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Brandon Webb Nov 2012
i always end up like this
no matter what type of event i'm at
sitting, alone, in the back
but this time, there
on the church basketball court
converted into a dancefloor
just as roughly as i also was converted
into a church dance attendee
in dark grey corduroys
and a crimson dress shirt
(missing a collar button)
not to mention a shave
(far too thorough, as i always am)
and a haircut by my uncles hand-
it was there,
that i was choking back tears,
tears caused by glancing up momentarily,
javing five or more beautiful girls
meet my eyes, and smile invitingly
(telling me to stand)
but still being unable to drag myself out of that chair
and walk over to them.
an inability caused by her,
the one i still love(d)
wherever she happens to be.
but, this inability to move
is not her fault.
we're over
and i'm a free man,
so i make my mind up,
wipe my eyes,
and stand;
rising to look at the faces
of the two who are telling me
to walk, to tap, to ask, to dance
and
without a word
i walk into that crowd
leaving them behind.
but
she's still here.
and, keeping that in mind
i enjoy myself
but every face
every conversation
dissolves,

as my footsteps do-

as the music does-

at the end of each song





©Brandon Webb
2012
JB Claywell Oct 2018
On October 2nd a local high-school teacher invited me to her classroom to speak to her students about writing and poetry. More specifically, the lesson of the day was one in which the exploration of a subculture took place. Subsequently, the questions that were posed to the students in the beginning were: “What does a poet look like?”  What would a poet sound like, conversationally?” “What kind of clothes would they wear?” “What do you think makes someone want to be a poet?”   As we got set to go forward with what became an easy and enjoyable group conversation, it all seemed a bit esoteric to me and I began to wonder if I was indeed the right person for this particular gig.

I started to wonder if I was a poet, if I am a poet.  What does a poet dress like? How did I come to be a poet? I know my backstory, as it relates to the when and why I write what I write and way that I write it.
But, in the end, we talked about the subculture of poets and poetry, the need for more human interaction, the thrill of the live poetry reading and the fact that this particular subculture that I am a part of also tends to be sought out by those from other subcultures. I explained what The Thunderbird Sessions are and what they continue to mean to me. I explained that we have a regular attendee whom is very obviously wracked with anxiety, but that he comes to life under the lights and through the PA-system at Unplugged during a Thunderbird Sessions event.  Additionally, I explained that we have, often, subcultures within subcultures represented at a Thunderbird Sessions reading.

It seems that the fringes, the weirdos, the people who don’t quite fit in anyplace else, fit into the robes of the poet or the writer, because people that write have an escape hatch, they have a valve that releases the pressures that they feel every day and in almost every way.

I have done my best to make sure that my subculture is as accepting of any other subculture that might step through the doors of anywhere that I might be reading, writing, or otherwise existing. Because, really, the only culture that matters is the culture of kindness.  

Before that roomful of high-school kids was done with me, I told them that despite the fact that I didn’t know them, I loved them unconditionally. I told them this, because no one told it to me outside of my own childhood home and family. I felt like I didn’t fit on the planet. So, I found music and books that made for good companions when I needed them. Records and books are often quite a bit more reliable and dependable than people. People will let you down at every turn.  It’s a pretty rough room out there right now, so I’m trying to be one of those people whom you know will absolutely not let you down. I hope I’m doing okay.

A few days later, I got a thank-you card in the mail. It seems that I failed to communicate thoroughly enough on the subject of subcultures. No one wrote: “Hooray! Now I know a real poet!” “Now I understand how a poet should dress!”  “Now I know how to talk like a poet!”   Instead, the teacher wrote something like this: “Those kids remembered how you told them that you loved them unconditionally despite the fact that they were strangers to you. That really meant a lot to them.”

I want to do more of this sort of thing. It’s the only way I feel like I’m doing the very most good that I am able to do.
*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
* an essay culled from journal entries. (645 words)
Patricia Valese Jul 2013
How Much Gets Me On A Bus?  to the City?
          (I live 30 minutes away)

more than this ever will - POETRY
I’ve been writing ‘poems’ ever since I remember
ever since 11 –
reciting these phenomenal words of wisdom
to any and all who would listen
forcing family-members & friends

that’s the thing about poetry,
it makes you feel like it’s important,
makes you think the words you sling together
aren’t really yours
it comes to you, through you, needs to come out of you,
and when its over you’re just as amazed
as they should be.

but they’re not, I mean
they like poetry, admire it,
even enjoy it sometimes,
but they could honestly
give it up in a heartbeat,
live without it.
You know what I mean?

I’m like you
like all the people who come here
I'm part poetry as poetry is me
A Dodge Poetry Attendee many years –
my arm once around Gwendolyn Brooks,
cried in a church with Lucille Clifton
talked Newark to Baraka –
know the honorable Slammer, Patricia Smith!

I’ve sat many years with the Lords of Literature - my professors
who all seemed to know “whose got it”
the intellectuals of American prose who seem to be searching for a rookie,
the next best troubadour college-student that will grace their faculty-doors…

The poetry I read here is incredible
Some of the best stuff on the net,
poignant, painful , honest, raw, sensual, serious – provokingly real

words I read here startle me, stun me at times
so clear in meaning, well-crafted, chosen words
unusually strong

They’re the kind of words the got-it people have,
the poet people (probably all people have)
poetry is just another way of finding an infallible song –

(I still say we should go sing it on the bus!)
Left Foot Poet Nov 2024
today,
walked the river arcade,
by the river~side.
same,
where, & when,
a decade earlier
and a laugh ago,  
we performed
a daily differential calculus

of the distance to that line,
a watermark,
where my accidental drowning
would be insurance covered

don’t recall, if back then,
poetry writin’ was a good  
a daily companion, or-even
a mere passing acquaintance

but went to
all-in-all-alone-freedom,
found riches,
yet still pressed in rags
of remorse, mourning surely,
until & still a
woman, or
three, rated me a
good looking edible,

even
if only didn't always dress
in black, head to toes, like an
extra cool new yorker, or an
attendee at my own fun~ereal

since those days,
gallons millions, zillions
of brackish seawater has flowed
out to sea as far as
England, Philippines, New Zealand,
whichever be connected to the
rain water of Adirondack mountains
flowing past East 57th Street,

my salty tears replenished,
but time changed the causation,
from oy to joy in simp terms
that rhymes…with me and yours

water woman water woman water
makes the heart capable of weeping
tears of joy,
oh! happy drowning
how do
you cross from woman to water,
that, now I walk on a
water bridge of loving
hard, steel & liquidity of
concrete, smooth roughness
became the path to loving living
preservationman Oct 2014
What a way to spend October 11, all in one day?
There are many enterprising words that I could say
It was the 14th Annual Mass Transit & Trolley Modeler’s Convention in New Brunswick, New Jersey
It was held at RUTGERS UNIVERSITY Gymnasium Annex
All attendee’s wore badgers and stepped back into time
Trains, busses and trolley’s all had their preservation combined
A look at steam engines who was the workhorse of the rails
Come and follow me as I explain in more detail
Transit and highway buses the vintage of their trail
Towns with trolley’s, a matter of tracks and wires
A world from the past with tomorrow that’s here today with plenty of technology advances that inspires
A trip down memory lane in years before my years
Yet the honor of preservation to continue my passion for buses in preserver
Then there were highway buses I once rode
Purchased a scale model MC7 Challenger of Vermont Transit, and added to my personal collection of look and behold
A day well spend indeed
The story goes on in proceed
I really didn’t know where time went
This was my exploration being support
You could say, “My determined will”
It was my ambition running on still
Yet it was a worthwhile experience
But it was a lot of walking and you had to have endurance
I learned even more mass transit and buses
This places me like an Ever Ready battery to influence
Also with that knowledge, I learned about the back roads and rails no longer exist
This was a thought I couldn’t resist
The mass transit flow and time is moving with systems go.
Brian McDonagh Apr 2018
You were much more than a church-goer,
Much of your history floated under my nose,
But I realize now and am honored to have known you.

You served in the Navy,
At the Bay of Pigs in 1963.
I also read through the names of people
Who loved you and continue to hold your name in high regard, in faith.

You were a loyal, local church attendee,
You were always willing to volunteer during liturgies.
The fact that you would talk to my parents each week
And, in future years, also becoming my friend,
Showed how much you loved my family,
Which made you family, regardless of the sporadic times my family and I saw you.

I’d always round the right
To walk into the vestibule.
There you’d be, not intending to harass,
But to make me laugh and see
Sundays as a celebration of community
Rather than a somber type of solemn atmosphere.

To me, you are an insignia of St. Leo church
Being one of the first figures I’d link to the parish title.
I also cannot forget how,
When I began wearing ties to church,
You’d wrap the tongue of my tie(s) in your grasp:
“Let’s have a tie party,” you’d chuckle
As I tried mutely laughing back in the sacristy
Where silence was enforced, but you challenged the norm
And went against the tide of rules, remaining true
To your person, being an example for me
As I struggle to, like you, remain true to who I am.

May the halls of everlasting peace
Welcome you, Dan Desmond.
In memory of a friend who passed away this past February.
Pearson Bolt Jan 2016
the planet makes another pass
around its lonely star
an arbitrary point in space-time
delineated by a self-aggrandized
emperor stabbed to death by
those closest to him

et tu
brute

i spent the night
the sole attendee in a
dreary cinema
half-asleep
ignoring spasms
of guilt and envy
witnessing the depravity
to which the 1%
would sink to ensure
their profits never
decreased  

you were getting wasted
with strangers and
fair-weather friends
on cheap liquor and i can't
help but wonder if he's there

does he even ask to hold your hand

and i'll nurse
my jealousy
the way you'd
sip a lukewarm beer
it tastes foul but
no one wants to be
the only one at a
New Year's Eve party
who has to be
sober

some nights i imagine i am
the lone survivor of an ill-fated crew
the very last human being
in an apathetic galaxy
awakened from hypersleep
trapped aboard this
spaceship
Happy New Year
judy smith May 2015
Charleston Fashion Week added $3.5 million to the local economy this year, an increase of 20 percent over 2014.

Organizers of the event, sponsored by Baker Motor Company in the spring, announced Thursday attendance grew to more than 7,500, a new record.

The five-day event also boosted the local economy, according to Wayne Smith of the College of Charleston.

According to the college’s findings, total expenditure per out-of-town attendee averaged $1,900; the event drew more than 275 million media impressions including TV, print, radio and online; its social media reach was more than 6.5 million; and 85 percent of those sampled said they would return next year.

Since the event in March, eight of the participating models have signed with national model agencies, including Directions USA, Elite Direct, Elite NYC and Wilhelmina Miami.

“We are thrilled with the continued success of Baker Motor Company Charleston Fashion Week and the recent survey results reinforce the growing economic impact of the event,” said Jed Drew, president of Gulfstream Communications, which owns and produces Charleston Fashion Week.

Dates for the 2016 event will be announced later this summer.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/pink-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/blue-formal-dresses
preservationman May 2017
New Jerusalem Worship Center did it again
Pure Gospel through and through
Plenty of Praise from everyone that was due
Celebrity Gospel Recording Artist that performed
The names in appearance were Tasha Cobbs, JJ Hairston and Tye Tribbett
All the recording artist were talent given by Jesus himself
It was nobody else
Each Artist had their own blend of music
It was rhythm straight to the heart
Harmony in lifting Spirits
Praise being blessings in honor of the Lord’s merits
The concert took place at where I worship at New Jerusalem Worship Center
It is known as the big white church in Jamaica, New York
The music was enriched in God’s goodness
Every attendee was the personal witness
God was pleased with the concert turnout
This was a reason to praise with a gloried shout
I am sure the harmony reached the Heavenly gates
The music having many messages for the audience to take in such as, “Change Your Ways”, “This is War with having the Full Christian Armor on”, “It’s time to be Church and not act like Church”, “Let your Faith and prayer be powerful”
Calling on the name of Jesus there is power
It doesn’t matter the day nor the hour
Well the ****** Win Tour Concert ended with a positive note
Death could not hold Jesus down
One day, we will all be Heaven bound.
Maria Etre Nov 2019
I set down my script
and took a seat
today,
I'll be an attendee
I grew tired
of
being
Rap
Invent me an app to bubble wrap crap and another to take it today,
send me a dime every time that I fail and let me fail very safe far away.

My attention was tweaked reading informative leaks by the whistles that blow in the night, invent an attendee to stand at attention whilst my attention is diverted elsewhere.

There's an app that does this and another does that, but one doesn't cover the two, there's an app that bores and one that roars and one takes you off to the zoo.

But an app for the crap and the bubble wrap zap sounds like a good idea to me.
Olivia Daniels Apr 2020
I wish I could think of
the right way to say
I love you...

It's like there's no possibility.
My vocabulary is far too limited
  The love I feel is far too complex
              And I am far too unimaginative
to give you something that hasn't been
Said a million times.

      you would certainly find a way -
      youve always been fantastic at words
      and i wish i could borrow
      some of your genius...

Every combination
Every language
Every time I try
I can't figure it out

You have made me feel like...
Like the solar system revolves around me
Like death could never take my life
Like I know the Name of the wind

      ... no ... i can do better
      i want to keep trying
      i need to keep trying because
      if i cant figure it out
      im going to implode

You deserve a special
I love you.

      something to mimic the special
      you make me feel every day
      i yearn to give you that
      so bear with me while i paint you
      a written picture instead and
      hope it can convey some semblance of
      i love you:
------------------------------------------------------------­
You are a city.
And that city, in my head,
Looks a little like... well

it's under constant construction, the
scaffolding where you expand
the buildings - your knowledge.
and despite what you might think
it's a comforting presence

between them run roads, so many intersections
all leading to different interests
but those streets have potholes - your past
experiences - and there isn't enough tar in the world to fill them.
not that it matters, because your traffic never stops and the
streets are never still; potholes and all

zipping around on those roads are cars
that get you from point A to point B - your responsibilities,
when you really need to stop for gas. it's admirable
how dedicated to those pit stops you are, and
that you still really love driving

fortunately, despite pollution - the toxicity dumped
by other people - your city is still eco-friendly. you wanted
fresh air, so on each building you install solar panels - you
never sit back and let people ruin the world

so people sit on their porches and listen to music you pipe
through the city streets, via loudspeakers you installed
because you want people to enjoy themselves - and they
absolutely love it. they show their appreciation through
smiles and laughter. how could they not? nothing can compare

In your city
I want to be a window washer
                      a maintenance woman
                      a taxi driver
                      a gas station attendee
                      an ecologist
                      a musician
I want to be someone involved with all you are.

You're a constant inspiration
So call me selfish, but I relish just being around you
And lavish that I get to be special to you

You deserve more than these simple three words
but for the sake of concision - your favorite, I know -
I'll simply say
I love you
Hafsa Dec 2016
A technicolor thriller movie hits me up the head.
It comes sneaking around the bright corners of my mind.
It breaks through the firewalls of pleasant memories.
It melts my thoughts into mush.

I give in.
My heads drop to my side and my nails begin to dig in to my palm.
Immediately I started toying with the dead skin on my bottom lip.
The winter has been cruel to my skin.

Each rip of dead skin feels cathartic.
I am peeling away my pain and discomfort.

My Flashbavk looms over until I am completely defenseless.
Which is one or hits.

I feel I am on a shaky old roller coaster that have up.
The ride attendee has side bye.
The silence is deafening.
My breath catches in my ears.

I wake up on the floor of the cold, wood floor of the living room.

I have no recollection of what happened.

I feel deattached and removed like a minor character in a big movie.

The star has just gotten hit by a track and the perky comic relief friend turns serious.

That is my flashbacks.

I am not as scared as before but I don't trust him.

I worry he'll come when my defenses are even more eroden.

I whisper the duas I learned in Sunday school to ward the ailments of my conditions.

I tell myself it's a just a test.
I put my headphones back in and resume listening to stromae, letting the tears take control.

It's all that I have known.
Olivia Kent Sep 2015
There were twelve in the room.
The room of the feast.
One attendee was the beast.
The uninvited one.
Poured scorn upon his company as one by one they ate their tea.
The first two had roast beef, coated with lashes of horseradish sauce.
The second two they both had fish, deep fried served with peas and chips.
A little more weight round their porky hips.
Three to five had boiled crab, served with salad, and several French fries, okay frites,
Six and seven only wanted sweets.
Eight and nine, shared jar of cockles , a jar of chewy rubber bits, all served up in brine.
Eleven and ten started to cuss, wanted a huge bowl of custard.
Such a mighty fuss.
None left, six and seven polished it off.
All satisfied and fit to burst, number twelve's diet was worse.
Not much left over, so he ate all the rest.
Livvi
Sorry, couldn't resist it x
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by Ryan P. Kinney, Aaron Shinkle, and Ohayocon Jigsaw Workshop attendee

The fall of man

It was the end of monsters
The end of mothers
The end of haters
Of lovers
Of pain and suffering
Of bliss and ecstasy

Nothing to hide under the bed
No terror floating in your head
Just the buzzing and swarming of the insects

There was just the animalistic need to survive
And Gaia had decided
It was best for her survival
If we did not

How did we let this happen?
A new era begins
For the worse
I will not be silent

The seventh gateway opens
All the trumpets sound
Clamoring in the hallway.
Truth is subjective.

Truth be told
We did it to ourselves

One never sees the monster
Hiding in the open
No one ever suspects that we are hiding something
When they are staring it in the face

Everything from nothing.
And to nothing we return.
To the whole of the way,
We hastened our downfall through an illusion of control.
Only through letting this run its course
And stepping to the center could the master hope for survival.
Sophia Granada May 2021
It’s that cruel thing that brings you to your knees again
Bearing up under the weight of tonnes of muscle and bone
Even in your weakness, horns tall and
Nose touched to the ground like curtsy
Human beings may have brought you low
But they said a prayer for you,
Undoubtedly,
When they did it
And then of course they dug you up again
And made you a monument to yourself,
Bowing, a courtier,
Your own funeral attendee with rips in your
Tight black plastic skin
Dancing the dance of etiquette with us
After we invented it,
After we put it aside
And murdered you.
Unitarian Universalist Church
situated in Cherry Hill, New Jersey,
whereat every Sunday morning, I
Matthew Scott Harris) blessedly zoom
virtually attend congregation
(recent attendee) experience

fellowship, albeit an outlier,
these two score plus one year out the womb,
glad mine eldest sister (Amelie) informed
her only brother (me) opportunity tomb
make living social occasion linkedin,
(albeit) remote from Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.

Yours truly spurred to articulate,
how con brio panache wisdom and wit
communicated courtesy aforementioned minister
thus thank you very much Margret O'Neall
ye infuse engaging monologues with esprit
de corps - spellbinding sermons also leavened
wordsworth their weight in... oreos, I admit

cannot eat one, which craving
sly advertisements transmit
subliminal creme filled messages tasty habit
forming just desserts, no matter tummy full
bitesize goodies stuffed in mouth before exit
ting table, no matter uncouth and unhealthy
stomach distress within abdominal pit.

The theme earlier yesterday September 27th, 2020 ye
presented, especially hit home hard, i.e.
regarding sincere apology,
cuz once rancor (bitter anger) rife between
mine nonagenarian widower papa and me,
whose sole son experienced harsh diatribes

against alienating, estranging, isolating... (see
pattern whereby introverted lad maintained
emotional, familial physical and social
distancing about three
times twenty decades before
coronavirus (COVID-19) precautions in vogue.

No matter unpleasant feelings festered ma lord
toward father and didst rent asunder
intractable mutual discord
which persisted for ages ambivalence scored
major points (oh... by the way...,
our dada twill soon ford
River Styx within netherlands,

cuz he not long for this world wide web)
thus for that reason, I dare not make hoo-ha,
nor federal case, and hence reconciliation explored
triggered partially in accord
with thought provoking exemplary disquisition
presented by Reverend Dr.
Margret A. O'Neall Developmental Minister.

Mortality foists incumbent task to make amends
doubly so since dearly departed mother
whose passing from terra firma extends,
fifteen plus Earth orbitz round the sun,

she never experienced friends'
with thyself (her aloof male offspring)
an existence of solitude he trends
thou promised himself to reach out
to father before his spirit inhabits netherlands.
Yasmin May 5
Maybe if I change ......
I want to tint my hair , blonde
Because I am  a desperate seed
This morning I was the first attendee
There was me and the  sanitation employee
I changed three benches and on the second
I've seen you with your laptop waiting for a maid
Then I looked away I've eyed another him and another her
Before I've observed my hands that push the button
My two legs that got me here
My mouth that mistakes every letter in an uttered word
Haven't I told you my brain is atrophied
I'm the left ink on the quilt before it dries out in the thin air
But I wished for once and for the first time that this will be my place
And that I had to hate it to fall back in love with me
Maybe if I took my ... and came closely to the faucet
I would've  sensed your whispers
preservationman Sep 2019
A story told Sunday in Church
I see you are starting to munch
It was testified about a Funeral of a Christian Saint
No from what I heard the attendee didn’t faint
It was a large amount of guess
Again no, it wasn’t a request
All the Minister’s that were there were asked to take off their shoes
Now I wasn’t there, and I am only giving accord in what was told, and please don’t get confused
So all the Minister’s in attendance were now in their bare socks
The Ministers were majority being the flock
But there was a strange happening, the other Minister’s big toe popped out being large and in charge
It was quick thinking in putting the shoes back on
Apparently the yearn that wasn’t strong
The big toe and the sock just couldn’t get along
So a lesson here, check the socks thoroughly before you put them on
You may find yourself in a situation where you don’t belong
The sock’s maybe at their finish, and won’t make you distinguished.

— The End —