Suburbia
O man with a Position, prithee tell,
How is't you mould your sal'ried life so well;
Holding in lofty scorn that lowly mob
Of 'Blokes' who earn mere 'wages' at a 'job'.
Knights of Suburbia, whose only care
Is to be counted 'mid the 'naicest' there,
Teach me how I, some day, may learn to be
Clothed in drab Respectability.
I cannot muster due respect for those
Who wear the very nicest kind of clothes;
Nor does the Upper House sufficiently
Impress the dull, 'right-thinking' part o' me.
Fain would I garb my meekness in a coat
Whose very blackness struck a pious note,
And crease my pants, and aye, with tender care,
Arrange becomingly my plebian hair.
A 'Something in the City' would I be,
With due respect for men of Propputy.
Or sooth, if such ambition be too rash,
I'd, as a godlike grocer, groce for cash.
Ah, lead me to some suburb grey and calm!
My very soul craves for a potted palm
In my front porch. Nay, but it were sublime
To stalk the stealthy slug o' summer-time.
Then would I take some proper girl to wife,
And know the joys of a 'well-ordered' life,
Beget suburban daughters who would be
Models of drawing-room propriety.
Ah me, that drawing-room! - my lady's pride.
With products of Chow-labor side by side.
An upright grand by Bubblestein and Bohrs,
And framed enlargements of our ancestors.
Our arms - a 'what not' rampant on a ground
Of pious drab. There would we sit around
While Bertha thumped the keys o' balmy eves,
And caterpillars chewed the fuschia leaves.
There would we offer incense, highly toned,
And worship, nightly, FURNITURE enthroned.
There would we - nay, I may not even hope,
Whose only wash-hand bowl is plugged with soap.
With yellow soap, to caulk a leak obscene
Whose writing-table once held kerosene.
What does he wot of over-mantels, he
Who keeps tobacco where he should keep tea?
Knight of Suburbia, your daily round,
Treading to morning trains the same old ground,
Is not for me; though I would gladly be
A champion at passing cakes and tea.
O, that the stars had willed it were my fate
To be immoderately moderate;
To sit at eve, 'mid fans and photo, frames,
And play at sundry senseless parlor games;
Then, having bathed my soul in revelry,
Put out the cat, and turned the front door key,
Away to rest, by one dim taper's gleam,
To court the vague, unnecessary dream.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Suburbia
Lost in the high street, where the dogs run
Roaming suburban boys
Mothers got a hairdo to be done
She says theyre too old for toys
Stood by the bus stop with a felt pen
In this suburban hell
And in the distance a police car
To break the suburban spell
Lets take a ride, and run with the dogs tonight
In suburbia
You cant hide, run with the dogs tonight
In suburbia
Break the window by the town hall
Listen, the siren screams
There in the distance, like a roll call
Of all the suburban dreams
Lets take a ride, and run with the dogs tonight
In suburbia
You cant hide, run with the dogs tonight
In suburbia
I only wanted something else to do but hang around
I only wanted something else to do but hang around
I only wanted something else to do but hang around
I only wanted something else to do but hang around
Its on the front page of the papers
This is their hour of need
Wheres a policeman when you need one
To blame the colour tv?
Lets take a ride, and run with the dogs tonight
In suburbia
You cant hide, run with the dogs tonight
In suburbia
Take a ride, and run with the dogs tonight
In suburbia
You cant hide, run with the dogs tonight
In suburbia
Run with the dogs tonight
In suburbia
You cant hide
In suburbia
In suburbia
In suburbia
In suburbia
In suburbia
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The One You Despise
Mother, I must warn you, you've come to look the fool
For, in attempt to teach me life, you've broken every rule.
You say that I should stand proud, because my ancestors were black
Yet for the ones of white and red my pride must somehow lack
You told me to feel handsome, be proud of what I see
And yet, 'Big, black and ugly, ' is all you say to me
Then manners, you tried on me to press
And handsome grooming, with proper dress
But then, you offer no respect,
And, still, from me, perfection expect
And, now, you say it's time to go
And, at eighteen, it's time. I know.
And though I love you I must away
Though, never knowing just how to say,
'I'm sorry'
The one you despise is always there
She's taught me respect, loving and care
She's taught me pride, in my ancestors, all
Because I am me, that's enough to stand tall
She's shown me the beauty in others too
She's even shown me the beauty in you.
She's taught me manners, how to get along
That appreciation and respect should be strong.
She does not worship me as you say, but offers me respect
And even with my imperfection, my trying, she accepts
Were it not for her, when I was in LA
I could hurt myself, or run away
So go ahead, Mother, and call her a whore
You'll only draw me away from you more.
'I'm sorry.'
poem by Wakefield Mahon
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The Martyred Democrat
In Lady Lusher's drawing-room, where float the strains of Brahms,
While cultured caterpillars chew the leaves of potted palms
In Lady Lusher's drawing-room, upon a summer's day,
The democrats of Toorak met to pass an hour away.
They hearkened to a long address by Grabbit, M.L.C.,
While Senator O'Sweatem passed around the cakes and tea;
And all the brains and beauty of the suburb gathered there,
In Lady Lusher's drawing-room - Miss Fibwell in the chair.
(With increasing interest):
Ay, all the fair and brave were there - the fair in fetching hats;
The brave in pale mauve pantaloons and shiny boots, with spats.
But pride of all that gathering, a giant 'mid the rest,
Was Mr Percy Puttipate, in fancy socks and vest.
Despite his bout of brain-fag, plainly showing in his eyes,
Contracted while inventing something new in nobby ties,
He braved the ills and draughts and chills, damp tablecloths and mats,
Of Lady Lusher's drawing-room: this prince of Democrats.
(Resume the breeze):
Upon a silken ottoman sat Willie Dawdlerich,
Who spoke of democratic things to Mabel Bandersnitch.
And likewise there, on couch and chair, with keen, attentive ears,
Sat many sons and daughters of our sturdy pioneers;
Seed of our noble squatter-lords, those democrats of old,
Who held of this fair land of ours as much as each can hold;
Whose motto is, and ever was, despite the traitor's gab:
'Australia for Australians - as much as each can grab.'
(In cultured tones):
'Deah friends,' began Miss Fibwell, 'you - haw - understand ouah league
Is formed to stand against that band of schemers who intrigue -
That horrid band of Socialists who seek to wrest ouah raights,
And, with class legislation, straive to plague ouah days and naights.
They claim to be the workers of the land; but Ai maintain
That, tho' they stand for horny hands, we represent the bwain.
Are not bwain-workers toilers too, who labah without feah?'
(The fashioner of fancy ties: 'Heah, heah! Quaite raight! Heah, heah!')
'They arrogate unto themselves the sacred name of Work.
But still, Ai ask, where is the task that we've been known to shirk?
We're toilahs, ev'ry one of us, altho' they claim we're not.'
(The toiler on the ottoman: 'Bai jove, I've heard thet rot!')
'Moahovah, friends, to serve theah ends, they're straiving, maight and main,
To drag down to theah level folk who work with mind and bwain.
They claim we do not earn ouah share, but, Ai maintain we do!'
(The grafter in the fancy socks: 'The'ah beastly rottahs, too!')
(With rising inflexion):
'Yes, friends, they'll drag us down and down, compelling us to live
Just laike themselves - the selfish class, on what they choose to give.
Nay, moah, they'll make us weah theah clothes - plain working - clothes, forsooth!
Blue dungarees in place of these.' . . . 'Mai Gahd! Is this the trooth?'
(With fine dramatic force):
A gurgling groan; a sick'ning thud; a flash of fancy socks,
And Mr Percy Puttipate fell like a stricken ox.
Crashed down, through cakes and crockery, and lay, 'mid plate and spoon,
In Lady Lusher's drawing-room one summer afternoon.
(With a rush of emotion):
A scream from Mabel Bandersnitch pierced thro' the ev'ning calm
(The cultured grubs, alone unmoved, still chewed the potted palm).
Strong men turned white with sudden fright; girls fell in faint and swoon
In Lady Lusher's drawing-room that fateful afternoon.
(With tears in the voice):
But Puttipate? ... Ah, what of him - that noble Democrat,
As he lay there with glassy stare, upon the Persian mat?
What recks he now for nobby ties, and what for fancy socks,
As he lies prone, with cake and cream smeared on his sunny locks?
(Mournfully):
Good Mr Grabbit took his head, O'Sweatem seized his feet;
They bore him to an ambulance that waited in the street.
Poor Mabel Bandersnitch sobbed loud on Dawdlerich's vest;
A pall of woefell over all - Miss Fibwell and the rest.
A mournful gloom o'erspread the room, as shades of ev'ning fell,
And, one by one, they left the place till none was left to tell
The tale of that dire tragedy that wrecked the summer calm -
Except the apathetic grubs, who went on eating palm.
(Suggestive pause; then, with fresh interest):
There still be men - low common men - who sneer at Toorak's ways,
And e'en upon poor Puttipate bestow but grudging praise.
But when you hear the vulgar sneer of some low Labor bore
(With fine dramatic intensity):
Point to that pallid patriot on Lady Lusher's floor!
Point to that daring Democrat, that hero of Toorak,
Who lifeless lay, that fateful day, upon his noble back!
Point to that hero, stricken down for our great Party's sake,
His sunny locks, his fiery socks o'er-smeared with cream and cake.
(In scathing tones):
Then lash with scorn the base poltoon who sullies his fair fame.
Who, moved by fear, attempts to smear the lustre of that name.
Great Puttipate! The Democrat! Who perished, all too soon,
In Lady Lusher's drawing-room, one summer afternoon.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pick Up Game First One To 11 By 1's
fOR ME TO WIN IT HAS TO BE SOMETHING IN IMPORTANT.
WHY DOES HE HAS RUBBER BANDS ON HIS ARMS, THAT QUESTION SHALL BE DISCOVER AS YOU GROW WE THE GAME.
ILL STOLE IT THREE TIME IN ONE GAME, HES A BIG MAN BUT THE SCORE 7-11, COME MY PEPS DONT LET ME IMPRESS YOU INN FRONT YOUR PEOPLE, THAT COULD BEEN ON A HIGHLIGHT REEL
GETTING SHUT OUT IN GAME TO 11 YOU KNOW HE'S NOT GOING GET A NOTHING GAME.
tHE GAME OF BASKETBALL IS ALL ABOUT RESPECT,
THE ULTRAMENT RESPECT IS TO GIVE NO RESPECT,
WHEN IT COME TO THE GAME OF BASKETBALL.
thats how you gain respect! ! ! !
AND IM HURT AND STILL TOOK YOUR MAN GAME YOU TELL ME WAS WE PLAY TO A ELEVEN OR WAS I JUST TAKE YOU SCHOOL.
talking about running the city, we talk about that later after your lesson
BECAUSE IF IT WAS A GAME FULL COURT FIVE ON FIVE AND IT GAME BASE ON STRAGTEY NOT SKILL WHO DO YOU THINK WOULD WIN.
RESPECT IS GIVING WHEN YOU SHOW IT, CHECK IS IN,
BALL PLAY.
poem by Louis Borgo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On Second Thought
Pants hanging down…
Not because of H. Rap. Brown…
But of an inner frown…
I drown…
I should be leader…
Not a clown…
It's not the color of my skin…
That holds me back…
But those pants hanging pass my crack…
I can't seem to get my composure…Back…
Yakkdy-yak Yakked-yak talking slick…
And grandma don't go for that…
I'm thinking the grass is greener on the other-side….
Because on this side my pride and respect I hide…
Fad's are my only ride…
With them I do glide…
You name'em…I claim'em…
On Second Thought…
Who am I really…
Pants hanging, talking silly…
Struck on the (willie lynch theory) …
I not of the (Dublin O'leary's) …
Just part of the round table series…
Not a new kid on the block…
(my friends) … passing out g locks)
My rights and wrong I just won't stop…
In the hood their killing cops…
Junkies gathering in flocks…
On Second Thought…
Maybe all this is TRUE…
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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A Pleasant Autumn Day
A pleasant Autumn day of wind and sunshine
And yellow leaves depart their trees and fall
To Mother Earth who silently receives them
And wattlebirds on flowering gum trees call.
On this quiet side street of inner suburbia
The leaves are dying on the deciduous tree
But were i a poet I'd put my pen to paper
And write of the great beauty that i see.
For Nature's beauty can be found in strangest places
Far from the countryside it can be seen
Deciduous trees are golden brown in Autumn
And gums and wattles rich and evergreen.
And many urban people too love Mother Nature
And of workings of Nature there is much to know
They love to hear the birds sing in their gardens
And take pride in plants and trees they helped to grow
I respect those who respect Mother Nature
The damage done to her they try to mend
For Nature brings her beauty to all Seasons
And to every Nature lover I'm a friend.
In quiet side street in inner suburbia
Deciduous leaves to Mother Earth drift down
And wattlebirds are calling on the gum trees
And Mother Nature too lives in the town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sleepless in suburbia
Sleepless in suburbia
~
quiet little thoughts
play out in a suburban town
hours pass by unnoticed
day becomes night
and thoughts continue
sounds of strangers passing
beyond the window
beyond the walls
traffic and daily life
a crescendo of noise
fills out the soundtrack
a handful of stories echo
into their own lives
pieced together not entirely
by a restless mind
sleepless and listening
sleepless and imagining
while suburbia is thriving
quiet little thoughts
prevent sleeping
poem by Matthew Holloway
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The Stamping Ground
The stamping ground,
The stamping ground.
All your old gang
Still hang around.
Coming in with the same blokes,
Going home with the same jokes,
If you ever go missing
I know where youll be found :
The stamping ground.
The big fella on the front door knows your face.
The barman pretends that hes saved you a place,
But when your back is turned
They say shes older than she tells.
I could stand the main attraction,
But not the clientelle.
The stamping ground,
The stamping ground.
All your old gang
Still hang around.
Coming in with the same blokes,
Going home with the same jokes,
If you ever go missing
I know where youll be found :
The stamping ground.
Everybody knows
Evrybodys trouble,
Who comes in alone,
Who leaves as a couple.
When they seen you coming, babe,
They act like theyre pleased to meet you.
Say its very nice to know you,
But I wouldnt want to be you.
The stamping ground,
The stamping ground.
All your old gang
Still hang around.
Going home with the same blokes,
Going home with the same jokes,
If you ever go missing
I know where youll be found :
The stamping ground.
You talk like you dont have a brain in your head.
You act like you dont have a care in your bed.
Th lights are on,
Theres no one home,
It scares you to death.
You stamp on anyone who stops to take a breath.
The stamping ground,
The stamping ground.
All your old gang
Still hang around.
Going home with the same blokes,
Going home with the same jokes,
If you ever go missing
I know where youll be found :
The stamping ground.
The stamping ground.
The stamping ground.
The stamping ground.
The stamping ground.
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Auntie and Hand Washing
You made your way from the john
to the dining table
and Auntie said
have you washed your hands?
yes
you said
are you sure?
Auntie asked
looking at you
with her fixed stare
and the black mutt
under the table
gazed at you too
I washed them this morning
you said
let me see your hands
Auntie said
and so you held out your hands
and she turned them over and up
and held them looking at them
you're meant to wash them
after going to the toilet each time
she said
not just
when you get up
in the morning
she released your hands
and you looked at them
as if they were suddenly there
before you for the first time
so you had best wash them
Auntie said
before I dish up your dinner
and so you went back
to the wash room
and turned on the tap
and taking soap
between your hands
you washed and rinsed
and dried them
on the white towel
on the rail and went back
to the dining room
and showed your aunt
that's better
she said
now go sit down
and wait for your dinner
and the black mutt
put its chin on your lap
waiting in anticipation
for titbits from your plate
and Auntie called out
from the kitchen
remember to say your prayer
before meals
and you said ok
and muttered
thank you for what I'm about to eat
may there be few vegetables
and lots of meat
and the mutt's dribble
wet your thigh
its jaw lingering there
giving you
its dark eyed stare.
poem by Terry Collett
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Finding My Love
She might be the one, who stands outside theatre grand,
Waiting for the wealthy with ribboned violets in hand.
Her clothes hand me downs from a mother long gone,
She may be the one to raise my heart to sing its song.
She could be found by rushing stream pounding clothes on washing rocks,
Or scaling fish surrounded by gulls, boats and docks.
Her perfume might be that of soap or salt on misty air.
This fair maid could cause a young man's heart to dare.
She might be daughter to the mistress of the house,
And his bed the lowly stable with the company of a mouse.
His love walks by and her sweet perfume of lavender travels on a breeze,
Breaking the hearts of the stronger men and weakening them at the knee.
She may be the humble maid in a public house on Collins Street,
Shapely green uniform, moving from room to room so discrete.
When the day is done she dresses in a red coat.
And her blonde hair on its collar floats.
She is no doubt among one of this four,
That has my love one thousand score.
One stolen kiss caused my being to lift and lips to sing,
And turned this tradesperson into a warrior king.
Tears inhabit my eyes when pain visits your being,
But my love desires nothing only to hear you sing.
And will do so til a last breath leaves my lungs,
And Lord willing I hear the words, 'Well done'.
Next Door
Whenever I’m moving my furniture in
Or shifting my furniture out—
Which is nearly as often and risky as Sin
In these days of shifting about—
There isn’t a stretcher, there isn’t a stick,
Nor a mat that belongs to the floor;
There isn’t a pot (Oh, my heart groweth sick!)
That escapes from the glare of Next Door!
The Basilisk Glare of Next Door.
Be it morn, noon or night—be it early or late;
Be it summer or winter or spring,
I cannot sneak down just to list at the gate
For the song that the bottle-ohs sing;
With some bottles to sell that shall bring me a beer,
And lead up to one or two more;
But I feel in my backbone the serpentine sneer,
And the Basilisk Glare of Next Door.
The political woman Next Door.
I really can’t say, being no one of note,
Why she glares at my odds and my ends,
Excepting, maybe, I’m a frivolous Pote,
With one or two frivolous friends,
Who help me to shift and to warm up the house
For three or four glad hours or more,
In a suburb that hasn’t the soul of a louse;
And they’ve got no respect for Next Door!
They don’t give a damn for Next Door
.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Higher Kinship
Life is too grim with anxious, eating care
To cherish what is best. Our souls are scarred
By daily agonies, and our conscience marred
By petty tyrannies that waste and wear.
Why is this human fate so hard to bear?
Could we but live with hill-lakes silver-starred,
Or where the eternal silence leaneth toward
The awful front of nature, waste and bare:
Then might we, brothers to the lofty thought
And inward self-communion of her dream,
Into that closer kin with love be brought,
Where mighty hills and woods and waters, wan,
Moon-paved at midnight or godlike at dawn,
Hold all earth's aspirations in their gleam.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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Requiem of Solemn
The night when I closed my eyes; I caressed the nightly skies,
but the stars had a toll on my heart, their light dimmed since the nightly start.
But the twinkle of spring melody henceforth sweet serenity played out as night went on;
erasing my existence before the dawn.
I lost all hope, all essence of this forth convalescence.
My soul weakens at sight of the morning star, but my dreams rest on that lowly cloud afar.
Do I dare to wake and let my soul devour, or shall I stay to rest my final hour?
That music once again played that sweet melody, a simple chord just for me.
But how sweet the sound was, it dragged my soul down again;
I'm left standing in front of my worldly sin.
I'm stuck with a choice, shall I choose Limbo or Hell, but another calling echoes forth to tell.
This voice of reason whom to know, such familiar tone it had bestow.
A vision appeared before my eyes; t'was I whom was yet to've died.
'Have no fear.' He said in jest. But how can I when I'm at rest?
I am mesmerized by this soulless voice, figures like myself who dances and rejoice.
I saw him reach into my breast, grabbing forth my heart as he laughed in jest.
Ripping it out for me to see; bearing my soul, now cast into the moonlit sea.
But as I gaze to wonder the woe of my humanity, surely it's not enough to judge my sanity.
I look before the pass of where I stand, just gazing out onto this misty land.
I feel the beating of my heart as it rested in my palm; it shattered into black sand as the wind be calm.
The ground before me quaked before giving way, shown a dark black pit with no sign of day.
An arm reached out as it grabbed my hand, taking me now into a hellish land.
I am dragged down into this darkened abyss, with the vision of my lowly self amiss.
He reached into my breast once more. Taking with him, my dreamful lore.
Fear whelmed me as I closed my eyes; I caressed once more the nightly skies,
but the stars had a toll on my heart, their light dimmed since the nightly start.
I woke from my slumber with a hole in my chest, insanity held me as I laid to rest.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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Wolf Man
What do you think about a girl
who fell in love with a wolf man
night after night
she would look at his photo
on an LP record cover
missing him and thinking about him
This girl was me in my younger days
for he looked so serene and beautiful
without knowing his fate that
when the moon rises he will have to turn into
a wolf and roam around the fields and mountains
She didn't know his fate though she knew
he is the wolf man
with the charm he only contained in his feature
with a soul that maddened him and her
simultaneously
They never met in person
but the girl was truly in love with this wolf man
or rather a young boy he was
as young as she was I think 14
him 17 at the most...
One day this girl went to see a movie
about the wolf man
though it was banned for a school girl to go
see a movie by the school authority
she dare went to the theater and watched this movie
Nazareno it was titled
and saw the boy turn into a wolf
and saw that boy in real form
When would she meet this wolf man
in her life?
If fate allows her to see him in person
that will be a love for the first sight!
The boy grew over the years and became a man
a young man who could hand her a hand
to rescue her to rise from her
own seclusion and show her a new world
that would enlighten her soul and body
to be able to truly love someone
she dearly care about,
and that was her fate that she would
finally meet the guy in person
maybe a knight on a white horse
as many would described her him to be
and experience a new life
with and through him.
so this girl was waiting for that knight to arrive
at her door step
but he didn't come
so she had to go all the way across the sea
to eventually find him and meet him
and she is renewed by that knight
not on a white horse but
near her and beside her and with her
Now that her story is complete and
a great helper he became to her
such a soul and feature the man held
with him to show this girl the direction to go to
and led her through the walks of life
She is back home now having met this man
the wolf man who always was in her mind
and the wolf became a human again
and came to this human world.
Now they are here finally
safely arrived from the long
journey life challenged her to take on.
10: 02 PM
(November 17,2012) Korea-Japan time
poem by Sangnam Nam
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Paranoia Blues
Words & music by paul simon
I got some so-called friends
Theyll smile right to my face
Oh, when my back is turned
Theyd like to stick it to me
Yes they would
Oh no no, oh no no
Theres only one thing I need to know
Whose side are you on?
I fly into j.f.k.
My heart goes boom boom boom
I know that customs man
Hes going to take me
To that little room
Oh no no. oh no, no
Theres only one thing I need to know
Whose side are you on, whose side are you on?
I got the paranoia blues
Fnom knockin around in new york city
Where they roll you for a nickel
And they stick you for the extra dime
Anyway you choose
Youre bound to lose in new york city
Oh, I just got out in the nick of time
Well, I just got out in the nick of time
Once I was down in chinatown
I was eating some lins chow fon
I happened to turn around
And when I looked I see
My chow fons gone
Oh no, no, oh no, no
Theres only one thing I need to know
Whose side are you on, whose side are you on?
Well, theres only one thing I need to know
Whose side, whose side, whose side?
song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Coffee
Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you;
it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but
as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way. I'll tell you
what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever we had going for us
is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs.
The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up. I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my stomach. Every step she
took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door. She saw me and it
did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder where it went,
pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."
"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world
that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram
from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing
else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some clothes on. They
had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I could tell you about her ass. We went
into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table. She placed a
cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put a pan full of water on the stove
and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body. I
won't. She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail. I didn't remember
seeing any. She came back up the stairs and went into another room. She closed the door
after her. I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It was now October
and there was too much water in the pan. That was the problem. I threw half of the water
into the sink.
The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months. The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I stared at the garbage
and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and
peelings and stuff. I couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon
all laid out like a funeral service. These are the things that you need to make a cup of
coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a
grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."
"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed door. Her
voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And evening came, I
had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things. None of them remembered, and the bar closed. It
was two o'clock in the morning. I had to go outside. It was foggy and cold in San
Francisco. I wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.
I decided to go visit another girl. We had not been friends for over a year. Once we
were very close. I wondered what she was thinking about now.
I went to her house. She didn't have a door bell. That was a small victory. One must
keep track of all the small victories. I do, anyway.
She answered the door. She was holding a robe in front of her. She didn't believe that
she was seeing me. "What do you want?" she said, believing now that she was
seeing me. I walked right into the house.
She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her profile. She had not
bothered to wrap the robe completely around herself. She was just holding the robe in
front of herself.
I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her feet. It looked kind
of strange. Perhaps because it was so late at night.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want a cup of coffee," I said. What a funny thing to say, to say again for
a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. She was not pleased to see me.
Let the AMA tell us that time heals. I looked at the unbroken line of her body.
"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said. "I feel like
talking to you. We haven't talked for a long time."
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. I stared at the unbroken line of
her body. This was not good.
"It's too late," she said. "I have to get up in the morning. If you want
a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen. I have to go to bed."
The kitchen light was on. I looked down the hall into the kitchen. I didn't feel like
going into the kitchen and having another cup of coffee by myself. I didn't feel like
going to anybody else's house and asking them for a cup of coffee.
I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange pilgrimage, and I had not
planned it that way. At least the jar of instant coffee was not on the table, beside an
empty white cup and a spoon.
They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. Perhaps if he has
enough time left over, his fancy can even make room for a cup of coffee.
poem by Richard Brautigan from Revenge of the Lawn (1971)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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I Was There
In this world when you first arrived
I was there at your mothers side,
Holding her hand, I was filled with pride,
I was there when you first arrived.
It was I alone who rubbed your hair
It was I who counted your fingers and toes,
And I was I who proudly held you first
And it was I alone who rubbed your nose.
When you first arrived in this world
It was I, who was thinking is it a boy or a girl
But then to myself, I really didn't care,
As long as you arrived, to answer my prayer.
I was there with you every step of the way
I watched your birth, and your coming of age
And what I say now, I say with both a vigor and pride,
That I was there, when you first arrived.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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How Often Does One Dream
How often dose ones dream become reality
how often do we feel safe and sound
among-est. family and friends
how often does a stranger
touch our lives that
leaves ripples of time
that affect the way we think
changing the shifting of sands
We sit alone in the dark
contemplating what is life
how do we let the years go pass
with the patches of blackness
that dapples the paths we chose
as we jump from sunbeam to sunbeam
thinking how often there are highs and lows
in one’s life as we learn to live and breathe
How can you tell loved ones
how much they mean to you
as a friend, a husband, a wife,
a son, a daughter, your best friend
your soul mate for life
You tell them with meaning
behind each word, and saying
that you love, respect them
for the rest of their lives
poem by Kaila George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hon, There's A Big Ol' Moon Out Tonight!
I know you said
I can't go bowling
And you'd rather I didn't
Go out and have
A drink or two…
You want me to wash
And dry the dishes
Cause you've got
Something else you'd rather do
Well dear, I really respect
Your opinion… and love
The many things
You give me to do
I even love
the apron you gave me
And you look waaaay better
Wearing pants
Than I do
So dear, I really respect
Your wisdom and
I've got a question
Or two
Have you noticed
The clothes line missing
Lately?
And the concrete blocks
Missing from the front porch too?
Howsabout we go for
A boat ride tonight… and Hon?
Does this rag smell
like chloroform to you?
poem by David Whalen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Let's Have A War
There's so many opposites,
So many opposites
So many, there's so many, there's so many
Let's have a war
So you can go and die!
Let's have a war!
We could all use the money!
Let's have a war!
We need the space!
Let's have a war!
Clean out this place!
It already started in the city!
Suburbia will be just as easy!
Let's have a war!
Jack up the Dow Jones!
Let's have a war!
It can start in New Jersey!
Let's have a war!
Blame it on the middle-class!
Let's have a war!
We're like rats in a cage!
It already started in the city!
Suburbia will be just as easy!
Let's have a war!
Sell the rights to the networks!
Let's have a war!
Let our wallets get fat like last time!
Let's have a war!
Give guns to the queers!
Let's have a war!
The enemy's within!
It already started in the city!
Suburbia will be just as easy!
song performed by by A Perfect Circle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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