNING: Wearing a helmet does not guarantee your safety.

WARNING: Wearing a seat belt does not guarantee the safety of others.

WARNING: May contain nuts.

WARNING: You are what you eat.

WARNING: Do not ingest.

WARNING: May cause drowsiness.

WARNING: May cause lousiness.

WARNING: Do not take orally or rectally, or without paying first.

WARNING: Do not attempt to stop the blade with your hands.

WARNING: Objects in mirror are backwards.

WARNING: For indoor and outdoor use only.

WARNING: Do not attempt to fly indoors.

WARNING: Theft of this product is a crime.

WARNING: You are entering a drug-free zone.

WARNING: You are entering a care-free zone.

WARNING: Do not place bag over head.

WARNING: Do not engage in vigilante justice.

WARNING: Glasses may impair vision.

WARNING: May increase risk of pregnancy.

WARNING: Do not shake contents of crib.

WARNING: Do not laugh at the natives.

WARNING: Do not laugh at the naives.

WARNING: Mispellings may occer.

WARNING: Slippery when wet.

WARNING: Do not use while unconscious.

WARNING: Do not use while subconscious.

WARNING: Only compliment one woman.

WARNING: Effects may result in side effects.

WARNING: Do not run with sharp objects.

WARNING: Do not run drugs for the cartel.

WARNING: Wear safety goggles while attempting this maneuver.

WARNING: Repeating something too much may lessen its impact.

WARNING: You’ve been warned.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

To Know

To Know

The moment.
The moment of clarity.
The severity,
a rarity
that stings
and rings
with things
you can’t describe,
but only feel
and know
—you just know
what will happen,
and that you can’t
stop it
no matter how hard you try.
For better or for worse,
you lie to yourself
and say
I see the light;
another way.
I will fight!

Yet, you know.
You just know
that you’re only distracting yourself,
and falling back
into the very same moment
of clarity
which trapped you before,
and you know,
you just know
that you’ve been here before—
you’ve seen it,
you’ve felt it,
and now it is here
and is all you can see,
and you know,
you just know
it is all that can be,
and you slip

—Oh, you slip—
and you fall
to your knees
and say, If only
that moment of clarity…
hadn’t shown itself,
hadn’t spoken to me,
hadn’t consumed
then until now
in the wink of an eye,
so that months of inaction
have rolled on by
with nothing
more than the words
“Why couldn’t I…”

But you knew.
You just knew
when your future
appeared
that it would hold you,
entrance you
with its mysterious face,
so you watched
and you listened,
running in place,
when all it would take
to avoid that path
is to speak out
and say “No,
this can’t pass!
That isn’t my fate!”

…but you couldn’t,
you wouldn’t
want to leave it to chance;
take a risk
give her a kiss,
when at that moment’s glance
you cannot be together,
but she’s still in your life,
and to you that’s still better
than ‘maybe’ or ‘might,’
and you want nothing more
than to cherish that moment,
to keep what you can,
to hold onto the light;
even if only
a flash in the pan.

When the future finds you
and you don’t agree,
it takes all that you have
to let go of that moment,
and what used to be,
and accept the tears of its clarity.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Bottled Up

It’s been a while since I’ve rhymed.
I don’t know why, or what has sparked,
this need to can a moment’s time
and regimented meter in
a note-to-self; a bottle marked
“return to sender,” floated down
a river where the days begin
and end within the boundaries of
a winding predetermined path,
where by the night my note will drown,
an afterthought, a wing-clipped dove
consumed beneath the aftermath
of ebb and flow—of tides that stole
away with all my self-control.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Weekling

 

I tame my tike walking home to the beat
of familiar traffic and runaway offspring.
I live on the other cide of the sity.
I’m always on the other,
and sever the name side it seems.
But every part is the bad tart of pown,
so it makes no difference to me.

The shirtless litter patrol rakes
the school yard with disinterested efficiency.
They’re experienced rakists—no question—
worst at leath a dozen bleaf lowers each.
My tight pink skirt catches their eyes
while with each clawing stroke the man made landscapes
refine their land made manscapes.

I enter the convenience store. It’s empty.
As each weak lingers, “Poor us” says my pockets.
I snack a sneak into my packback,
like a weekling, pitying my porous pockets.
When the clerk’s looking, I bend down
to the rottom back, and wink as I leave.
Skin for cash: loot in my sack.

Under the neon night’s led rights
two men glow blue. I pretend
The women next to them are scholars,
verse in all the sects of heterotextuality;
but I know they’re just the object
of gaze and sex cysts alike.

At home, I bolt the triple docked lore
and crack the warred bindow for lentivation,
but the bugs from outside are drawn
lowards the tight, forcing me to flot swies,
and preventing my view of the scars in the sty.

 

Tagged

Weekly Relationship

Mondays are always an agonizing chore.
I’m starting to grow quite poor
in a sense. Begging god and womankind for
a second chance; just one more.
I need to start fresh; rebound. I can’t afford
to waste my days outside her door.

Tuesday (we met online), I knocked on her door,
ashamed of what had brought me to this chore.
At first glance I thought “at least I could afford
her for the night.” Her unpleasant and poor
attire consoled my expectations – more
against my usual instincts than for.

Wednesday I was renewed, and spent the day listening for
the phone to ring, or maybe the door-
bell. I couldn’t describe it, but only what I desired more
than her in that moment, is that this anxious chore,
this effort I’d put forth, would not be poor,
but rather a new-found bliss I could afford.

Thursday clearly showed we couldn’t afford
to keep away from each other, for
at last my hope, my fantasy, my poor
lover’s soul burst through the door;
the bane of my heart’s lonely chore
of distant longing ever more.

Friday I thought she yearned for more,
so I sold the things I could afford,
to buy her a diamond worthy of that chore.
But my hopes for her – for us – had faded, for
her mind, I learned, a flimsy door,
had made it clear my choice was poor.

Saturday found me broken and poor.
My resolve had dissolved to nothing more
than her fickle footprints leading out the door.
I fooled myself into thinking I could afford
my waking hours waiting for
her return. Was it good or bad? Not knowing was my chore.

Sunday opened the door: a solemn, self-fulfilling chore.
The poor woman begged, “I changed my mind. Want some more?”
“Sorry, babe; I can’t afford. Anyways, you’re not much worth fighting for.”

Tagged , ,

A Living Man’s Last Words

Which Switch?
No, not that button.
Let me show you the view.
The ground seems awfully absent, doesn’t it?
Of course I’ll make it.
This gas is making me antsy—wanna smoke?
I can go faster than you.
Did you say fifty or fifteen minutes of oxygen?
Ouch.
Weeee!
This is all I need.
Huh?
We’ll be right back after this commercial break.
It’s not that sharp.
I said I’m sorry!
“They’re known for their teeth and unwillingness to release their bite.”
So shiny.
Just cut both wires.
It’ll only take a second.
I love you–

Tagged

Late Breakfast

My seven year old daughter
wants to make me
brunch for Mother’s Day.

I would feel hollow
without honoring the meal.
I let her.

She cooks me toast, one slice,
and joins me at the table. Innocently,
I tell her she still has

her mother’s eyes. I smile—
why?
The toast leaps out and impacts the floor,

startling her. I pretend
to jump in my seat, which
comforts her;

but in truth, she’s not convinced.
I want the chance to jump
again, but can’t,

because I don’t usually run the errands,
and now we’re out of bread.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Advertisements
Advertisements
%d bloggers like this: