God loves a hill and he made them round
God loves them auburn and he made them brown
he made them firm and he made them soft
and how they move as they walk only God so talks
(I stop what I'm doing and I pretend not to watch.)
I’m a cannonball that’s untethered loosed
I’m the deck on a ship
who doesn't love a good storm
they come as dappled light
upon my forest floor
filtering through the trees
and I’d swear in their presence
I become a cathedral
I can sense their divinity
they take my breath here's when:
when all the air is sucked out from the room
it's how puzzle pieces fit
and they know they just belong
it's about how nature loves a crooked line
who doesn't love a crooked song
it’s about take Botticelli when Venus
emerged from the sea a fully grown woman:
paint her some clothes on
and if I may Lord
if only to
this blessing from which sprang
the most beauteous bountiful
and bouncy of your creations
from out of your vastness
incomprehensible and magnificent
from the source of all song
have mercy on us Lord
who can resist fragility and blue steel
that mix of loose with tight
the stillness and the storm
the soft on the edge of firm
the contrast of a thousand turns
the dark weaves in da light
you killing me Lord
you killing me
in your magnificence.
I write in praise of art,
specifically, the spectacle of
Ng’s bare arse. Yes,
this is simply because I have to say
Ng’s bare arse is magnificent.
It’s not a bouncing Botticelli but it’s
a slim, firm bottom, subtly rounded,
real split peach and cream stuff.
And Ng at the other end
is a real nice person, too!
She's my friend, see?
But back to Ng’s bare arse. I contemplate
this vision, along with the meaning of life,
quite often in broad daylight
with a slash of sunlight across her little buns.
This is more profound than the Tait, the Louvre,
the Met, the Frick, the Neue, the Helly, the Hermitage or even
the National Portrait Gallery all bunged in together.
Ng's bare arse is also better, by far,
than anything you can see at the Bolshoi or La Scala.
I’m amazed at how much I’m amazed by
this work of art. It’s awesome.
And I betcha the most famous galleries would
fall over themselves to display this finest little arse, that is,
if the world wasn't so hung up with hypocrisy and hysteria,
yeah, it'd be heaps more famous than the Mona Lisa.
Life's like a raptor
If you reach out to touch it, you'll get bit
If you leave it alone, you might not get bit
And you'll see its magnificent hide.
-Until We Meet Again-
Pele has lost one of her lovers.
I miss the goddess in all her majesty; Her deep blue oceans, sweet sandy beaches, Her dark black hair billowing down like the lava from the peaks of Her highest volcanoes.
Her seven sacred pools, each one cascading gracefully into the next, all finally spilling into her magnificent sea.
Her gorgeous body will forever entice my mind, with hair dark and beautiful, inhaling the scent of fresh pineapple and coconut, a hibiscus flower pinning back strands of hair behind her ear.
Her eyes, they were just as deep and amazing as the sea, something with which they were so familiar.
With lips red and lined with Hawaiian love songs sung just for you, tasting as fresh and young as the ocean itself.
Her body was adorned with fresh tropical flower leis and Kukui beads falling gracefully over ancient Hawaiian dress; all made from the same grass and leaves coming from the islands many trees.
All encircling those perfect hips, born to Hula and sway to any island rhythm, be it the slow and steady rattle of the Uli Uli, or the fast and powerful beat of the Pahu drum.
Finally pushed over the edge by the sight of her long tan legs, not shy to the suns warmth and fiery grasp, ending in bare feet more familiar to the islands then we’ll ever be.
I miss her and all her islands.
Oh, how I miss the island paradise Hawaii.
We are mere dreams in the illusion of life
Though the dreams may be different
They are just dreams in this weird illusion of life
While the dream may be magnificent
That too must end; just as a nightmare must,
For after all, we are mere dreams
That one day will certainly turn to dust
While the illusion of life or reality as it seems
Is just a transient illusion, we call our life
And when the dream goes bust
We awake to find we begin a new dream so nice
And that our illusion is what we deserved the best
So let us enjoy our dreams until we can, with spice
For after all, we are mere dreams in the illusion of life
Lightly colored with painted kisses, humming harmonious hymns:
The vital branches of our tree, such strength, unblighted!
Your charity sustains me, the manna of my muse,
Do you feel my fingertips as they glide across your cheek,
My palm on your chin, your eyes upturned they settle and seize my attention.
Stay not your caress, though in between us there may be a veil.
Serpents in the short grass will not strike you as you pass,
I've paid them for your safe passage, come to me, I crave only your touch.
Here, let us only touch each other,
No more is needed now, but skin, and silence,
Let the wind carry away all pains and past sorrows.
With your touch my agonies dissolve
like a sweet treat in a moist mouth.
With confidence I shrug off past limitations,
Celebrations are even now being held in the core of my being.
Your smiling spirit sends sympathetic vibrations when I am away.
Restored are the comforts of past days,
Eiderdown and slow burning sage,
Before I knew your words were ever for me
I fell deeply in love with your melodies.
If I could, in my deepest passion prove the power of your touch
It would mean so much if you could understand.
Like an assembled host of mighty magicians focused in concert
Your hands work epic miracles, of soothing and creation.
In the course of my rambles
I have stumbled
On sigils and symbols
That have granted me a second sight
And from you I see waves of light,
In mingled colours sharply detailed patterns
Of magnificent artistry,
An aura of delightful pageantry
That reveals your unparraleled to me.
Entrusted with the formula for happiness,
I share this willingly with the hope you'll see,
All I need to wake each day,
is the nearest hope that we shall spend a moment together,
So in touching, we may impart the many words left unsaid,
The truths that would shatter our lips should we utter them.
You love her already....and it's only been 7 days.
It took you months to tell me you loved me,
you waited and waited, showed me and touched me.
So, what is the difference?
She makes you feel alive, and "special,"
so I'm left wondering,
what hides inside my fingertips,
what is waiting to come forth from my lips,
is what I have to give not sparkling,
If I were to stand beside her,
hip to hip, would you compare like
it meant nothing?
Would you know your choice right away?
Even if we have history, I suppose it means nothing
in the way that she seems to look at you.
I see her in the morning.
I think of her in the night.
And all the hours in between,
She enslaves my very sight.
Her shiny black hair
Is like silky waves of night.
Her deep blue eyes
Are portals of mysterious light.
Her smile is magnificent.
Her teeth are always glimmering.
Her body is phenomenal.
Her laughter is always ringing.
She has a corner office.
I have a corner store.
I await the moment every morning
When she opens up my door.
She is perfect
In every single way.
All she has to do
Is everything I say.
She's married with children.
I'm single with none.
She seems so intense,
But maybe she's the one.
She'll be here soon.
What do I do?
I've absolutely, positively
Fallen for Sue!
I'm a fool!
I've fallen into a trap.
Help me find my way.
Can you lend me a map?
She is intoxicating.
She's out of her mind.
She follows me home
And tries to be kind.
She rearranges my furniture.
She decorates my house.
She adores this little puppy
That looks like a mouse.
She whispers and gossips
And whistles and prances.
She sends everyone into
Their own kind of trances.
She tasted better
Than Blueberry wine.
But she sure did crush
This little heart of mine.
Written by: Andrew D. Robertson
The world’s smallest basket lies tucked away
Inside a jar for field-trip wide open
Eyes of wonder to chew on, settled in
The drooling smiles of truant minds like most
Sticky wads of gum that hang dried to the
Undersides of every desk throughout the
Pine Belt area of Free State County,
And all that surrounds circled about one
Solitary clandestine blade of grass
Tucked & woven into antiquity
By enchanted hands, & no doubt the work
Of Ma Universe slippin’ her divine
Fingers inside the dirt-caked skin she’d
Herself sewn onto one of her very
Own living/breathing marionettes,
Borrowing the gloves of ancestors called on
All the way to back to the first blade of grass
Plucked, & the first dreams that woke young shaman
Poets mad with visions streaming like
Images from celestial antennas
Into intricately knit blades of grass,
Sharpened on dewdrops & the unforgiving
Wilderness of frontiers, like a sea of
Green knives crashing their piercing waves on prairie
Shores while dull eyes attempt to draw blood with
Sharpened pencils on a sketch of its beach.
The towering sandcastles & woven
Baskets & cosmic canons are canonized
Eternal in that magnificent
Fireworks show behind tempered glass, in that
One simple blade of grass.
a forest grows roots in my scalp
a baby touches the soft short bits and laughs
like there is no greater delight in her world
my spirit swells in her beams
i walk shoulders forward
half-sneer that says “yeah that’s right
i’m a badass”
nobody sits next to me on the bus
once this bleach-blonde spent half an hour worrying
nail-biting, foot-tapping worry
before setting the clippers to my head
like she might hurt me
i intimidate the thing in me that is vulnerable
staple a wig to it, put it in a dress
build it safe bridges out of my body
so that on the street
the people who do manage to worm their grubby fingers
through the cracks
are motherfucking psychos
and i can imagine driving their nose up through their brain
without feeling guilty
even though that is scientifically impossible
due to the density of bone
and this charred twisted gargoyle on my shoulder
who tells lies as long as the mississippi
like “you deserve this shit”
on really bad days my hair turns and shouts
“back the fuck up gargoyle! you make no fucking sense!”
even when i decide to trim it
when i’m stoned out of my tree on sudafed
and haven’t eaten solids in five days
and it looks like, well, this
i am a magnificent peacock
swanning down the street
and everyone is a little bit better
for having walked through my glow
now if only i could make eye contact with the cute dyke on the bus