Stories, Poems and Other Stuff...
Showing posts with label poet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poet. Show all posts

Tuesday, June 03, 2014

Advice




Never pass on the chance to use a toilet.
This is especially prudent when traveling eastward
from Barstow.
Sure, you can pull off to the side of the road,
but you run into the chance of getting bit by a scorpion
with your pants down. Nobody wants to leave a corpse
that way.
Don't eat seafood in Kansas City, or anywhere within
a 800 mile radius.
Doing so will swear one off of lobster forever.
Trust me on this one.
Never pick your nose in traffic.
You are not invisible while in your car.
Make sure to tell those dear to you that you
love them.
Make sure to tell your adversaries that you
hate them.
Say hi to your mailman. He has a hard job and enjoys idle
chit chat.
Create at least one thing in your life.
Children don't count. That's a colaboraton.
Clean out your wallet once in a while.
Sometimes you'll find cash that you forgot about
because you are getting older.
Don't tell others what to do.
Don't let others tell you what
to do.
Never make your bed.
Drink a lot of beer in moderation.
Only shop at Walmart for entertainment.
Be all that you can be,
but not in the Army.
Most of all,
don't listen to the advice from anyone
willing to give it freely.


© Charles Scott 2014

*I may have to add to this as time goes by*

Monday, May 26, 2014

From Matthew J. Hall

 This needs to be in a physical form that fits into a back pocket to be taken out more often than not and read.



From the Depths and Through the Madness

From Matthew J. Hall

 This needs to be in a physical form that fits into a back pocket to be taken out more often than not and read.



From the Depths and Through the Madness

Saturday, May 24, 2014

A Poem Written for Those of Us Waking Up and Realizing We Got on the Wrong Bus

 
I'm mad....
I am pissed off
at the whole
bill of goods.
Epiphany sucks
the marrow
out of the
strongest of bones!



© Charles Scott 2014

A Poem Written for Those of Us Waking Up and Realizing We Got on the Wrong Bus

 
I'm mad....
I am pissed off
at the whole
bill of goods.
Epiphany sucks
the marrow
out of the
strongest of bones!



© Charles Scott 2014

Monday, March 10, 2014

Frank Reardon....My next book purchase

My next book purchase.




 Frank Reardon



The Open Road of Your Bookcase

When a man has nothing but his
name and a mouthful of words, no
money just personal hate and inner
famine, when the road opens up in
front of his old beat up shoes, the
possibilities become limitless. The
cynics and elitists vanish. Those
doubt soaked ladies become tiny
incidents. The memories decide not
to pan out and the jobs could be
anything: fisherman, lumberjack,
miner, store clerk, or the priest
of a lonely heart.

The road is experience and truth.
It's the place of one thousand ghosts.
It becomes the palace of your open
mast (the one you simplify with true
grit and courage.) When a man has
simple things like notebooks, pens,
selected music, and powerful works
from the typewriter, he can see people
stripped to the bone. He can see a
man's blood pump on the outside. He
can tell what comfort really does for
the people of the arm chair relax. Art
never had a bigger challenge than that
of true passion taken by feet that truly
need to see the earth.

To see and to meet, to plunge the
knife in deeply, to taste and to seek.
I shall gain this knowledge by rafting
across the great colony of despair and
seeing the real suffering. The real deal
all over, not to look within the same
walls of one, two, or three towns, I shall
listen to similar winds across the plains
of my own sorrows and gain the slick
confidence that most will not even
attempt to try. I'm not better or worse,
but I seek formal gain and a card
player’s smile. When I leave your
town I will open my brain and suck in
your truths, and before I leave upon this
road again, I shall leave myself upon
the shelves of your bookcase.

Frank Reardon....My next book purchase

My next book purchase.




 Frank Reardon



The Open Road of Your Bookcase

When a man has nothing but his
name and a mouthful of words, no
money just personal hate and inner
famine, when the road opens up in
front of his old beat up shoes, the
possibilities become limitless. The
cynics and elitists vanish. Those
doubt soaked ladies become tiny
incidents. The memories decide not
to pan out and the jobs could be
anything: fisherman, lumberjack,
miner, store clerk, or the priest
of a lonely heart.

The road is experience and truth.
It's the place of one thousand ghosts.
It becomes the palace of your open
mast (the one you simplify with true
grit and courage.) When a man has
simple things like notebooks, pens,
selected music, and powerful works
from the typewriter, he can see people
stripped to the bone. He can see a
man's blood pump on the outside. He
can tell what comfort really does for
the people of the arm chair relax. Art
never had a bigger challenge than that
of true passion taken by feet that truly
need to see the earth.

To see and to meet, to plunge the
knife in deeply, to taste and to seek.
I shall gain this knowledge by rafting
across the great colony of despair and
seeing the real suffering. The real deal
all over, not to look within the same
walls of one, two, or three towns, I shall
listen to similar winds across the plains
of my own sorrows and gain the slick
confidence that most will not even
attempt to try. I'm not better or worse,
but I seek formal gain and a card
player’s smile. When I leave your
town I will open my brain and suck in
your truths, and before I leave upon this
road again, I shall leave myself upon
the shelves of your bookcase.