I wanted to write a poem about the joys simple things. But I’ve lost the meaning of them since I’ve been away it seems. For many years I’ve served duty tours, it’s just the life that I have lived. So I write poems of war and of warriors and death; sometimes it’s all I have left to give.

I picked my brain for images of candlelight picnics on sandy beaches, but I opened the basket looking for ammo to load in my weapon breaches. Oiling my guns may not be romantic, or when I lace my boots up tight, but you can bet your **** it comes in handy when you’re caught in a fire fight.

I tried concentrating as hard as I could, trying to envision more peaceful things. Instead I was reminded of Black Hawks with M240-Bravos in weapon slings. It seems I can’t be normal or think like a normal human being, I’ve been battle hardened inside my soul and this is part of what it brings.

PTSD is what they call it, they say I need some aid, but it just feels like second nature, pulling the pins and throwing grenades.  I’ll go home one day and I’ll look the same because my wife can’t see my scars, I’ve hid them all inside myself and that’s what makes this hard.

They tell me I’ve been lucky, I didn’t get a single injury. But the damage was done inside of me and that’s what they don’t see. So I’ll go home a “lucky one” and act like I am fine, and live my days pretending, while keeping this war trapped in my mind.

City rush me
Pretty push
Did he see?
The wish on
*******
Sunday I thought
A rush of pluses +++
He won
Be on time if not - - -

Monday be
good to me
Rumors
Fantasy thoughts
I am
What I am
Not Popeye
Going day back
I need a third eye
I am
All free
Robin
Bird
From
everyone

Wait!!

Don't rush me
I love everyone*

Newspaper's
Sunday
Daily
News
Poem
touchdown
My poem stood
With the others
I bowed ((Gladly))

Waking up
To a Racers- mouth
Ray_ speed lover
No homework

All game
Sunday_
Candles burned
The House flamed

"Procrastinator"
I'll be back
"Destroyer-Terminator"
Coffee drug me percolator
He April fools her
Shopping Sunday
right up magnifying
dress

He is back
Not the future
Smart *** tricks
On the Escalator
He Jeremy irons out
her clothes
That's it!!!

Never rushed
on Sunday
To make
a mob hit

The call girls
Busy- tight pants
So Panicked Monday's
religiously
Hooked in
Scientology

So ****** in
Not to ever kiss
her on a
Sunday
He bunked into ((God))
Poem ritual bunk bed
Well NYC
Cabbie, he
will
never
take it
on Sunday

The big game
crazies
The flower
shops
of horror
Emptied
out with
Moms
Tiger
Lillies
Smelling

Mad Men hungover

Rush hour
Tv movie
Hangover
Jet game
Sprinkler
shower

Opening up
The door to his
apartment
Big Girly
hoarder mess
After a
long talk
night

Saturday Night
Brooklyn
The Disco Queen
bridge-sight
His Mom
is still oiling
His BMW Racecar
with
Hot fire Crisco
he
will never
be
rushed
out the door
His car
never
starts
Sunday
or a
Monday

Teased on
Tuesday
Wednesday
shes wild
Thursday
Ladies
drink
for free_

She got
her husband
to buy
her cushion
cut square
On Sunday
Do it or dare
She's
hanging
low

Times Square

Girly rough
Brooklyn
tough
Channel
blush
On Sunday
he is so
wired bushed

For bright prosperous future,
They say oiling is required.
They inform buttering is must;
If in job promotion is desired.

Butter increases cholesterol.
It is not at all good for health.
I say no to such promotions.
Poverty better than such wealth.

I cannot **** my conscience;
To make tomorrow brighter.
For oiling I've a jar of kerosene;
And I always carry a lighter.

No, no, I haven’t been doing this myself,
but I live in Cambodia,
and 2 guys and a girl were deported recently
for riding around on a motorbike in the ****
in broad daylight. Actually, you see,
naively or deliberately,
they rode right past a police station.
Now that must have been a sight for sore eyes.
So the police set out in hot pursuit,
rubbing their sore eyes, or whatever they rub,
maybe their truncheons, eh?
And when the perps were pulled over,
the cops didn’t fall about with hilarity
when these riders said quite calmly
that they were going to pick up their laundry.
Truly! They were backpackers! As if that explained it.
But publicly, the cops said nope,
these perps are obscene to be seen like this
and they violate Khmer customs and culture.
The cops even took pictures of this outrageous obscenity.
Indeed. The riders' rapture of being bare assed
and naked and **** free is not for Cambodia.
Certainly not at this juncture.
So their capture resulted in them being deported,
never to show hide nor hair in the country again.
Just goes to show...
But you can get away with ****** here,
particularly shooting union leaders or critics or protestors,
or you can throw a grenade into the opposition,
and **** a few right there. Those killers go free.
It's probably dangerous to speak openly,
but I don't think these guys read poetry.
They're probably busy oiling their artillery,
and even rocket launchers, as the PM
threatened to use against the opposition recently.
Seriously.
They're on the lookout for dissenters here.
Oh yes. And bare *****. Obviously.
So watch you **** in Cambodia,
especially if it's bare on a bike.
And ssshhh! Watch out for your mouth.
You need to cover your mouth up properly, too.

Mike T Minehan

black coffee walks alone
closed eyes, avoiding signs
holding love in back pockets
cracking open pens, drink ink
blink: sunlight! it's blinding,
and alright, but I much perfer
darkness.
                so many calls that make me
feel small. I don't know what to say,
so I hang up, and hang myself in the
backyard to dry, afraid you might catch
my scent, and run away.
                                        you taste like
flowers, feel the way my lungs do when
it's hard to breathe, feel the way my ears
do when I struggle to hear the mumbled
mess of what you wouldn't dare say straight
forward.
              I saw you coming, felt you coming,
lost you, lost myself, removed the sheets,
found someone else. To remove myself,
you hoped, I hope it helped.
                                             bagged in plastic
styrafoam cups, luke warm, but you're warmer.
a charmer, heart farmer.
                                        Welcome home, please
make sure if you leave, it's somewhere better.

please don't ask
why my words
are so intent on
chaining your heart
to the nightmares I've
stuffed my pillows
full of
with promises rusting
into blackened iron
links and truths that
would shine better as
lies

I never meant
to cage you
in my dreams -
it's just that my
eyelids solder shut
and I cannot pry my silver
eyelashes apart without
cracking at the faultlines
I forget to mention
whenever I wake up
alone

it's just that my
soul needs more
than a little oiling
more than a little
you
to breathe away this
metal corroding its way into my
tear ducts, dripping rust
down my cheeks,
choking on 'blood oxide'
and mechanical residue
buried underneath my
fingernails

it's just that every
******* 'i love you'
is yet another link
around my finger,
wrenching the life out
of me,
blue shadows engraved
on my skin never shine
like silver in the sun
but if this is the
only clanging chain
of heartbeats echoing
in metal boxes
from me to
you;
what can I do?

it's just that there
was a lock somewhere
along this mess of coils
and chinks and mistakes
but oh god,
when did the rust
between you and I
melt into three thousand
miles of mercury trickling thermometer
poison into everything
we say?
I've lost my keys;
they had sunk first and
I will sink last

it's just that
the clinking thump thump of your heartbeat
is my lullaby;
it's just that
knowing you breathe warmth is enough
to cool the burning silver in my lungs;
it's just that
close to you is the closest I will ever
feel to 'alive'

it's just that
if I can't keep you -

nobody can

...and now I am tired,unwired and unstrung and what had begun when the sun hit the streets has now ended,I defended my right to work into the night,I was wrong,the night was so long and my life,once light,now weighs me down.
I am drowning in the aspirations of what were once my own creations,treading on once upon a times and struggling hard to work these rhymes into some sort of verse.
Someone nurse me back to youth,
in truth I think that's all I need,to wait beside the fountain and feed upon the spring.
Someone bring me yesterday where I can lay my head and say,I'll do it differently and in the time it takes to cook a goose all hell's let loose as time bends back its hands and the clock stands still,then in reverse,which in itself is one more verse that rhymes,time's marching on and yet we all know that the time to talk has gone and words mean nothing if not spoken,something tells me that time is broken, and by the spring I stand behind I watch the universe unwind.
This is one more notch upon the post or at least the most that I could hope for as I open up and close the door,
sleep will come.
if not now then later so I'll wait a while,lights down low,don't want the night to know,
I'm here.

it’s like my body is a roller coaster
there
for anyones pleasure
what goes up
must come down
so enter me without any thought
until the ride is over and you can walk
away
power and strength all in your possession
and i am left with
nothing

because who wants to thank me
for the acceleration
the quickening of breath
the energy
the never ending rush of excitement

who wants to spend a few extra minutes on this roller coaster
smiling
with thankful eyes
maybe returning the favor?
oiling my gears and making me
sigh with pleasure
rather than
squeaking with pain?

but that is to much to ask

once you’ve reached the end,
and what was once up is now down,
and your heart is slowing its pace

you can go find another ride
another roller coaster
that will take you for a few spins
for a few minutes of satisfaction
until it is over and you’re tired

and i’m tired

but who cares
because the next ride starts now
and what goes up
must come down

Be my muse,
I'll translate you into binary
and back again.
Lying on the ground,
blue carpet between your ears,
synthesized sounds convey through spaghetti,
hearing aides grow old with us.
Child sized vowels fall off their bicycles,
from between your lips.
Keep me busy; when I'm comfortable, I get lazy.
Your shirts are overlaid grids,
the holes, coordinates.
17.43
Always a poet, only occasionally writing,
I hedge my bets and roll die
with insults open to interpretation.
I don't like your words,
I don't need your hyena smiles
I don't want your degrading remarks.
But I know your skeleton,
your tendons, cartilage and marrow filler.
I understand how you move,
the coconut oiling your joints.
Be a textbook reference,
help me cut apart the paperchain people I’ve made,
I want to portray them realistically.
Shade their features with scrawled adjectives,
resolving to care about typography.
White school glue takes too long to dry
to have hopes of staving off entropy.
Scribble highways into dusty prairies,
be the cartographer that misplaces my world.

Your life is threadbare
and it's cosy

Uncomfortable
but safe

Poor
yet secure

It's not killing you
but then neither are you living.

The head is above water,
Struggling against the tide.

Grinding along on a hamster wheel
that badly needs oiling

I mean

You now earn less than you did at your first job.
It was **** all then

and that was 5 years ago.

The years have not been kind. The hairline has crept upward
Roughly in line with inflation.

A job's a job's a job's a job's a job.

There's a damp roof over your head.

Are you ready to trade all this in for a taste of adventure?

A main course of personal growth
washed down with a side order of

Drudgery

loneliness

and Japanese Encephalitis.

Will they find you out?
Will you be pulled into an office

while a polite local
explains how her English is better than yours?

That could all happen, says the head

but the frightened, quivering heart longs to change.

To jump into the fire and emerge reborn
strong, dynamic, brave. All the things you aren't now.


Just don't hope for too much.

She lived in that white mansion
Up up on the tar hill
All her life she was wrapped in it
Look closely to find her
Between Christmas trees and patio
Spinning under them wishing so hard
She was a fairy and prayed for a wing
Late evening, she creeped under
this tree she doesn't even know
the name of it
Molding foods out of sands
Driving in a plastic car with her feet
Accidentally her right foot was under the car tyre
But kept trying to drive past this root from this big tree
Crossing over drains so gracefully

She told me the good times
When people praised
That she could write her own name on a markerboard
Or when people said she was pretty
In scarves even though
She looked like hell
She told me it reminds her
Of Fleet Foxes 'White Winter Hymnal' lyrics
With scarves of red tied around their throats
To keep their little heads
From falling in the snow
Her scarves was all red too with ribbons pinned on it
That she regret losing it now

Right back when she could wear dresses
Without remarks from her mom
That it felt good when people don't talk
About her hair that is bad everyday
Chocolates were shared without even a thought that she did not want it
Turtles can be kept because there
Were still aquariums
But they went missing the next day
Just like her hamster named Michael
Also this cat she left at a fish market a few time
But got back home like there's a GPS, itinerary and atlas all in its head

When her dad had to work until daylight
She will have to sleep upstairs with mum
In that little space there are microphones of which
She sang songs that find ways until 3 lanes behind her house
She hated the smell of the sofas
She wasn't afraid of heights but
Everytime she looked outside the windows she just get the chills
At nights engines revving on roads
Passing by frightened her so much

Once a burglar got into the room
Where her aunt sleeps in
When dad was working she slept to the room next to her aunt
At 4:00 she heard a distant cry
Up to this day, she doesn't like
The holes on the bathroom walls
She said she could feel someone
Watching
And still there's this trail of size 7
On the white wall under the window
Images of a flower *** moved to the front door
To stop us from running away,
that *******

Now she is out of her own
Beautiful tragic cage
Now she can be found beside this road
Her last step out of the black gates was no tears
I can still feel the echoes from the pictures of her mansion
Like a phantom limb hanging
The air that surround the mansion now
Is straight out of hell
The fog like a poltergeist in her head
Making sounds and moving things
Oiling cogs in my head
And sow the longing deep underneath
To come back in summer and search for her red scarves

O Palestine
My Palestine,
Open your eyes
You  need to reply all
       in the language of bullets
In a voice full of hatred
I saw Israeli bombardment overnight.
Burning human civilization all around
The curse of our souls is upon
those who are engrossed
                     in destruction.
Those who take away our abode.

O Holy Mosque Al-Aqsa,
You are the essence of our existence
I swear by my Lord that
I will never allow this
holy place of yours to be defiled.

Where is my brother
Arab non-Arab
Qatar
     Kuwait
         and the King of Saudi Arabia
Who are holding the flag of Islam?
Who are contained an ancient heritage.
O brother
Are you engaged in oiling their palms ?
Now we want unity.
And there is no alternative to unity.

I hate all airstrikes
Bullets are falling from unseen dark
O Palestine
My Palestine,
When will you sleep unduly?
We are waiting for the good day.

Thee Woman

There is always a woman every man will ever come into contact with that no women after or before will ever come to level with. This woman could be an assortment of types. But in this case.. in 'my' case... this woman was 'Thee Woman'. She stood tall, strong, elegant, classified, grounded, intelligent, beautiful beyond comprehension. She stared with such force. Eyes piercing directly into my soul.. But she did not mean to frighten me.. but instead show me a certain kindness I had long forgotten. She fully understood her own passion and chaos. When she was weak she would not show it. When she felt Joy she would remind he who poured that joyfulness over her. She was exotic in her passion. The *** was not something of this world. It was like 2 universes entering a black hole, into oblivion.... She would moan and roar and scream and cry and she would rock the stars in the long, dark, frightful night.. The sheets of our bed would soak, the windows in our room would fog, Our bodies doused in exotic bliss and ****** ***. We were drunk off one another... We held on tight to one another and made utter love.. Her juices oiling over my as if to loosen up my rusted body parts, to make me move again and have life... a new start. She was god like but demanded no worship. She is humble, she is creative. She is pure... Earnest. When she loves she gives it her all. She is so many things... so many good things... Completely and undoubtedly, the woman of my dreams.. in reality.

It is all about the thing that is the last whisper you hear  before you sleep.
It is all about the lingering feeling of a soft kiss on your lips before you snuggle the night away in his arm.
It is all about the random tide that hits you making you realise how much you're loved,
Like a silent sky people forget about sometimes but is always there when you look up.
It is all about the numbing chilly breeze on a wintery midnight, that makes you feel so much,
The roads and surroundings covered in orangish pink hues,  slowly humming to themselves, luring you in a trance.
It is all about the soft wintery moon smiling down at you,
Or the science exams that bring out your artistic streaks
It is about those moment of tranquillity where every piece falls into the places they belong.
It is all about the stains you get after laying in the grass early morning
Each dew drop looks like a twinkling sun of their own.
It is about getting to taste heaven in your favorite flavor,
And enjoy the sun  kiss your skin.
It is all about nani maa oiling your hair and your mother's eyes twinkling,  while she says you're such a spoiled  kid.
It  is about the hope that someone else  will get the door.
It is all about fluffy socks,  sweater with hand drawn patterns
It is all about flushed cheeks, freezing hands in your friend's pocket
Like the snow flakes that fall,
Unique in their own way,
Every season with itself brings
Its own flavor and shades,
And though summer is well known for  lighting a wildfire  in everyone's heart,
And adrenaline rush of first love,
Winter stands elegantly,  and let things run into a deeper course.

He is the puppet master, that has
strung his strings through my
wooden hands, played fate in
my hollow days.

I am the puppet dancing to
every rhythm of it's somber tune,
playing psychic to his every wish.

I am the warrior, crying surrender
to me in my strongest days,
denying defeat after it's already
happened.

I am the warrior, oiling his guns
after using them on I-playing
slave in a world of freedom.

He is the ice burg that sank my
ship, when I almost reached
shore, teasing the land.

He is the mountain that blocks
my view of joy, blinding my
eye to know this.

Now I am the guilt in his
heart, playing nightmares in
his mind.

                                                                              SDPope

Santa's got up from his bed and
he's oiling the wheels on his sled,
There's no longer a freeze so
he doesn't use skis,
yes,
Santa's got up from his bed.

tossing
restless
the in-between space
of darkness before sleep

cogs turning
in the engine of mind
need oiling
no shops open

dawn
light through the window
illuminating corners
where no one can hide

When I've aged
With passion spent,
I'll save my breath,
There's less to vent,
Save my energy,
Say, Yes.

When the kettle isn't boiling,
Or the hinges need an oiling;
There's no alarm to turn me on,
I sleep soundly through the dawn,
That's when I
Say, Yes.

I've read love rhymes,
Lived a few,
Now culled my books
And love letters,
Sacrificed like a goat
That's tethered,
Parsed my heart
To flames and feathers,
Still,
I say, Yes.

I say it to whatever's offered,
Break the lids off creaky coffers,
Scatter rainy days with blue.
Ah. Getting older's what we do.
And through it all,
Say, *Yes.

Thinking about that guy
How he got all rusted up
How he longed to have a heart
How he got stuck in mid-motion.

I long to write again
But like the tin man
My heart (for writing) seems lacking
Haven't I said it all?

I mean it gets old
It's no longer refreshing
Writing is a gift that seems to have peaked
Something that once flowed very well

I'm frozen up
I need some oiling
To get the process churning
Frustrating, when I want to move

But I feel stuck

Baby, as ancient as you are
your naivety worries me,
or is it my own? Thinking I
could ever have you again.
Oh but how I wish, pray, on knees
again to set eyes upon glory
of man named Antonio Guadi,
his Sagrada De Familia.
Is he finished with you yet?
Will he ever be? Would I want it so?
Artisans carving sanctity to sky,
what have you chisseled in my absense? Is God's work ever done?
Do, continue on forever, give me
chance to return.

Ah to bask on shore of San Sebastian,
with pollished rellics of former
architecture found in his beaten grains.
I long to melt there once more, in awe of
noon on Mediterranian Sea. My eyes
taking witness to painted Catalonian
women, *******, with holy devotion
dipping faithful fingers into your
waters, and signing the cross before
dipping into blueness. Good Catholic
girls they are. And handsome Gods about,
oiling each other and bearing wittness
as well. The ice cream boy, is he
grown now? Does he walk by open
mouthed still, where we left such
imprint in the sand for all to see?

When? If, I arrive again, will we walk
Las Ramblas, stare at human
statues, dance with gypsies, drink
Absinthe and be taken by spell of
Green Fairy? Will we then not care
that pretty pick-pockets rob us
blind? Oh, for the hallucinatory
love of it all! Hold me in your fortress
walls forever, should I ever, return.

My Barcelona Baby, take me back.

PJ Poesy

p.s. I never left you.

In the dark of the night I sleep
The day tires, exhaustion does creep.
But I wake, as the mind races
It does not rest, it goes places.
Cascading thoughts of years gone by,
Of years to come, I worry, cry.
I think of those happy around
And how I always wear a frown
How, when they can converse with glee
It is when I’m quiet that I’m free.
The past consumes, it hurts, I bleed
Deep inside, I know what I need.
Mistakes made, pride before a fall
Catastrophic, I can’t stand tall
Only to me it seems that way
They say, “Move on!”, but I just pray
For strength to exist, to not fail
Yet again amidst wind and hail.
So I hide, I don’t speak to them
Those who bear my monstrous emblem.
I read, I’m told, of self-esteem
That’s what I see in waking dreams.
Envy, anger, sadness I spout
Company I can’t do without
It makes one feel weak. Who am I?
A girl who waits but doesn’t try?
One who turns off lights to see dark?
Or one who tries to make a mark?
We’re all worn pieces of fabric
Pristine, glorious, woven magic
Of frayed threads, of holes, botched stitches
Some, stories from rags to riches.
We do not know when it will end
We don’t know what the fates will send.
Life’s the course we take to finish
Our fine cloth without a blemish
Perfect it may seem from afar
But It is made from many scars.
The past made us who we are now
Bid goodbye to it with a bow
For it made us strong, made us strive
Again, once more, to try and thrive.
I will no longer let it rule
Forget the girl I was in school
Ignore my self-deprecation
Omit the failed conversations.
I will not let them define me
Fallen leaves of my standing tree.
Long-lost dreams fade, new ones begun
The mind's made up, I'll have some fun.
Long road to travel, things to do
Hard work smartly done with a clue.
Music's gentle hand guides my way
My only light in the dark days.
Smiles, laughter, speech with confidence
I'll try and lace them with good sense.
Perhaps the God above knows well
Things he won't explicitly tell
He'll shine in places we can't view
Clearing our way in unknown queues.
Giving strength when we do feel weak
Oiling our machines to no creak.
With that faith, I will move some more
Finding new paths, opening doors.
The future’s mine, I’ll make it right
My life, in the dark of the night.