darrell-wade-elverum - Hello Poetry

Not these prose that may bloom and become rhymes, unreasonable times squared , how have i faired?, Thanks for asking, work is taxing, the least, Of my worries, is finding words, flock! "Bird by bird" where are the people that read, without pillaging, without burning, and Purifying, some flash mob dance, rough draft, This a loose assembly of words, proof of life, Though the Store was not minded, Where are?, the watchers, from While, dipping my toe, in a West Coast ocean, member of the North of the 49th Parallel Poets Brigade, Canadian, but not pure

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Apr 28, 2019

Apr 28, 2019 at 11:11 PM UTC

Pure

Not these prose that may bloom and become rhymes, unreasonable times squared , how have i faired?, Thanks for asking, work is taxing, the least, Of my worries, is finding words, flock! "Bird by bird" where are the people that read, without pillaging, without burning, and Purifying, some flash mob dance, rough draft, This a loose assembly of words, proof of life, Though the Store was not minded, Where are?, the watchers, from While, dipping my toe, in a West Coast ocean, member of the North of the 49th Parallel Poets Brigade, Canadian, but not pure

15

J’ai Perdu Mon Couer I kept all my childhood dreams in the sweaty palms of my hands and one after another they found a regret and slipped away. Jeg Mistett mitt hjerte J’ai garde tous les rêves dans la paume de mes mains moites et l’un après l’autre ils ont trouvé un regret et tranquillement glissé **** I Lost My Heart Jeg beholdt barndommen drommer i svett handflatene og etter hverandre de fant anger go fled unna. But that is not where I am. I am a day dreamer I am a dream chaser, all night long. I am striding half empty always to feel the joy, pouring spilling over the edge of my day into night. Running down the sides of this vessel, saturated with the pieces of the dreams that stuck to the sweat and in the pores of these two hands of a man that hide the child’s hands inside. De svarte skyene kjenner mitt navn Yes, the black clouds know my name Les nuages noirs connaissent mon nom. And I know the God that created this heart. Je l’entends battre Som Thors hammer

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Apr 30, 2016

Apr 30, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC

What is that beating sound?

J’ai Perdu Mon Couer I kept all my childhood dreams in the sweaty palms of my hands and one after another they found a regret and slipped away. Jeg Mistett mitt hjerte J’ai garde tous les rêves dans la paume de mes mains moites et l’un après l’autre ils ont trouvé un regret et tranquillement glissé **** I Lost My Heart Jeg beholdt barndommen drommer i svett handflatene og etter hverandre de fant anger go fled unna. But that is not where I am. I am a day dreamer I am a dream chaser, all night long. I am striding half empty always to feel the joy, pouring spilling over the edge of my day into night. Running down the sides of this vessel, saturated with the pieces of the dreams that stuck to the sweat and in the pores of these two hands of a man that hide the child’s hands inside. De svarte skyene kjenner mitt navn Yes, the black clouds know my name Les nuages noirs connaissent mon nom. And I know the God that created this heart. Je l’entends battre Som Thors hammer

35

I remember Reaching for your hand before we first kissed. I remember Enjoying the warmth of our hands touching as did our lips. I remember Measuring my words whispered in your ear, to take you beyond bliss. I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed. I remember Minutes spent together, the blood pounding in my state of light headed bliss. I remember Brown eyes drinking in my blue eyes, as we touched finger tips. I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed. I remember Relishing the next time our hands would be closer than our lips. I remember the letter you wrote saying it was better that this was good- bye, I was across the country and could not test the look in your eyes, gone cold. This rememberance is very old.

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Apr 29, 2016

Apr 29, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC

The Memory that Never Goes Away (A Triolet Plus)

I remember Reaching for your hand before we first kissed. I remember Enjoying the warmth of our hands touching as did our lips. I remember Measuring my words whispered in your ear, to take you beyond bliss. I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed. I remember Minutes spent together, the blood pounding in my state of light headed bliss. I remember Brown eyes drinking in my blue eyes, as we touched finger tips. I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed. I remember Relishing the next time our hands would be closer than our lips. I remember the letter you wrote saying it was better that this was good- bye, I was across the country and could not test the look in your eyes, gone cold. This rememberance is very old.

24

She kills things. "Roses are red, the violets are dead.” She stopped, looked at her toes as she spoke. Moving at full speed, Her hair flowed from her head . The door suddenly ****** open, against the vase, which She broke. Quickly, running, fast up the steps, to find Her granddad She knew she was is in trouble, forgetting her grandparents warning. Where the violets had been, there was a shimmering, growing lake. She saw the garden, in full sun, that she watered that morning. Bored, across the yard She skipped to count, how many would it take? Surely done, it was playtime, strawberry stained lips, and no one around. They left Her there to tidy up, shut off the water, and pick strawberries. They put Her to work in the flower garden full of colour, and a few bees. Grandpa said to Grandma, “that girl has a lot of cheek." She said,"Roses have thorns, violets are weak” She was the garden tempest.

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Apr 28, 2016

Apr 28, 2016 at 1:25 AM UTC

She Kills Things

She kills things. "Roses are red, the violets are dead.” She stopped, looked at her toes as she spoke. Moving at full speed, Her hair flowed from her head . The door suddenly ****** open, against the vase, which She broke. Quickly, running, fast up the steps, to find Her granddad She knew she was is in trouble, forgetting her grandparents warning. Where the violets had been, there was a shimmering, growing lake. She saw the garden, in full sun, that she watered that morning. Bored, across the yard She skipped to count, how many would it take? Surely done, it was playtime, strawberry stained lips, and no one around. They left Her there to tidy up, shut off the water, and pick strawberries. They put Her to work in the flower garden full of colour, and a few bees. Grandpa said to Grandma, “that girl has a lot of cheek." She said,"Roses have thorns, violets are weak” She was the garden tempest.

16

Her eyes matched her hair, and she watched me sit down there, at a small table. There were two black tables small, with four chairs each, her eyes shut, she slept. Her phone at her elbow, tension, burdened ****** features, i prayed. I left her, I walked out, found a man bent over, a humble posture At peace, bent head covered, his tobacco stained fingers laced, prayerfully. He was a blue jean Jesus, beard bore the same stains as his rough hewn hands. I passed by briskly and did not look him in the eye, walked down the street. The blonde pole dancer next caught my eye, she wore short shorts that bared her thigh. Her habit called, the street she knew, "No Fear, Little Sleep, and Need of Prayer"

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Apr 27, 2016

Apr 27, 2016 at 1:22 AM UTC

Long Streets have Longer Names

Her eyes matched her hair, and she watched me sit down there, at a small table. There were two black tables small, with four chairs each, her eyes shut, she slept. Her phone at her elbow, tension, burdened ****** features, i prayed. I left her, I walked out, found a man bent over, a humble posture At peace, bent head covered, his tobacco stained fingers laced, prayerfully. He was a blue jean Jesus, beard bore the same stains as his rough hewn hands. I passed by briskly and did not look him in the eye, walked down the street. The blonde pole dancer next caught my eye, she wore short shorts that bared her thigh. Her habit called, the street she knew, "No Fear, Little Sleep, and Need of Prayer"

9

Battle royal for a bottle of red. Up the ante, we're going for Chianti! Grant me kindness, pour a splash on my fettered tongue. Up the ante, we're going for a thousand cases of Chianti! Hoist the mains'l, sea dogs, raise the anchor, or you be hung! Up the ante, the Cap'n is in a wanton need of Chianti! Another wine won't do? Up the ante, we know where they harbour the Chianti-shhhh Wind be fast, my thirst is deep, as the desert is dry! Up the ante, we're not paying' for the Chianti we're takin" The ship from stem to stern, you get to clean, when we return, alive! Up the ante, it is worth all the cases of Chianti, below decks we can hold! Up the ante, we're putting' out to sea, we have a nose for good Chianti! For when the Cap'n retires he will drink and sing this Chianti Chanty at a seaside shanty, all day!

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Apr 26, 2016

Apr 26, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC

Chianti Chanty

Battle royal for a bottle of red. Up the ante, we're going for Chianti! Grant me kindness, pour a splash on my fettered tongue. Up the ante, we're going for a thousand cases of Chianti! Hoist the mains'l, sea dogs, raise the anchor, or you be hung! Up the ante, the Cap'n is in a wanton need of Chianti! Another wine won't do? Up the ante, we know where they harbour the Chianti-shhhh Wind be fast, my thirst is deep, as the desert is dry! Up the ante, we're not paying' for the Chianti we're takin" The ship from stem to stern, you get to clean, when we return, alive! Up the ante, it is worth all the cases of Chianti, below decks we can hold! Up the ante, we're putting' out to sea, we have a nose for good Chianti! For when the Cap'n retires he will drink and sing this Chianti Chanty at a seaside shanty, all day!

15

Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-Ho Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe Going out on run, in the full Sun Helmet on my head, both hands on my... Rifle, If you said "gun", drop and give your weapon 10 of your best pushups. If this ain't fun, call you mom, call your dad, at mile ten they can pick you up. Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-No Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe Sound off ... one,... two,... three,... four,.. one,two,... three,four I'll keep running when my legs turn to jelly I'll finish this run, crawling on my belly How far? All the way! You gonna quit?? No Way! Not today!! Sound off ... one,... two,... three,... four,.. one,two,... three,four one mile down nine to go! just warming up on the road. Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-Ho Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe Don't let your rifle hit the ground, When you need it most it might let you down. Hold your rifle above your head Yes sir, but I'd rather be dreaming in my bed Sound off ... one,... two,... three,... four,.. one,two,... three,four Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-Ho Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe Are we there yet? Closer than we were, you bet!

0

Apr 26, 2016

Apr 26, 2016 at 1:12 AM UTC

Running Rhythm

Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-Ho Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe Going out on run, in the full Sun Helmet on my head, both hands on my... Rifle, If you said "gun", drop and give your weapon 10 of your best pushups. If this ain't fun, call you mom, call your dad, at mile ten they can pick you up. Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-No Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe Sound off ... one,... two,... three,... four,.. one,two,... three,four I'll keep running when my legs turn to jelly I'll finish this run, crawling on my belly How far? All the way! You gonna quit?? No Way! Not today!! Sound off ... one,... two,... three,... four,.. one,two,... three,four one mile down nine to go! just warming up on the road. Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-Ho Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe Don't let your rifle hit the ground, When you need it most it might let you down. Hold your rifle above your head Yes sir, but I'd rather be dreaming in my bed Sound off ... one,... two,... three,... four,.. one,two,... three,four Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-Ho Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe Are we there yet? Closer than we were, you bet!

32

This will land like focaccia, Like the careless 'forgot ya'! And a man will stand while staring in, through the coffee shop window, going off glossolalia. The ebullient cashier trainee remembers every name and mixes up almost all the orders for coffee, Cars are lined up for the drive- through, their voices sound like didjeridoos, in the ears covered by single cyborg clip-ons headset taking orders. The ****** iconoclast, Street person, bows to the ground, hat off his head, as he prays to the cigarette holes he made in the EXIT sign outside, his hat remains empty, as each car that whips up the wind that tumbles the receipts tossed egregiously at him, like leaves in the Fall, While the cruciverbalist sits in the corner in the only soft seat, finger pecking her keyboard while stares at the line and sips her chai tea, lagniappe of chocolate stashed, away in her voluptuous bag, the beleaguered barista has cups lined up over the transcendental horizon, and she can't wait for her break so she can eat with Olio Nuovo olive oil, and Selection Artisan ged balsamic vinegar, she brought to dip, her focaccia bread in, which she forgot almost, on the counter at home.

0

Apr 25, 2016

Apr 25, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC

A fresh cup of Quixotic Poetry

This will land like focaccia, Like the careless 'forgot ya'! And a man will stand while staring in, through the coffee shop window, going off glossolalia. The ebullient cashier trainee remembers every name and mixes up almost all the orders for coffee, Cars are lined up for the drive- through, their voices sound like didjeridoos, in the ears covered by single cyborg clip-ons headset taking orders. The ****** iconoclast, Street person, bows to the ground, hat off his head, as he prays to the cigarette holes he made in the EXIT sign outside, his hat remains empty, as each car that whips up the wind that tumbles the receipts tossed egregiously at him, like leaves in the Fall, While the cruciverbalist sits in the corner in the only soft seat, finger pecking her keyboard while stares at the line and sips her chai tea, lagniappe of chocolate stashed, away in her voluptuous bag, the beleaguered barista has cups lined up over the transcendental horizon, and she can't wait for her break so she can eat with Olio Nuovo olive oil, and Selection Artisan ged balsamic vinegar, she brought to dip, her focaccia bread in, which she forgot almost, on the counter at home.

23

"Glory be to God for dappled things," from this point on, plucked thin heart strings, broken hearted blues, smooth as whiskey, for IT burns and the heart has no memory, Hug the person, not the day, be the tortise shell pattern, that stops the ocean in its' tracks. Sit on a curb in a distant place, counting bullet casings, as no one cares about how many tear drops have fallen, Swirl the red wine in the bowl of glass and watch the glass bleed back into the wine, And stretch out on the pattern of shadows as sunset catches, resets, and releases, and yes you and your lonely spirit, search high and low for an identity, and want to read language poetry, so you can misunderstand the meaning and have an excuse, but be a wind instrument, the world around you plays the notes, He wrote the song, sings along, and without you, there would be no music, at all for those who need to meet you yet.

0

Apr 25, 2016

Apr 25, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC

Wind Instrument

"Glory be to God for dappled things," from this point on, plucked thin heart strings, broken hearted blues, smooth as whiskey, for IT burns and the heart has no memory, Hug the person, not the day, be the tortise shell pattern, that stops the ocean in its' tracks. Sit on a curb in a distant place, counting bullet casings, as no one cares about how many tear drops have fallen, Swirl the red wine in the bowl of glass and watch the glass bleed back into the wine, And stretch out on the pattern of shadows as sunset catches, resets, and releases, and yes you and your lonely spirit, search high and low for an identity, and want to read language poetry, so you can misunderstand the meaning and have an excuse, but be a wind instrument, the world around you plays the notes, He wrote the song, sings along, and without you, there would be no music, at all for those who need to meet you yet.

12

Will it always only be a safe dream like wandering in a bare wilderness, game to robust predators, and wildness clear choices call across the primal stream. It was late Spring when we first did daydream the fragrant flowers were dusting progress Winter's meagre offer, a cold caress the wildlife, sedate upon the grounds glean of Fall's gathered rare jewelled leaf mountains, among the valley's musk we would linger peak with sounds, echoes loud voiced joy bringer beyond Summer's pleasured column fountains, wayward wine red chances, seasoned drinker deep red and bottled up, loose danger pains.

0

Apr 23, 2016

Apr 23, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC

UnSafe - A Sonnet

Will it always only be a safe dream like wandering in a bare wilderness, game to robust predators, and wildness clear choices call across the primal stream. It was late Spring when we first did daydream the fragrant flowers were dusting progress Winter's meagre offer, a cold caress the wildlife, sedate upon the grounds glean of Fall's gathered rare jewelled leaf mountains, among the valley's musk we would linger peak with sounds, echoes loud voiced joy bringer beyond Summer's pleasured column fountains, wayward wine red chances, seasoned drinker deep red and bottled up, loose danger pains.

14