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Forbidden friend

I met this guy thru my friend
it was my friend's big brother
My friend Bunny told me i should talk to himm
One day I decided to
WE had alot in common
he loves watching his niece and nephews
We both lost some one from a drunk driver
He got me comfortable around him
We would text from ninepm to 4 30 am
He comforted me
gave me good advice
he gave me a big brother (that i could talk to)
but stupidly i told my real brother bout him
I tried to call him one day
My brother hung up on him
I talked to him to tell him that my brother hung up
But stupidly i told himm my brother didnt want me to talk to him
and the forbidden friendship ended becouse he wanted to respect johns request
I want to thank you for everything
eventhough it only lasted a few days

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poem by Pain's FallinAngel
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Dream Barker

We met for supper in your flat-bottomed boat.
I got there first: in a white dress: I remember
Wondering if you'd come. Then you shot over the bank,
A Virgilian Nigger Jim, and poled us off
To a little sea-food barker's cave you knew.

What'll you have? you said. Eels hung down,
Bamboozled claws hung up from the crackling weeds.
The light was all behind us. To one side
In a dish of ice was a shell shaped like a sand-dollar
But worked with Byzantine blue and gold. What's that?

Well, I've never seen it before, you said,
And I don't know how it tastes.
Oh well, said I, if it's bad,
I'm not too hungry, are you? We'd have the shell...
I know just how you feel, you said.

And asked for it; we held out our hands.
Six Dollars! barked the barker, For This Beauty!

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poem by Jean Valentine
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The Gallows

There was a weasel lived in the sun
With all his family,
Till a keeper shot him with his gun
And hung him up on a tree,
Where he swings in the wind and rain,
In the sun and in the snow,
Without pleasure, without pain,
On the dead oak tree bough.

There was a crow who was no sleeper,
But a thief and a murderer
Till a very late hour; and this keeper
Made him one of the things that were,
To hang and flap in rain and wind,
In the sun and in the snow.
There are no more sins to be sinned
On the dead oak tree bough.

There was a magpie, too,
Had a long tongue and a long tail;

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poem by Edward Thomas
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The Rolling Cross

The cross stands for no ones mentor
Except a person who people call a debtor
Jesus died on a cross which stood upright
Peter died twice on a cross which stood upside down
Who will like to be hung on a rolling cross?
Who will like to die thrice rolling?
Such person's destiny is bent
Then there shall be lots of open doors
Open but narrow
And only the few that let theirs roll could pass
Their lives shall be like that of the rolling cross
And so shall can they change their fates
Now, who shall like to be hung on a rolling cross?
Therefore, who shall like to die thrice rolling?
Is there not change of opinions?
No one wants to die without gain
Until there is gain
Then one can withstand the pain
That is why man's mind is like that of the cross
Man is a rolling cross

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poem by Ivan Chizurum Ezeigbo
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A Garden In Chicago

In the mid-city, under an oiled sky,
I lay in a garden of such dusky green
It seemed the dregs of the imagination.
Hedged round by elegant spears of iron fence
My face became a moon to absent suns.
A low heat beat upon my reading face;
There rose no roses in that gritty place
But blue-gray lilacs hung their tassels out.
Hard zinnias and ugly marigolds
And one sweet statue of a child stood by.

A gutter of poetry flowed outside the yard,
Making me think I was a bird of prose;
For overhead, bagged in a golden cloud,
There hung the fatted souls of animals,
Wile at my eyes bright dots of butterflies
Turned off and on like distant neon signs.

Assuming that this garden still exists,
One ancient lady patrols the zinnias

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poem by Karl Shapiro
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Safety In Numbers

The elephants walked gently by,
Their leather trunks hung curled...
A tender twinkle in each eye,
Not a care in the world...
Just one foot was marching forward
In time with all the rest...
Knowing that all was well and good
And feeling somewhat blessed...
It's nice to watch such gentle grace,
A rhythm all their own...
As if somehow they owned the place
And this was always known...
No need for tusks to swing and hit,
No need to stand their ground,
No need to make a fight of it
Or throw their weight around...
Their confidence was plain to see,
Their offspring showed no fear...
In fact, it almost seemed to me
They smiled from ear-to-ear...

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poem by Denis Martindale
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The serious thing about poetry

The serious thing about poetry

Is the 'serious thing about poetry'

It is not in the writing but the reading

We define it!

We who did not write it

Or know the serious thing about poetry

Is in the 'business of writing'

In the silent inflections and reflections

In the silence

Just the silence

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poem by Yvette Smith
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Perfidy

Hollow rang the house when I knocked on the door,
And I lingered on the threshold with my hand
Upraised to knock and knock once more:
Listening for the sound of her feet across the floor,
Hollow re-echoed my heart.

The low-hung lamps stretched down the road
With shadows drifting underneath,
With a music of soft, melodious feet
Quickening my hope as I hastened to meet
The low-hung light of her eyes.

The golden lamps down the street went out,
The last car trailed the night behind;
And I in the darkness wandered about
With a flutter of hope and of dark-shut doubt
In the dying lamp of my love.

Two brown ponies trotting slowly
Stopped at a dim-lit trough to drink:

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poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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The Song of O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni

The valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind;
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
That sadden'd the joy of my mind.
I look'd for the lamp which, she told me,
Should shine when her Pilgrim return'd;
But, though darkness began to infold me,
No lamp from the battlements burn'd!

I flew to her chamber -- 'twas lonely,
As if the loved tenant lay dead; --
Ah, would it were death, and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss;
While the hand that had waked it so often
Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.

There was a time, falsest of women,
When Breffni's good sword would have sought

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poem by Thomas Moore
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Yung And Freudened

When men are yung they are easily freudened
of marriage against which they're hardened, till hoydened,
and when they get older they're even more wary
of marriage, towards which their thoughts are contrary,
until they're discovered by hoydens who're smarter
than they and can turn them to meat-market martyrs
who're willing to burn at the stake, till well-done
when they learn that's the only way they can have fun
with the hoyden whom they, when still freudened and yung,
would never have married though out might hung,
as happened to me once, when found by a hoyden
who hung out in Gower Street when not in Croydon,
and occurred to my son when a girl he had logged
onto, dating through Frumster, and jogged,
jogged his mind to make sure that he took such a fancy
to her that he married her, martyred in Monsey,
which isn't as bad s it sounds. He was picky,
but less mavericky once rigged up with Ricky.
It's often not easy to silence a table,
but thesetwenty lines surely prove I am able.

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poem by Gershon Hepner
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