Showing posts with label 10 AM. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 10 AM. Show all posts

Sunday, June 9, 2013

We Real Lame. By Erika Beaver (imitation)


We Real Lame. By Erika Beaver


We real lame. We
like game. We
Study hard. We
Drink lard. We

Wear glasses. We
Eat molasses. We

Don't care. We
Style hair.

Posted:Fri, 07 Jun 2013 00:00:00 -0600
            We real cool. We   
            Left school. We

            Lurk late. We
            Strike straight. We

            Sing sin. We   
            Thin gin. We

            Jazz June. We   
            Die soon.

Friday, June 7, 2013

A book made of... by Abhishek Raol

A book is made out of stories
stories that are made out of words

words that are built by characters
characters that are constructed by lines

lines that imprinted from pencil lead
lead composed of graphite

graphite held together by millions of carbon atoms
carbon atoms formed by

electrons orbiting a nucleus 
electrons made of quartz

quartz of milk that power my brain
to move the carbon and lead onto my paper

and write the lines for the characters
for the words for the stories for my book

My book was fed milk

A poem that came to this by Abhishek Raol

No this poem might not reach the eyes of any
or maybe the eyes of many
To post or not to post I do not know

But this poem is a poem
of simple thoughts by great minds
the collaboration of eras and worlds

What comes around goes around
and around and around
like a broken carousel
whose drunk operator passed out
tired and intoxicated from the laughter
of children and baby
Who will never wake up to let the kids off

An object in motion shall remain in motion
until stopped by another force
the force of a bus stopping you
on your way to physics
hurrying as you're late
the best lessons come from experience

Simple thoughts by great minds

Roots

BY JOHN PILLER
Mendota, Illinois
It's easy to believe you can go back
Whenever you desire, jump in the car
And drive, arrive at dusk—the hour

You recall most vividly—and walk
Among the buildings spread across the farm,
Out toward the pastures, woods, and fields.

There is music in the leaves, in the dense
Columns of green corn. The wind lays down
The tune. You can play it, too, simply

By walking with eyes closed, arms
Stretched out, lightly striking the stalks.
Who wouldn't desire, like the children

Lost in so many similar fields,
To sit down on the turned earth and drift
Away on the rhythms of his own

First possible death? Rescuing
Voices come closer, veer off. Flashlight beams
Strobe over your head. You do not care.

Each building you remember—hen house,
Sheep shed, corn crib, barn—caved in upon itself,
The walls and roofs collapsing with a final

Percussive clap, since you last walked those fields.
No one you will ever know works that land now.
It is as green as Eden. Life rises in the roots, in the leaves.
Share this text ...?
Source: Poetry (September 1998).


Scrap paper (imitation) by Abhishek Raol

You find a small piece of paper
torn off the page of a book
like a sail ripped off and pit out by a shark

the shark that ate your homework
and spit out it's dinner on your paper
which then got washed away by the tides

of your anxiety and dis-focus
you have nothing left but an
empty piece of paper

and not much time to finish

Empty thoughts

empty thoughts stuck in my head
wishing waiting stuck in bed
cant get up, no not yet
pray a little harder
go a little farther
like a storm in my presence
taking away the essence
bringing back the day
i looked your way
in the light so bright
especially in the night
your light shined so bright
in my empty thoughts
you run wild
every path in my mind you control
i hear your voice
in the distance
or are those just my empty thoughts 

A poem that begins (imitation) Abhishek Raol

A poem that begins by Abhishek Raol

I don't love you as if you were a rose of salt topaz,
I love you as if you were the salt on my eggs,
I love you because you make my life tasty,

Yet you clog my arteries and ruin my heart
you'll kill me early and end my life
yet everytime I sit down with an egg I reach for the salt

I eat you because you're there
I eat you because you make me happy for

the second and a half you're in my mouth
I think I'll buy some rock salt, or brown salt
or replace you with sugar or even sand

SO the next time I sit down with my eggs
I'll have a mouthful of beach and it'll be like I'm at the beach
rolling in the warm sand, the salty sand

that I put on my eggs sunny side up
Like the universal sun

October is Like by Abhishek Raol

October is like by Abhishek Raol

If October is like thick and heavy pumpkin juice
Then May is like vibrant fizzy grape soda
I don't like pumpkins unless they
are artificial and flavored with grape candy
I'd prefer the cool refreshment of
a plump juicy grape

Earlier today It was a runner followed by a car
Followed by this biker
all of whom race past
feeling the thrill of
the world flying past as they race down
the rocky grey road
I've never seen what's around the turn
I've only gotten a glimpse as autumn comes
around and I peek through the leafless twigs
and branches of my friends
I love when the wind comes, hoping
that it will pull me out of my roots
and take me flying down the road

that lucky stone luckily placed on the
partition of the fat green collosal trees
the body under almost tanning a little
from the magnificent rays of the sun
He never saw much of it in his time in the world
always tucked away in some corner of a tall
cement tower
typing away furiously upon his keyboard
his only pet and best friend his mouse
looking at his desktop screen
some image of a sunny place where
the trees separated to lighten up some
piece of rock
well he has the rest of forever to
feel some warmth against that piece
of cold hard stone

I do not fear you(imitation) by Abhishek Raol

Our greatest fear imitation
by Abhishek Raol
What a clown, stop looking at me
your blue eyes better mind their own business buddy
brown hair, big head, blond scruff
Yes my friend Levi, I mean you

I don't care that you wear shirts
without sleves, of flex your fat arms
Or look at me like you want to kill me
I will kill you with the courage

Of a jeep running over a lion
In the middle of a pack
right in front of the Lion king
I do not fear you

"Our Greatest Fear"

Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate,
but that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us.
We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant,
gorgeous, handsome, talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking
so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us.
It is not just in some; it is in everyone.

And, as we let our own light shine, we consciously give
other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our fear,
our presence automatically liberates others.
 Author: Marianne Williamson

Thursday, June 6, 2013

The Seasons. By Erika Beaver

The Seasons. By Erika Beaver

I look to my left and see a girl
Not just any girl, but one that
Reminds me of winter. Her
Emotions are cold, like ice.
And she is sitting on the stairs
With her legs tucked in to her
Chest, as if she’s cold. But, I
Don’t think she’s cold. I think
She is upset, like winter often
Can be. She looks to the ground,
Head shaking like your body
Does when its cold outside.
I’m beginning to feel a little
Chilly myself, so I look in front
Of me and see a man. Not just
An ordinary man. But one that
Reminds me of spring. He is happy
And appears to be full of energy
And his shirt is the color of pink.
He’s got two dogs, those are his
Precious flowers, full of life like
Flowers are in the spring time.
He’s gone now, like spring
Comes and goes, but there is always
Another season, something new
Something exciting. So I look
To my right and see a pack
Of zombies. What a silly thing
To dress up as. This reminds me
Of playing games, games like
Soccer, and Frisbee. Those are
Games you play in the summer.
Summer is warm and welcoming.
People are in good moods in the
Summer, unlike those zombies
Over there, they belong in a much
Gloomier season, such as fall.
Fall is where Halloween lives.
Where the ghosts and goblins reside.
Where people on Halloween night
Sneak up behind you and scare you,
Which is why I turn around and
I see nothing. Nothing at all.
Like all those seasons we just
Went through, mean nothing.
Like they didn’t even happen.
They just come and go, and
They are seen, and then forgotten.
Seasons are ever changing, just
Like everything else in the world.

Nothing stays the same. 

What’s in a Month? By ERIKA BEAVER

What’s in a Month?
By ERIKA BEAVER

I.                     
If October is like a bag of tricks,
Then May must be like a bag of treats.
If in October there is celebration of death
Then in May there must be celebration of life
These months are very different in the eyes of a child.

Earlier today I was on a long five mile walk
To school to be taught many wonderful
Things, a man on a bike passed me, he looked
Peaceful. Like he was taking in the morning
Sun, we’ve all waited so long to see.

And this too, reminds me of the happiness
And brilliance the sunshine brings.
On a warm day in May, as we lay on the beach.
Soaking in the warmth of the sun, as it wraps
Its long comforting rays around our bodies.

Once in a dream, I was on a beach,
But then all of a sudden, surrounded by water,
The air, slowly escaping my lungs,
If only I could move I could reach the surface.
But I was frozen, like a statue. Lifeless, like October.

II.                   
I never thought life could be so full errands
Some months are busier than others.
Whether its birthday party shopping in May
Or Halloween party shopping in October
There is always shopping to be done.

The worst thing you ever said to me was,
Its going to rain again tomorrow.
What a typical day in October.
Always raining, making people anti-social
Walking around with their heads down.

Listen, can you hear it?
Is it the hackling and cackling
Of jack-o-lanterns and ghosts?
Or is it the laughter and joy
Of children playing?

Once in October, I was at a Halloween party
With games, and apple bobbing. Pumpkin carving,
Hay riding and cake walking.
And of course a bon fire to keep us warm.
And to light the cold, dark night.


But this is not October, it is May.
This month is full of birthday parties
With piñatas, and slip n’ slides.
It is warm and bright and green outside
Not cold and dark like October.

The Grass By ERIKA BEAVER

The Grass
By ERIKA BEAVER

A child asks, what is the grass?
I tell the child, grass is many things.

It is a blanket to protect those beneath it
And a bed for those on top to lie on.

The playground of crawly critters that creep,
And a place for unwanted gum wrappers to hide.

A secret passage way for migration,
Where poppies and daffodils sprout.

An easy place to play catch,
Or make a daisy chain.

Or be a soft hill to roll down.
Down down like alice in wonderland.

Another life lives in the leaves and weeds.
Plants of death, stealing and spreading.

Yet grass survives, even thrives.
That crazy rabbit finds comfort in

The deep dark hole beneath the grass
It is his home where he keeps his treasures

It is where he finds the time to think
About life, and other things.

The grass is eaten by the gazelle, and yet,
The gazelle will die and become the grass.

Such is the circle of life
That we so often talk about.

The circle that brings all life together.
Like the six degrees of separation or whatever…


Good Night Kiss By ERIKA BEAVER




Good Night Kiss
By ERIKA BEAVER

Mountain tops reaching towards the blue sky
Are covered in native green vegetation.

The silver clouds decorate the scene
With their mysterious shapes and sizes

The dreaming girl, is sleeping peacefully
In the deep blue ocean’s warm, soft embrace.
                                 
Grasping her book tightly, in her small hand,
Her blond locks look like whispers in the wind.

The sand welcomes her head, and keeps her safe.
The waves do not disturb her, like she is in a cave

Dolphins are dancing along the smooth shore line,
Splashing happily under the setting sun.

Each wave curls effortlessly, onto the shore
They’ve each traveled a long journey to get there

A small island pokes out into the air,
Trying to escape the depths of the water.

The sun’s rays reach down towards the horizon

As if to give the earth a good night kiss. 
Good Night Kiss
By ERIKA BEAVER

Mountain tops reaching towards the blue sky
Are covered in native green vegetation.

The silver clouds decorate the scene
With their mysterious shapes and sizes

The dreaming girl, is sleeping peacefully
In the deep blue ocean’s warm, soft embrace.
                                 
Grasping her book tightly, in her small hand,
Her blond locks look like whispers in the wind.

The sand welcomes her head, and keeps her safe.
The waves do not disturb her, like she is in a cave

Dolphins are dancing along the smooth shore line,
Splashing happily under the setting sun.

Each wave curls effortlessly, onto the shore
They’ve each traveled a long journey to get there

A small island pokes out into the air,
Trying to escape the depths of the water.

The sun’s rays reach down towards the horizon
As if to give the earth a good night kiss.







Muscular Dystrophy By Erika Beaver (imitation)

Muscular Dystrophy By Erika Beaver

I know someone with this disease
She said: setback. Said: disability.
Anything but be specific
In the way this is specific, not a theory
Or description, but a diagnosis.
She said: bad balance, atrophy,
Inability to walk, calf deformation,
Arrhythmias, and muscle spasms.

But the name, not the ugly sound of it, She refused.
There are two words. The first means: of,
Relating to, or consisting of muscle.
The second means: the degeneration
Or deterioration of tissue.
It is a slow process, slowly taking
Over the bodies of the people it

Chooses to infect.

Poem of the Day: Multiple Sclerosis

Posted:Fri, 24 May 2013 00:00:00 -0600
For ten years I would not say the name.
I said: episode. Said: setback, incident,
exacerbation—anything but be specific
in the way this is specific, not a theory
or description, but a diagnosis.
I said: muscle, weakness, numbness, fatigue.
I said vertigo, neuritis, lesion, spasm.
Remission. Progression. Recurrence. Deficit.
 
But the name, the ugly sound of it, I refused.
There are two words. The last one means: scarring.
It means what grows hard, and cannot be repaired.
The first one means: repeating, or myriad,
consisting of many parts, increasing in number,
happening over and over, without end.

Plead the Fifth By Erika Beaver

Plead the Fifth By Erika Beaver

Please don’t ask me more questions
I don’t want to tell you anything
I have a right to due process
I don’t have to say a thing
Now let me go on with my day
There has been no harm done
The real guy you want has gone a-stray
I assure you, I’m not the one.
I feel like you are making me look
Like a criminal right now
I swear I’m not a crook
Don’t you raise your brow
At me, I’m telling you the truth now
Don’t you see?
I’m going to remain silent
Because that’s what I do best
Go find the real guy

Now, there’s a real test. 

Poem of the Day: Habeas Corpus

Posted:Tue, 21 May 2013 00:00:00 -0600
Knots, a thousand lights, in   
   sheer dark, aimed at my window,   
tinny crystals, so mother dies   
   in my sleep. The snow turns   
coarse, goes out. An axe sounds   
   where I'd never heard an axe before.   
Breathing becomes dangerous. I can't   
   help it, making me her, even   
before I was born, her brain burning   
   out patterns I follow like will   
o' the wisps, sparks popping.   
   I put on heels and find I can balance,   
twist my spine, bend to get my seams   
   straight on my own, no one to   
call on, like she called me, sheer nylon   
   turning on sheer skin under my palms.   
I pull on the ratty musquash coat.   
   I have the body. I move off in it,   
eddying, trying to see who I am now.   
   I totter down the street thinking,   
one day he'll be sorry. And here I am.   
   Sorry. I watch her getting smaller   
up the road. I watch us both, till   
   nothing's all there is.

God is Curious By Erika Beaver (imitation)

God is Curious By Erika Beaver

I know that God means well.
I’ve never had a doubt in my mind.
He would pick me up if I fell.
Help from him would be fine.
We spend our whole lives learning.
About his name and past.
And how the world felt yerning.
Until he rose at last.
And one day we’ll join him.
Up high in the sky.
I’m gonna go out on a limb.
And say ‘I’ll be old when I die’.
God is a curious being         .

I wonder what all he is seeing.

Poem of the Day: Yet Do I Marvel

Posted:Thu, 30 May 2013 00:00:00 -0600
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,   
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare   
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
To struggle up a never-ending stair.   
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune   
To catechism by a mind too strewn   
With petty cares to slightly understand   
What awful brain compels His awful hand.   
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:   
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

Human Race By Erika Beaver (imitation)

Human Race By Erika Beaver

I really like the human race.
I’ve been around them all my life.
These past twenty years.
I don’t mind if they talk to me
At school or at the mall.
I would think it’s awesome
If a friend of mine dated one.
I would ask them to my home
Any time. My brother is married
To one. He loves her very much.
They have two beautiful children.

Turnes out, I love the human race. 

Posted:Sat, 01 Jun 2013 00:00:00 -0600
I don't mind the human race.   
I've got pretty used to them   
In these past twenty-five years.   
I don't mind if they sit next   
To me on streetcars, or eat   
In the same restaurants, if   
It's not at the same table.   
However, I don't approve   
Of a woman I respect
Dancing with one of them. I've   
Tried asking them to my home   
Without success. I shouldn't   
Care to see my own sister   
Marry one. Even if she
Loved him, think of the children.   
Their art is interesting,   
But certainly barbarous.   
I'm sure, if given a chance,   
They'd kill us all in our beds.   
And you must admit, they smell.

Peaceful Storm (imitation) by Abhishek Raol

Peaceful Storm (imitation)
Tapping against the windows
like an army of Irish dancers
blurring my vision outside

A rumbling of their drums
from the distant dark clouds
turning the day into a bright

gloomy hostile night
Our wold being submerged
into the grey water

becoming the new lost city
like Atlantis, just a myth
despite the chaos and the drowning

the storm slows my heart beat
eases my mind into a peaceful slumber
listening my world go under as I go under



BY HOWARD NEMEROV
People are putting up storm windows now,   
Or were, this morning, until the heavy rain   
Drove them indoors. So, coming home at noon,   
I saw storm windows lying on the ground,   
Frame-full of rain; through the water and glass
I saw the crushed grass, how it seemed to stream   
Away in lines like seaweed on the tide
Or blades of wheat leaning under the wind.
The ripple and splash of rain on the blurred glass   
Seemed that it briefly said, as I walked by,   
Something I should have liked to say to you,
Something ... the dry grass bent under the pane   
Brimful of bouncing water ... something of   
A swaying clarity which blindly echoes
This lonely afternoon of memories
And missed desires, while the wintry rain   
(Unspeakable, the distance in the mind!)

Runs on the standing windows and away.

Wandering Vessel by abhishek raol

Wandering Vessel
By Abhishek Raol
Blue, short, fast, busy, biking, happy
Everyone doing everything going everywhere
Twelve screaming chimes tingle our ears
One tall brick time telling tower

I the middle of our world
Carefully conducting our lives
Telling us where to go and when
Yet each person is their own vessel,

Navigating a crowded port
Some sturdy and strong, others small and short
With its own captain and compass set
Every mast in the mass blowing in its own wind

In the middle of the busy sea
A ship with its compass closed and sails folded
Floating aimlessly, like a rubber duck
In an empty bathtub

Motionless while I walk
My sight lost in light, uncensored by clouds
The heat hitting my skin with the intensity
Of a million meteors falling out of the sun

Nobody seems to notice me noticing
Nobody seems to notice the cloud floating
The size of a small snowy island
Stranded in the vast ocean above

Little fish flap their wings and fly away
My neck bent and stuck like a straw
I finally look down to cool, hard, grey rock
Splitting my vision in two

The horizon blue sky touches the concrete horizon
Paper flutters across the ground like11
A disturbed flock of swans
Two wheels still spinning

But not as fast as my scattered thoughts
I push my face off the concrete
Two bikes, four backpacks and a lot of unhappy faces

I should have steered my ship.

My waterfall by abhishek raol

My Waterfall
By Abhishek Raol

Leaving my work, my friends, my problems
Stepping into the shower
For my moment of hot steamy bliss
Turning the nob to the perfect temperature

Eagerly waiting to see the steam
Rise above the shower head
Until finally I submerge into the water
Like walking behind a waterfall

In some tropical rainforest
Where it never gets cold
Where the water seems to heal and
Rejuvenate like the fountain of youth

The stream of water seems holds me
And pulls me apart muscle by muscle
Letting my body float like in the beam
Of an alien ship that I control

My thoughts and worries float away
With the steam and it fogs the mirror
So that I can get away from myself
Not even I can watch me

Freedom in a bathroom
I can sing and dance and nobody will know
I never want to leave the euphoric liquid
I want to live under t

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

Curtains Closing

The Curtains are Closing By Abhishek Raol

The room doesn’t smell normal
A mixture of rotting minds,

Tired breaths and empty coffee cups
Every other exhale is a sigh of annoyance

My eyes like heavy velvet curtains
After a long droning orchestra

Strings strained unable to hold the heavy fabric
About to tear and let the curtain collapse

To the ground exploding a cloud of dusty
Thoughts trapped by the giant blanket

That I so badly want to crawl into
And let my dreams climb it’s soft

Mountain like folds and travel across
The smooth terrain, jumping in a diving

Off cliffs that feel like clouds
But I hit the bottom with a loud bang

My head stings, my eyes open, but I can’t see,
I awake from my dream to look up at the light

Screaming at me with the intensity of the sun
On the brightest day of the summer

The words on my paper seem to have changed language
I feel lost in the letters and numbers

Like a student in an exotic country
Who are learning to build computers with sticks

Suffocated by all the paper on my desk
Drowning in my own thoughts

Of failing and not finishing
My bed next to my desk taunting me

I want to open it’s soft fluffy covers
Like a giant curtain opening for tonight’s dreams

But the string isn’t strong enough
The curtain falls with a bang


My head stings, my eyes open, but I can’t see…