For a while we lived in a tent we'd pitched inside his parents' house and we slept on pillows.
quote by Shelley Duvall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Tents
In Waltham, on a Soccer field
A city of pink tents was pitched.
A neighborhood with real thin walls
Some chat, some snore, some mainly itched.
In the distance, thunder rumbled.
Streaks of lightening split the sky
Soon, I knew, the rain would come here.
We must find shelter, you and I.
I am not the outdoors type-
Five star hotels are more my speed,
But out here on the soccer field
Tent building skills are what I need
I 'liberate' a sheet of tarp
To serve as floor for our domain
And with your help I pitched the tent
while laughing in the pouring rain.
Once inside the nylon bubble
(My shoes and clothes quite soaked with rain)
A tiny leak, a Chinese torture
Drop by dropp upon my brain..
Back out again into the Tempest
Back out across the sodden field
I’m seeking out a piece of plastic
to keep out the piss warm rain.
I return to our tent in triumph
A sheet of propylene I found
Is just the thing to keep the rain out
I plop down on the slick wet ground..
The woman in the tent beside us
Like a lusting Walrus snores,
But twenty miles this day behind us
I soon won’t care if Lions roar.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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For I Am A Nomad
I have not lived in a house since i brought you up,
But rather been moving from tent to tent always from one place to another;
For i am a nomad and i brought you up,
So you are now matured enough to take up your own decisions today.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nassaja
Pitched voice: Always lived my life alone,
Been searching for the place called home.
I know that Ive been cold as ice,
Ignored the dreams, too many lies.
Somewhere deep inside, Somewhere deep inside me,
I found ... the child I used to be
And I know that its not too late
Never too late...
3 AM!
The painted cow !
Hiaaaaa!!
You aint stoppin us now !
Wonderful human beings
Yeah ! I am the Junglist souldier.
Come On! The rocket launcher stops ya.
Its not a bird, its not a plane
It must be Dave whos on the train
Wanna wanna getcha, gonna gonna getcha
Tell them that I told ya
YEAH!
Pitched voice: Always lived my life alone,
Been searching for the place called home.
I know that Ive been cold as ice,
Ignored the dreams, too many lies.
Somewhere deep inside,
Somewhere deep inside me,
I found ... the child I used to be
And I know that its not too late
Never too late...
Allright
Are you ready ? Its not a game.
I chant so much, I turn you insane.
Wanna wanna getcha, gonna gonna getcha
Messing up the area
YEAH!
Come On !
I am the freshman
Messing up the jam !
Turning up the stereo
Join the caravan
Skippy, the rain wont come !
Pitched voice: Somewhere deep inside,
Somewhere deep inside me,
I found ... the child I used to be
And I know that its not too late
Never too late...
song performed by by Scooter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Nomad
I have not lived in a house since i brought you up,
But rather i have been moving from tent to tent;
Because i am a nomad and i do move from place to place.
I brought you up this way and you have learnt a lot,
But you are matured enough to take up your own decisions.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Only the tent pitched by your own hands will stand.
Comes The Revolution
The 'one percent' are tired
dealing with the unwashed masses
who harass them on Wall Street
while mostly sitting on their asses..
In a bold preemptive strike
by the favored one percent
The wealthy seized Zuccotti park
and there they pitched their tents.
It' s a very civil protest,
a catered call to arms.
Instead of drums and gongs,
an orchestra plays Brahms
English butlers with refined accents
now go from tent to tent
with champagne in fluted glass
for those who can pay rent.
The gilded age was long ago-
its passing, some lament.
We paper over losses now
by piling debt on debt.
When this house of cards comes down
as such are wont to do.
This land will have new masters
but it probably won't be you.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Beautiful Bird On A Cage
a beautiful bird
is trapped
a boy transports
it in a cage
in their house in the village
the bird is asking some questions:
what crime have i committed
to deserve this sentence? :
is flying a crime?
little boy, do you really need to
keep beauty
inside your cage?
but the boy of course
in his youthfulness
does not care
he does not understand
his parents have not given him the need
to understand all these
his parents too
do not understand what flight is
what rights are
what beauty is
what cages are
and so life goes on and on
with birds inside a cage
boys devising traps
house having cages by their windows
parents proud of their boys
and boys watching the sadness of birds
every morning
in the little village
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It's better to have a thousand enemies outside of the tent than one inside the tent.
After A Dance At Malaga
In Malaga
at the base camp
you danced at some disco
and drank Bacardi
and coke and it was
well into the early hours
of the morning
when you left
with Mamie
tiptoeing between
tent ropes and the unlit
areas between
and she said
I can't find
where my tent is
and you said
I'd let you share mine
but that young army guy
is in mine
and three in a bed
is a bit cramped
but where is mine?
she said
searching around
touching tent ropes
as she went by
you stood watching
trying to decide
where your tent was
what are we to do?
she asked
let's go back
to the club
until it gets lighter
or we remember
where our tents are
you said
but I'm tired
she said
I want to go to bed
and sleep
you searched around
by the hedge of the field
and then said
wait
I know where
mine is now
and you led her
to the tent
and unzipped it
and there inside
was the army guy
fast asleep
you can come in here
if you like
you said
but she just stood there
in the semi dark
cussing into the night
come on in
and be quiet
you said
I want my tent
she said
I want my own bloody tent
ok go find it then
you said
and began to climb inside
wait
she said
in a hushed voice
and came over
to your tent
and looked in
what about him?
she asked
he's asleep
you replied
what will he say
and finds me here?
you gazed
at the sleeping soldier boy
his mouth open
his eyes closed
a soft snore
filling the air
either come in
or go elsewhere
you whispered
I can't
she said
not with him there
and so she turned
and wandered off
into the semi dark
another chance walking off
into the night
some things you hope for
you murmured
never come right.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Black House On The Corner
I passed by that house everday,
wondering what lurked inside of it,
was their some kind of ancient evil inside,
or a normal family that we never saw,
a house of macarbe,
it was painted black like the devil's sin,
it was surrouned by devilish-looking,
figures that stood outside on the line,
was also surrounded by a black pointed fence,
rumors of the devil himself living there,
the devil in the flesh,
satan living on my street corner,
The black house on the corner,
can't you see it,
you must walk past it everyday to,
dosen't your mind wander,
when you walk by The black house,
don't you to know what lays inside of the house,
maybe a ton of dead bodies under the floor boards,
a madman butcherd up his family,
could that be true,
or are our young minds racing again,
with impure and insane thoughts about,
who or what lives in the black house on the corner,
the black house,
painted with the devil's sin,
We were told to stay away from the black house,
that so many evils lived inside of it,
but us being kids we didn't want to live,
we wanted to see what was inside of the black house on the corner,
But we are to afraid to go forward,
we are to afraid to step through the gate,
and walk up the beaten path to the door bell,
it looks so old and so evil,
The black house on the corner,
we shall never know what evilness,
or what macabre force resides within,
the black house on the corner,
whatever you do,
don't go into the black house on the corner,
stay away from,
the black house on the corner,
it holds so many evils,
the black house on the corner,
poem by Robert Rumery
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Of Cottons And Feathers
cottons are found
on the floor
feathers on the table
from the window
the wind blows and carries them
inside
the bed is well kept
blankets carefully folded
and pillows removed
of creases
something inside me is as light
as cottons and feathers
something inside me is well folded now
like blankets
something in my heart are pillows
removed of
any crease
i triumphed i did it
now i can soundly sleep
as the wind from the window
blows me
into the land of dreams
where i can be
nothing but
just the spectator
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When the Parents Refuse to Come Home
When the parents refuse to come home
The children sleep beneath the babysitter’s skirt.
She will eat you out of house and home.
When the parents refuse to come home
The children shall set the house on fire,
And the babysitter shall save the family pet
That is content to be hand fed at the breast.
This night the parents are outside the loop,
They are out for a night on the town to renew their bound without the incessant want of children who shall burn the house down for attention.
The babysitter is watching TV under the blaze of the burning house where the family pet snicks beneath the smoke colleted by the ceiling.
When the parents stay out all night the children are discontented with the babysitter who have no time for children, she rather babysat the TV.
The babysitter refuse to pay taxes on her earning, she have parked the children in their beds where they learn the art of conversation from the TV.
The parents are having fun while the children are safe in the dream shatter of the right brain telling midnight stories of the day’s doings and the babysitter has invited her boy friend over for the night and he will eat you out of house and home while in their dream the children are buring the house down.
When the parents dance the night away in the night club the children are dreaming of the violent of the babysitter who eat the last of the pot roast left over from dinner.
When the parents refuse to come home the babysitter is contemplating the meaning of death and dying in the burning house.
The babysitter will grow up to become a parent and she will hire a babysitter when she go out to dance the night away as her children burn the house down.
poem by David E. Patton
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What Might Have Been.(Poem)
You had been in Tangiers
until the early hours
of the morning
and was brought back
to base camp on the truck
as the sun was beginning to rise
over the horizon
and had then gone
to crash down
in your tent
too tired to undress
and slept through
until midday
then showered
and sat in the bar
when Mamie came
and sat beside you
and said
where'd you go last night?
I thought you
were going to walk me
down by the beach
and watch the sun rise
from the sea?
I was too tired
you said
I crashed out in my tent
she looked at her glass of coke
I could have joined you there
she whispered
and done what?
you said
slept beside me?
she shifted her buttocks
on the stool and said
well it would have been better
than sleeping in my tent
with that Scottish hen
as her brother calls her
you sipped your drink
and watched
the old Moroccan guy
in the corner
inhale on his marijuana smoke
plus I had her snoring
and moaning in her sleep
Mamie added
giving you her side on stare
yes
you said
it would have been
better than that
and she put her hand
on your thigh
and rubbed it back
and forth and said
but it didn't happen
maybe next time
you replied
imaging it all
in your mind
right down
to the last removing
of clothes
and trying to move
in the tent's small space
your body drained
of all strength
wanting only sleep
the Tangier booze
and belly dancers
and nightclub smoke and music
clinging on your flesh
and ringing in your ears
and she trying
to get you in
the right place
and you closing your eyes
and drifting away
like one who dies.
poem by Terry Collett
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Gordons Message
Hello,
This gordon of the violent femmes and Ive just been locked inside
My house,
So I cant go out and get my bus and stuff and get up there by one clock. ill...someones coming over to rescue me so... it wasnt my fault,
My parents had locked me in.
So Ill get there whenever I can.
Maybe Ill try calling victor at his house or something like that.
O. k., ah bye
song performed by by Violent Femmes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At The Minor's Field
The Li'l Leaguer's now in uniforms,
And the ball game is ‘bout to begin.
My young hero in position one,
For the Orioles against the Indians;
Kevin stepped on the pitcher's plate,
"Go! Orioles, " the parents cheered.
"Batter's in, " the umpire yelled,
He pitched, the ball went wild.
"Ball, " the umpire called. Again,
He pitched to the batter's shin.
Hit by pitch, the batter walks on base,
Still at first when the catcher missed.
"Ball, " 2 and 0, the umpire signed,
And some parents began to whine.
Bases are loaded but all walks,
And their slugger is up to bat.
Pitch by pitch, she tried to hit,
A foul, a tip, the third, she missed.
With one out on the score board,
The outfielders are getting bored.
The next batter, my neighbor's son,
He tried the same as hard as he can,
Swing after swing, he lost his chance;
The ball was caught, two out at once.
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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Prayers of parents make a peaceful heaven to a home
Prayers of parents make a peaceful heaven to a home
The children who neglect their parents will be cursed,
The Nature makes such children’s house a hellish dome,
They are lucky children who are blessed by their parents,
It is said that there is a heaven under the legs of mother,
The children love or not to their mother but she loves all,
She embraces good or bad children but she can’t smother,
Mother is habituated to pray to God for all their happiness,
A few children won’t love their parents but love their wives,
In old age parents are in need of only their children’s love,
Who devote God, adore parents will be happy in their lives,
Love of parents always comes to children from the sky above,
God bless those children who are blessed by their parents,
And God curse those children who are cursed by their parents.
poem by INDIA Mazid S Kazi
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The House In The Middle Of A War Field
There was a house in the middle of a war field,
A conspicuous little dot on the vast patch of land.
And many beasts fought bloody wars around it,
Yet the house unperturbed, remained rooted to the sand.
All doors and windows of this house had been shut for aeons,
Some people lived inside away from the truth, so abominable.
They lived there guarded, sometimes pretended to not hear the cries,
Ignorance being the prime weapon in their arsenal.
One day a curious young girl in the house said something rather strange,
She wanted to see the world outside, she wanted to be freed.
Everyone disagreed, they said its too dangerous and she will perish.
But she didn't fear death, she despised the creed.
It took her decades to convince the others, and after a lot of coaxing they agreed.
Their hollowed souls were tired of simply existing, to them even death seemed like an adventure.
And so for the first time, the rusty doors of the house had opened,
The sun rays heralded a moment of enlightenment.
As the girl with the others took their first step outside,
The grains under their feet felt like acupuncture.
The armed men outside stood transfixed,
Seeing a sight they'd never witnessed before.
As for years they had brooded over the question,
That what lay behind that door.
With a heavenly voice said the girl to the soldiers,
Inside the house you will find the greatest treasures this world has seen.
The men at once dropped their weapons and ran inside the house,
The house now seemed to have lost its sheen.
As the last greedy soldier made his way inside,
The door closed behind him to never open again.
The entire house crumpled beneath its own weight,
Killing each one who entered in vain.
The people were saved all because of the girl,
Her legacy continued and they gave her a name.
Because since that day the dogmatic principles of faith,
Had been definitely put to shame.
poem by SaviorsLavish Human
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Any Street In Any Town
Look down any street
in any town across the land
at the rows of houses there.
Then you begin to wonder
what memories each house shares.
Some of happiness
where dreams have come true.
Some are of sadness
where lives have been hurt by pain.
Some with tragic stories
they never want to share again.
Each house will have many stories
of the individuals whom lived there.
Each story will be different
from all the rest.
Each leave memories
in every room they slept.
Their stories are unending
as new families come along.
22 November 2007
poem by David Harris
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The Tent
actually, i do not
go for your tent
as a definition of
what marriage is
not,
i still think that
my marriage is a big house
with the convenience
of five chambermaids
a butler
and a driver.
with a last note,
we have fire inside the
chimney
we have smoke
for the atmosphere
and we have warmth
even in summer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I lived in LA for a few months. It seemed like no one there had parents. Or if they did have parents, they would deny it.
quote by Catherine O'Hara
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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