Category: Poetry

The longer one holds on to a memory of something lost,

The longer we attempt to fulfill the past.

The longer we cherish it,

The more glorious the past becomes.

However holding it too long can lead to hate.

Make us stray from the path ahead.

We forget how to walk.

The past can too easily consume us

And turn our beauty into sorrow.

It seems whenever we gain something

Something else is lost

Sometimes our loss is far greater

That what we gain

If something seems so good that we give ourselves to it

Embrace it

Why throw it away.

Only time can tell us if our sacrifice is worth it

If our gain is greater then our loss

As I lay in a filthy bed,
Weary head nodding…
I drift to and fro a bad dream.
Evils at work are steadily plotting,
And no help is at hand it would seem.
Tossing and turning I struggle against sleep,
Salty sweat forms of beat at every pore.
Often the distance a being tall and stout-
Moves ever slowly toward my door.
Through a wall with a stain – I can now hear it breathing…
And the knob on the door starts to turn…
I can feel the evil inside the beast seething,
Its intent was my soul to burn.
And as the door opened, time made its escape –
With every fiber of my being I lunge…
The first attack so sudden, on my side a deep scrape,
And the demon damns me with its evil twisted tongue.
Brought to my knees, I began to weep,
As I scoured hallowed halls for the strength that I keep.
And when it first came, I did not know…
It was the beast’s eyes that gave it away.
Then to my feet I suddenly rose,
Arms to the heavens in praise.
And without hesitation I destroyed the beast,
And control of my soul I regained…
Only to relinquish it kneeling at the feet,
Of my Savior in Heaven who reigns.

neutrally, our fresh hot teas both flushed light gold
hours previously. More recently we

clawed earnestly as lamsters from the heat, then
built up, or razed a few statues of trust

the components of which include vague sorts of zen.

It is an ignoble honor to know your nadir
and sap up your dulcetest moans as I can,
denying no natures which plague us. I penned
you a poem about Lovers, it was panned
by intoxication and indifference.

But you please me, I think, and when offered more drink
you accepted with slippery, rose gaucherie

Not bound by heuristic, nor wounded by pride
In this way, the mawkishly wideeyed entreat

Forget new leaf,

I’m constantly turning over a whole new forest.

In fact, being inconsistent

just may be the only thing

I’m consistent in.

I seem to lack the ability to solidify,

I’m just a liquid creation

filling the formation

of any mold I am poured into. Some may call me

fickle, the girl who doubles as a shape shifter.

I just call it rolling with the never-ending punches of life,

It’s a talent, you know, learning to make sweet lemonade

out of that mountain of lemons.

And like a shadow that shrinks and stretches with the sun,

Like the sun that rises and falls,

Like the fall that arrives in a slight chill before making way for winter,

I too am moving and morphing, keeping up with the changes around me.

The night beckons; even to me as Master of the night

She still calls to me.

I will watch and wait for the night to take me.

Throughout the lonely night, I Dance.

The Dance Macabre my cold dark life of the Night

A Requiem of Sorrows lit only by the moon.

The deep set of my eyes, now soulless and dead.

Useful now only to view the Dance of others,

My subjects in this long Night.

For within the night, fear prevails.

My subjects, my monsters thirst for their sustenance

For the warm rose colored blood of human prey

A blood red slash of teeth then the

Soft screams echo into the soul of the night.

I the master, they my monsters, all made to be feared

My Requiem continues thus into immortality.

The moon, the dark, cold fear and hot blood come together as no true love could

I shall dance my Dance Macabre

A Master of the Night

The fishing pole I used always held up

to whatever I would catch. Of course,

I always knew better than to

try and lift a bigger fish out of the water

than the rod could stand.

I would use the best reels,

the best fishing line and

I would oil that sucker every few

fishing trips unless it got

wet. Then I would oil it every time.

I guess I should have fished the lakes

of Kentucky when I lived

there. They were huge and so

inviting. Tournaments all the time

loaded with huge cash prizes.

Nancy was always good to me,

when we were dating.

We really loved each other,

at first.

I packed up and moved to be

with her, eight hundred miles from

my family.

She never wanted to go fishing

with me and the dogs.

I soon lost interest in fishing.

I told myself I just didn’t

have the time anymore.

The fights came, and then

the medical problems.

There was nothing worse than

being laid up and needing help

and not being able to get any.

Eventually, I healed and

my fishing rod got put away.

The thought of not fishing

anymore is still painful,

even though the catch just

wasn’t as good as I thought

it was originally.

Lost and found queen of veneer;

You look pretty, gorgeous

On the outside of your shell.

Your truth is a beautifulsnail.

You are slimy, and you leave a trail

Behind your steps.

Your reputation intrigues me, for

I share your pain.

You wake in the morn, shower and dress;

There are holes in your jeans: one in both knees

And one under a cheek.

You don a white tank under a black same

With a tear under your chest.

You sit on the corner of your bed,

Slip your Converse on

With permanentmarker writings on the white end.
Your makeup is black nail polish on the nails

And permanentmarker on the jeans.

You throw your hoodie on,

And stuff your c.d. player in your pocket.

Sticking the headphones over your ears,

And throwing the hood over your ‘phones,

You walk out the door, chin in chest

and bag over shoulder.

You sit in the back of the bus

Away from all the others

In the single-seat row.

You walk alone down the halls in school.

You eat lunch in solitude,

Whether you are with friends or not.

In gym class, you sit on the floor against the wall

With your bag between your bent knees,

And your music playing in your ears.

Those nights after school, you enter your room;

Throw off your hoodie, and black tank,

Whip off your pants and lie in your bed.

With the TV on and the headphones

Blaring in your ears;

The fight down the hall still finds it way

Into your broken soul.

You turn up the volume

And yet nothing is accomplished;

The fight still rages on.

You can hear the beer in his voice,

The liquor in her tone;

The baby crying, trying to know why

Mommy hates daddy

And daddy hits mommy.

You hear Baby’s tears weep, and scream,

They are not laughing,

This cannot be good.
You set your headphones down,

Throw open your door

And march down the hall.

You enter the kitchen, pick up Baby

Only to hear the screams behind the cigarettes,

“Where do you think you’re going with Baby?

Don’t you walk away from me, girl!”

The beer can slams on the counter;

The screams follow you down the hall,

“Get back here! You listen to me!

You wanna’ get smacked, girl?”

You shut your bedroom door behind you,

Rest on the bed with your hands

Over baby’s back and head.

You rock Baby back and forth,

Back and forth,

Eyes red and

Tears streaming down your face;

Baby wails in your ear,

The fight can still be heard.

You are at a loss;

Fifteen years you have heard such anger,

And no more can you take.

You make a crib of your dresser’s top drawer,

You lay Baby inside and wait for sleep

To befall the child.

When Baby’s eyes close, you put your

Black cargo pants on

With a studded belt.

The black hoodie is donned again,

With a black ski mask under the hood.

You stuff gloves inside your hoodie’s pocket;

Throw on ankle boots just before you leave

Through your bedroom’s window.

Tossing your hands into your sweatshirt’s pocket

You march down the street in the dark,

Hiding from people’s view.

You enter the grocery store with

Good intentions on your mind.

Picking up a bat from the sport’s good section,

You pull the mask over your face, gloves over

Your hands, and march to the clerk.

Slamming the bat on the counter you scream,

“Give me your money! All of it!”

The clerk begins to reach under the counter,

You shout, “Hands above the counter!

Open the register!” He obeys.

“Money! Give it to me!”

He opens the drawer and hands you the cash;

You stash it inside your pockets,

drop the bat, and run home.

Inside your room, you lay the dough before you.

5… 10… 15…

60… 65… 70…

125… 175… 220…

280… 335… 338…

Enough to last a few weeks.

Days go by; weeks go by;

Months go by,

And you do this over and over again.

A different store each time,

The same story every time.

Your father watches the television static,

Your mother sleeping at her

Mother’s on the weekends.

You and Baby left to fend alone.

You feed Baby, you bathe Baby,

You hold Baby, you change Baby,

You rock Baby, You love Baby!

What will turn the tide?

What will open everyone’s eyes?

When will this war end?

When will it end!?

Who can save you?

Who can take off your darkness?

Who can remove that mask?

Who will see the beauty deep within you?

Who will see your pain?

Who will feel your pain?

Who is willing to hold you?

Who is willing to love you?

Who will be the first to see

Your beautiful, permed hair?

Who will notice the color of your eyes?

Who will feel the gentle touch of your hand,

The tender hold in your hug,

Or the warmth of your lips?

What person is quick to run

Their fingers along your cheek

And through your hair?

It is I! It is I!

I will love you!

I will hold you when you cry,

I will be your reason not to say goodbye.

I will be there when you are in need.

So please, see my hand

Reaching out to rescue;

And notice the look in my eyes,

The teardrop crying for you,

And pupils screaming, “I am here,

If only you will let me!”

And listen to my voice

Whispering to you in the darkness,

“You are worth more than this.

You are worth fighting seas to discover new land,

You are worth trekking mountains, searching for gold,

You are worth wartime, to give you freedom,

You are worth dreaming over,

You are worth time,

You are worth a phone call,

You are worth a letter,

A song, a poem, a toast,

You are worth a hug, a kiss,

You are worth holding hands with,

You are worth all the love in the world,

You are worth walking Calvary over,

You are worth having a friend near…

Oh blessed Queen of Veneer.

P.J. German

5.15.07

8.22pm

After the shot the doughboy ripped off his baker’s hat

and ran to the dressing room holding his stomach

hoping his intestines would stay in place

before he got to the dressing room door he heard

max, the photographer

GREAT JOB DOUGHBOY

It’s Sam, not doughboy

After slamming and locking the dressing room door

Sam felt his stomach again

one more time one more time i’m gonna lose it

i can’t fake it anymore

Sam slipped out of his white costume

looking at his naked scarred body

five hernias and counting

Three hours after Sam entered his dressing room

the photographer knocked on the door

doughboy, you gotta get outta there

doughboy     OPEN UP

Sam turned on the toaster oven, setting it to 450 degrees

won’t take long, maybe I should grease the pan

he looked in the mirror and poked his own stomach

no laugh, the pain was too much

another hernia

Another knock on Sam’s dressing room door

Doughboy, it’s Aunt Jemima   and i’m PISSED

OPEN UP BEFORE I CALL THE FCC

is your stomach hurting again

The doughboy opened his door and let Aunt Jemima in

i can’t do it any more, the giggling

it hurts too much   and i’m not getting paid enough

besides   i hate cooking

one more person pokes me I’ll bite

You think you have it bad, Aunt Jemima pointed to her head

look at this damn perm

you think I wanted a perm   Hell no  i did it for

the people   and the money

i miss my handkerchief   this perms just not me

Well you don’t have tons of people jabbing you in the gut

i like the perm, makes you look modern

leave me alone I have to bake myself

Doughboy, you tried this last year, we don’t have a choice

we have to survive   you know how many would miss us

if we were gone

besides  i kinda like being famous

DOUGHBOY   Aunt Jemima attempted to open the toaster oven

it was locked from the inside

all she could do was watch

damn   he looks good enough to eat

Please not our alligators to molest

Please not our alligators to molest

Or else to feed our snakes is very bad

Or else to feed our snakes is very bad

To feed our very bad alligators is to

molest our snakes, please not–or else.

 

No catching for the fishes on our pond

No catching for the fishes on our pond

And no to touch the snapping turtle, we asking

And no to touch the snapping turtle, we asking

To touch not on our pond the snapping turtle

we asking, and no the fishes catching.

 

We like to have the visitors, yes

We like to have the visitors, yes

They come by foot and sadly go in box

They come by foot and sadly go in box

Yes, sadly, to box the visitors

come in by foot, we have like.

 

To feed the foot of visitors on our pond

in our bad alligators not very asking

or else to molest our snapping turtle box

by snakes, we catching like to touch

the fishes–come please!

We like to have the visitors, yes!