We Made Out in a Tree and This Old Guy Sat and Watched Us

The following poem, entitled “Library Born,” was written in honor of the new Kellogg Library on the campus of Cal State University, San Marcos. That’s right — free-form poetry to honor a library. Originally printed at http://library.csusm.edu/about/poem.asp:

Mammoth steel skeleton gazing from the hill,
Rising above the flagpoles,
Hissing flames sealing metal joints,
Zig zag stairs with alligator teeth climbing,
Floor upon floor upon floor,
Empty
Rectangular spaces open to construction,
Sea breezes whistling through hammering,
Roof top steel arms, uplifted,
Celebrating

Soon there will be priceless jewels encased in
this castle,
Carpeted walkways twining to the sky,
Glassy eyes opening to the world around,
Keyboards softly whispering ideas,
Minds Soaring,
Shelf upon shelf upon shelf of
Books
Nourishing hearts and spirits with magical
powers to question, create, solve, dream,
University Gem

by Sandra Castañon

From the play “Muerte en el barrio,” by Alfonso Sastre, whom the introduction describes as “one of Spain’s leading contemporary dramatists”:

Genoveva: Bésame.
Luis: ¿Qué dices?
Genoveva: (Le ofrece los labios.) Bésame.
(Luis la besa.)
Luis: Estoy enfermo. Puedo contagiarte.
Genoveva: Te quiero.

In English:

Genoveva: Kiss me.
Luis: What did you say?
Genoveva: (Offers him her lips.) Kiss me.
(Luis kisses her.)
Luis: I’m sick. I might infect you.
Genoveva: I love you.

A poem written by a high school boy for a girl he wanted to date:

Roses are red
Violets are Blue
Oh Sierra Please,
Let me do it to you.

(From the contributor: “I found this on a restroom wall at the vocational center at Battle Creek, MI, in 1979. I am sure the bigot who penned it had no idea that he was writing poetry.” Editor’s note: You can’t tell because I have bleeped them, but the racial slurs were misspelled too. That means that in this 13-word gem, there are more words spelled wrong (7) than right (6)!)

“N***** bitchs
Wigle there ass
Think there something
I hate them
N***** bitchs”

Written by the contributor’s brother who, the contributor assures us, “is not retarded”:

I wrote this last poem, and it is entitled “Blame.” I made this poem that says you have to be angry to play the blame game.

“Blame,”
By Brad Sanders

You blame someone because you broke your leg
Or sprained your ankle,
Maybe be even because you are in a lot of pain,

But, who is really to blame,
The person who tackled, or spouseilly hurt you,
Or are you the one to be blamed,
Could it be your bad temper?
Think of the entire story,
Then you decide

(From the contributor: “This is poetry written on squares of cheap blue toilet paper taped to the back of the bathroom door in my apartment:”)

Roses are red
This TP is blue
We hope this poetry
Amuses you!

3 little alpacas
Sitting in a barn
They were castrated today
And didn’t care a darn

“Thank you techs”
They all said
Now when asked their gender
Their faces become red

So if you’re a guy
Don’t get Andrea mad
Or else she may take off
One of your gonads.

***

All hail the Dollar Store
Where with less you can get more.
A buck an item can’t be beat;
Shopping there is such a treat!
So join with me as I holler,
“Three cheers for the All A Dollar!”

***

The TP looks nice
Use it and the truth comes out
It feels like napkins

***

Andrea’s future:
A Blackfood alpaca farm
Mike will be her man

***

Batman underoos
Hiding in the apartment
Where will they be next?

Poem from a Southern Texas Country Cookbook “Plesanton’s American Bicentennial Cookbook 1776-1976″:

Ballad of the Vegetables

A Potato went out on a mash,
And sought an Onion bed.
“That’s Pie for me!” observed the Squash,
And all the Beets turned red.
“Go way!” the Onion weeping said,
Your love I cannot be.
The Pumpkin be your lawful bride
You Canteloupe with me.”

But onward still the Tuber came
And lay down at her feet.
You Cauliflower by any name
And it will smell as Wheat,
And I, too, as an early Rose.
And you, I’ve come to see
So don’t Turnip your lonely nose
But Spinachat with me.

I do not Carrot all to wed
So go sir, if you please
The modest Onion meekly said
And Lettuce pray, have Peas!
Go, think that you have never seen
Myself, or smelled my sign.
To long a maiden I have been
For favor in your Rye!

Ah, spare a cuss! the Tuber prayed
My Cherryshed bride to be
You are the only weeping maid
That’s Currant now with me.
And as the wily Tuber spoke,
He caught her by surprise.
And giving her an Artichoke
Devoured her with his eyes.

(Buffalo Cookery: The the ladies of St. Lukes Sunday School, Buffalo, Wyoming, 1907.)

The contributor found this poem written on the wall of cabin no. 10 at Washington Creek Campground, Isle Royale National Park:

sunshine
sun is bright
sun makes light
sunshine
sun is hot
lets smoke pot
sunshine
pot is cold
is easy to be sold
pot
no stems no seeds
that’s finer weed
pot
flower tops
here come the cops
pigs
run, run, run
there’s no more fun
pigs
sitting in jail
pissing in a pail
busted
sentenced for life
for smoking a pipe
busted

This poem is by Emily Dickinson, written around 1862. It can be found in Introduction to Poetry, Seventh Edition, Edited by X. JU. Kennedy, published by Little Brown, 1990, page 249:

A Dying Tiger - Moaned For Drink

A Dying Tiger - moaned for Drink-
I hunted all the Sand-
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand-

His Mighty Balls - in death were thick-
But searching - I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water - and of me-

The poem was written by the contributor:

THE KISS

I opened her car door
Walked her to the porch
My hands started shaking
My face felt like a torch
She leaned in for a goodnight kiss
To her dismay she found
I’d fainted rather suddenly
And fallen on the ground
Still hoping she could get
A goodnight kiss from me
She knelt down at my side
And gently touched my cheek
“Oh Romeo, oh Romeo
Where hast thou gone?” she asked
“Come kiss me my sweet Romeo
Thine sleep is in the past”
But when I did not wake
She did something quite bold
She lifted up my head
And kissed me (so I’m told)
This promptly got me to my feet
But before I could run
Our lips again did quickly meet
She’d kissed me once again
So now my friend you know
How on that fateful night
I’d lost my virgin lips
But not without a fight
She used her cunning, crafty ways
To get the best of me
I truely did not mean to lose
As you can plainly see