Gord
2026-02-20 02:14 pm
Belly distend, body groan, Inside you hope for inner growth, Instead, you'll fight in civil court. Doesn't it get a little old? Every night you lock the door, Enter your room, turn the radio on... It's what you know, and fear. Doesn't it seem a little odd? Where was he when you need him? Doesn't it get a little old? Every night, a knock at the door, Enter your room, turn the radio on.... So where was he by morning? Gone? You lock the door, a window breaks, Your father comes, fixes everything, Doesn't it get a little old? Doesn't it seem a little odd? Inside, you hope for inner growth, Instead, you'll fight in civil court.
0
Gord
2024-08-09 08:57 am
Desert sun, august morning, Sky, a butterscotch orange. Amongst all things, concerns: For paintings are ownership... Hopefully drawings disappear, Wrap your body in animal skin. Put a brush to your wrist, Go ahead, spill, Color all over... Hopefully canvas appears. Yellow, what say of the sea? Hardcore, double crossing, frog, Croaking of dark forces and fear. An unarmed soldier, war over, Still fighting with the hayseeds. Oh, Is this why blue pervades me? All things amongst me here, Sidewalks get ownership, You pay, then worship on them. All language, being borrowed, Gives power to some lawyer. Oh, Is this why blue pervades me? Yellow, what have you made me?
Gord
2022-07-24 03:44 am
Whiskey, tequila, rum, Pizza, popcorn, cheeses, brown sugar, butter. Lemon, three cuts, Twist, bend it upward, Lemoncello, whiskey, Seltzer, on the rocks.
Lynn
2021-02-08 01:19 am
quite literally they cannot spill out of my mouth into the toilet bowl fast enough green, neophyte, insensate swirling around in the clear, shallow water, they almost look like they are swimming ancient, ferric, turpentine its midnight on sunday afternoon and the morning never felt so far away verily, salt, halcyon pulling the lever, they swirl away, the letters sloshing together into a murky soup gestalt, vermilion, fear they turn into equations with no solutions when i bring my hand away from my mouth, wiping ouroboros, nineteen, baseless i know better than to brush my teeth golden, gale, corridor i know better than to go back to bed right after demilune, murmur, mirror linoleum, throat, nightgown listless, lucid, dreamer
Innasense
2020-10-10 09:54 pm
Warning: this is looooooong and if you’re a sensitive individual the first parts may bother you. But hopefully the last part will inspire you. Speak your truths friends. The ones who matter will love you all the harder. #worldmentalhealthday Hidden Stories They smiled, jokingly told her she looked tired, “Must’ve partied hard last night.” Smile quietly returned, “just didn’t sleep too well I guess.” She didn’t tell them how hard it was to get out of bed this morning, How sleep never came last night, How it felt like the darkness would just swallow her whole, How she felt hollow and empty and there weren’t any tears left, just an ache deep within that wouldn’t subside. And maybe if she just squeezed her eyes shut and stayed in that bed in the blacked out void, She wouldn’t have to face another day of faked smiles and “I’m ok” lies. “Just tired today I guess.” “It’s warm today man!” “What’s with the long sleeves all the time?” “Got some crazy tattoos under there?” He smiled, laughed along with them, Self-consciously ran his hands over his wrists. Over the bandages binding his secrets. They didn’t know how close he got last night, how he almost let go, How so much blood, HIS blood swirled down the drain, mixing with his tears. He was sure no one would miss him, but he wondered if he would miss this world, And the good days out in the sun, Few and far between as they were. What would they say if he were gone tomorrow? “You should’ve come out with us last night. You would’ve had so much fun...” She nodded and made those “next time” promises, though she knew they were lies. She’d stay home again, Wrapped in the icy grips of loneliness, Which felt somehow better than her burning cheeks when the right words just wouldn’t come, or the wrong ones spilled out, and she felt their eyes on her, Panic rising, thoughts frozen Wishing she’d just stayed home, Away from the judgement, And all the wrong moves she always made “Haven’t seen you around in a while! Doing ok?” His mouth smiled, head nodded, lips formed words he’d said so often, automatic. Because, really, he thought, How could I describe that moment last night, body curled up with forehead cold against the kitchen floor, Ears covered to block out the voices, Silent screams wracking his body as the panic overwhelmed him, No breath to speak, And who could he call anyway, How would he explain these moments of pure fear that slipped in unnoticed and become everything, took everything, until he was a shivering shell of himself. Sometimes he wondered, if they could see through him, would they think him weak? Would they walk away...? These people are all make-believe, but the experiences are not, taken from articles and discussions and sometimes even revelations from real-life friends. These are not my stories, but they are someone’s truths, Not their weakness, Not their short-lived sadness that they can just “get over” if you try hard enough to make them happy. (My gosh do I need to remind myself of that part sometimes...) But that doesn’t mean you stop trying. Love them y’all. Love them so damn much that you’ll sometimes break through the cracks in their self-inflicted armor. Listen to them, Give them the chance to be open and honest, And if what they say makes you flinch, imagine what it must feel like for them. Do something kind that makes them smile and get ready to do it again tomorrow. Smile and laugh with them. Cry with them. Be genuine with your thoughts and feelings. Give them space, but check on them. Pull them out of the dark for just a moment, say, “I’m here for you when you need me. And I always will be.” Mental health issues are often invisible, but still feel debilitating to the one inside that head. Stay educated. Be understanding. Love the hell out of each other. ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🖤🤍🤎💗
Lynn
2020-06-07 12:25 am
i see sunday mornings beyond my time. does sunday still exist? i see my history yawning out before me. can corpses exist on both edges? i see my mother. can grief follow a child out of the womb? time, death, and life roll the die to see which takes their turn first. west and north argue over the sun while east and south clutch each other, wailing. god's suicide passes through us concentric circles of chaos look, there is too much blood in the streets!
Lynn
2020-04-29 12:56 am
it's my turn to put away the dishes it's the same knife i use to cut strawberries in the mornings the sucrose covers my hands. do you think blood is the same kind of sticky? will it come off with soap and water and elbow grease? will it even matter?
Lynn
2020-03-10 12:49 pm
Concept: I am a shooting star, crumbling and burning and falling and falling and falling Don't go back to sleep. Insomnia: faded lipstick, new blues, and morning sea glass. Don't go back to sleep. The summer heat has faded into fall. An autumn picnic in the park— I will love myself despite the ease with which I lean towards the opposite. The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep.
Gord
2018-09-19 06:50 am
As poet, aspire, assume desire, I wrote for poets, declining, Prose for poetry, I grew designer. More spoke, iron, strewn aside, Cycle heroic for biking true, Though as porch, her mire I knew. To sit in snow, still forever, cold, Gladly to mix into a sill window home. Lover's letter, one pens from notes, To end on soles, or in bags of herion, And never spoken, lovely, but phoned in, In drunken speech, early in the morning. As men, we aspire, and assume desires, I wrote for Odin, always refining, Notes for nobody, I grew aside, Man of the world, I knew her ire.
The Sophist
2018-08-23 11:54 am
This morning's protocols Beginning pondering What to do with people on the web. Thus with a deep resolve Maintaining promising Again untrue We will meet again This time she has evolved Now loving squandering Dreams anew Then dreaming to forget Sometimes I can recall Accepting sombering Time wasted In following a trend This time he feels involved Now loving squandering Has a few Then lives in the regret You ever feel withdrawal Oncoming vomiting Bid adieu To all of your old friends I can't say I'm appalled Forgetting honoring Lives wasted Unfollow them in death
Mary Steffen
2017-10-17 12:54 am
Going on Early morning dawn Morning glow People go Searching among southern bay Love and happiness
Justan Mitchell
2016-05-10 12:00 am
Child Support Fun! I'm making payments aligned with divine arrangements that make clear the destiny of what's well know, established and fair. This morning's depth of fresh air has me positive with cheer, without fear of who is here in love or just there, as a shell of mere existence. I once sat underneath the Bodhi tree, the place I've always longed to be, for long centuries. Way before Amiri strummed along while rhyming; like mother and father, now son doing some shining! He even dances to the beat of his own inner drum a well mixed conundrum, only confusing to none. I gladly make these payments in fair arrangement until my arrears are done. Child Support Fun!! Dangerous Soul Life
Gord
2015-03-03 12:00 am
Voice 6: Who plays Beethoven upon my door? Truly he be hooven and poor morally, For a husband just died in my arms. Knock not or at least form formally, For normally impatience is paid poor. Voice 7 (whispers): Quickly. Voice 6 answers the door abruptly. Voice 6: You were not to arrive until morning! There we could consummate cordially, Declaring our love in the afternoon; Could it be you interrupt my mourning, Because you could not go without me, And thus arrived in story too soon. Voice 7: I may have come too soon, But not over you, my love, Never have I had such pain. I request to have it again, For I feel such remorse, No man should be slain, Lest by hand of a horse. Voice 6: Quiet, Guards hear the whining of dogs, Horses not led by hand but by emotion? Worker of ideals, concepts and notions, Walking upon my silken floor in clogs; If disgust in yourself is your only sin, Can disgrace be upon an innocent facade?
The Sophist
2014-04-12 12:00 am
Morning Glory, My favorite dozens, An age old story, Of age old muffins.
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
THEY'RE PLAYIN' WITH THE CLOCKS They are playing with the clocks, Stealing our time. Precious moments, passing us by. What was it they said? Spring forward, Fall back. They're playing with the clocks again. Messing with our minutes. And our minds. The British Summer has gone. It's certainly a mean time, In Greenwich. Still light in the morning, for now. But dark long before dusk. Dusti Rodes (2009)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
Memories of Menorca The solitary star The lone gull Lack of light dark and deep Guarded by the lion-dog In two-tone green and black and white Part Chihuahua, part Pekinese. Sunrise over Citudella Purple and pink Blues and browns Age old ruins Built of rocks That are tumbling down. Out of the stillness Came a rustle The wind whispered "Morning" Gull winging, effortlessly Sparrows busying in their daily task Of feeding their families. No different from other mere mortals Who stand and observe Through peephole portals On life below and above. Pylons, all in a line, Taking power to the people. John Lennon would be proud. Illuminated cars, kerb crawling At dawn's half light; Wondering whether to switch off As it is no longer night. To hell with sunrise Watching the clouds come up, Shrouding the stars With their whiteness From the deep dark blue Of Menorcan night. An old boy, reminds me of myself, Lone party goer, maybe? One hell of a walk From Cala Forcat After our session at Night Fever. Sun rises over Citudella And Cala Blanes. Rabbits running, Ants busy, busy; Relaxing perhaps, For a jam sandwich Carelessly cast away. Before the heat forces Them to siesta, On a Menorcan morning At the end of June. A lone songbird, Chortles its wakeup tune; My bag, bathed in Menorcan sunlight Casting shadows of strangest hues The old currant bun Promising a day of brightness. Painted by light, In Nature's brightest colours, The single rock on the lawn Looking like a monolith From eons past. A donkey, braying, Radio, playing People, singing, And speaking in Spanish. Then, Rick Astley, In English. Never going to give you up. Menorcan memories. Dusti Rodes (2002)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
A Day in the Life I Morning Up early for a Sunday The clock says eight But even that's late For what we have to do And where we've got to be Breakfast hastily eaten A schedule that has to be beaten The taxi comes just on time The clock strikes the half nine The train will leave at ten So we have to be there then II In a railway waiting room People sitting Waiting for the train Some just there To get out of the rain The sun is starting To shine now Making the outlook Better somehow The fire Glows brightly Offering security In its warmth There must be a hike Somewhere By the amount of people Going there Dressed in their anoraks And their boots A passing express Gives warning toots Waiting for the train To friends Still far to go Before our journey ends Although having already Come this far Still there are miles To be travelled By car Sitting patiently, waiting For the train Marking time To the pouring rain III A ride through the countryside At our destination We are met Commiserations Hoping we did not get Too wet Outside the station They had parked the car Comfortable seats Our journey Not to mar We are off Through the countryside Making quite a pleasant ride Of our quest To the coast Never really deciding Which we prefer the most Ever onwards We are drawn Towards the outskirts Of Eastbourne IV Eastbourne Eating eggs Hard boiled Liver sausage sandwiches Cheese and ham Fried sausages Oranges too What a sight For people to view Throwing stones Into the sea Stopping to watch The tide roll in Then a walk Along the pier Perhaps to stop For a cool glass of beer Buying ornaments Made of glass Playing the games That made us laugh Throwing balls Into walls Listening to the radio In the warm Then on again It was said Towards the crags Of Beachy Head V Beachy Head Climbing up To the Bell Tower Pausing to view A lonely flower The long climb Winding a few The breathlessness Well worth the view On looking out to the sea So calm One could scarce believe It could do so much harm Then suddenly The gunshots Warning us of the coming rain So we quickly make our descent again The rabbit droppings In the tufted grass Is the sight I remember last The gulls wheeling On the wind Showing aerial acrobatics That Man will take A thousand years To conquer VI Newhaven When the tide Is full in It is a facade To walk along The esplanade At Newhaven For the angry waves Batter the man-made wall Persistently trying To make it fall Spraying Unwary travellers With showers of stones And the flying Sea spray That rusts Even the lamp posts Within a month The road to the west This is our quest Pass the ox-bow lake On the river That meanders Through the open fields Filled with Sweet smelling air The road takes us Past the harbour Where, the ' Chichester Star ' Lies anchored there Moored at her rest VII Brighton The Palace Pier On a Sunday Even in March Full of people Having fun Some lie on the beach Catching the sun That hides Behind the clouds Of the rain-filled sky But here we do not stay Perhaps I'll return Some other day The time has come Not to linger Drawn ever onwards By a wandering singer Dressed in sandals And in jeans Singing songs of the Changing scenes Sentiments felt By myself He did quote. He sang, Whilst I wrote VIII Shoreham Dark, dank and dismal Grey and grim Stands the power station The side, the day-tripper Does not see The squalid surroundings Of the industrial side Where the rubber factory Takes the coke works For its bride There, beside a mountain Of metal scrap Stands a fellow In a cloth cap Surrounded by Carcasses of cars Burnt out By long cold fires Wasteland covered With prickly briars Rubble strewn around Sweet papers, magazines Stones cover the ground The road carries on Pass the gasworks To playing fields Where people sit watching Others using their energy To a useless end A steel girdered bridge Spans the road Along by which The river still flowed IX Worthing Having high tea In the lounge Sardines, rolls Tea and toast Watching the sea Leave the coast Playing the pin machines With pennies Reading the paper To find the news Desperately needing To use the loos Off on our trek again Running from the Fast oncoming rain X Half a league ..... Destination somewhere In the west Selsey, probably At the very best Time, like the tide Rolling on Light of day Has nigh nearly gone The lights burning Along the road Turn from the palest pink To shimmering gold Eve draws on Darkness, soon to follow A level-crossing That isn't so level In fact, the road Looks like more of a bevel The road becomes Winding and long Making us remember The young minstrel's song Following the line Of cat's eyes Broken only By the sound of sighs A solitary star Guiding us, as of old The weather becoming Increasingly cold The long boring night Is broken By the bright lights Of the big service station At Crawley Say as they might To me, the most welcoming sight Was that of The Thorns pud At Horley Liquid refreshments For parched dry throats Although there was nowhere To hang our coats Having once Quenched our thirsts The road leads on To Billinghurst Then on down Cowper's Lane Just as it starts Again to rain In the comfortable warmth Of her home We are again Free to roam Tea for three And one for coffee Arguing who'll get to eat The very last toffee Onwards then, Homeward bound The car really seems To leave the ground Till the lights of Croydon Are encountered And as we are at our door " It was fun, we must do it more!" The two of us Climb the stairs Once again To all our cares Very quietly Into bed Nothing more It has all been said. Dusti Rodes (1975)
\/