nisa-west - Hello Poetry

That class is sponsoring a thorough bred fair—creating war winning story that doesn't fit neatly onto a bumper sticker. Only a standard reply from featherless wing—bloviating an appeal to the conscientious authority. Go back: polish the Augean non-staples, rear up stallions to break geldings, eat beefsteak, drink whiskey at whistle, stop. That class only teaches a Greek hero clean-up. Meanwhile, they claim victory.

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Oct 23, 2011

Oct 23, 2011 at 10:29 AM UTC

XXIV.

That class is sponsoring a thorough bred fair—creating war winning story that doesn't fit neatly onto a bumper sticker. Only a standard reply from featherless wing—bloviating an appeal to the conscientious authority. Go back: polish the Augean non-staples, rear up stallions to break geldings, eat beefsteak, drink whiskey at whistle, stop. That class only teaches a Greek hero clean-up. Meanwhile, they claim victory.

1

The back bending makes way for the animal medicine. A changeling on the run— playing with the fanciful menagerie on a houseboat. Mixing lamp oil with years—materials set on fire. No thing is no longer the game so begins a shock of names. The polished look of the dancer inspired—sure as the peacock she checked out, "What's up, Showing Off? You look like the tribal leader."

0

Oct 23, 2011

Oct 23, 2011 at 10:28 AM UTC

XXII.

The back bending makes way for the animal medicine. A changeling on the run— playing with the fanciful menagerie on a houseboat. Mixing lamp oil with years—materials set on fire. No thing is no longer the game so begins a shock of names. The polished look of the dancer inspired—sure as the peacock she checked out, "What's up, Showing Off? You look like the tribal leader."

1

Crows down in the park by the beach are eating McDonalds for breakfast. The dark hobo waves— just off the crib of a passing freight— to the curly haired boy/man with the dark rims framing white, soft face who walks by. This guy plays a part in the object obsession, sees the hobo and doesn't know what to do because the hobo is a regular bull artist—looks into eyes, says good morning and rambles on and on, so eyeglasses just flashes him the peace sign! and the hobo is gone—joins the crows to have some time with what remains. Forget about the poem you were writing in your head when you first saw them. They're Scavengers.

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Oct 23, 2011

Oct 23, 2011 at 10:25 AM UTC

XXIII.

Crows down in the park by the beach are eating McDonalds for breakfast. The dark hobo waves— just off the crib of a passing freight— to the curly haired boy/man with the dark rims framing white, soft face who walks by. This guy plays a part in the object obsession, sees the hobo and doesn't know what to do because the hobo is a regular bull artist—looks into eyes, says good morning and rambles on and on, so eyeglasses just flashes him the peace sign! and the hobo is gone—joins the crows to have some time with what remains. Forget about the poem you were writing in your head when you first saw them. They're Scavengers.

1

From envy a vicarious dream repeats Each autumn as the sunshine cools Happiness that once shone bright grows dim; My mind takes over for her Chance—unleashed. Thirty three years have passed yet she remains A part of me, and full of looks like me, Blue, new skies of Fall, the air is clear And sharp; I watch my breath as clouds break through Great peaks—this mountain journey continues, Linger heavy thoughts of her life; she’s free! Like birds, my daughter soars inside my heart, Her sight and strength in spirit, I do weep, Another mother-daughter fate it brings, By nature we will be dear friends again. I love this season of her temperate birth— My greatest pain, she fills a crucial role To be my joy and light this time around. As I walk perilous steps until my Death, My lifelong prayer that mine will come before And she will be the last to know what’s best.

0

Nov 10, 2010

Nov 10, 2010 at 4:42 PM UTC

Autumn Child

From envy a vicarious dream repeats Each autumn as the sunshine cools Happiness that once shone bright grows dim; My mind takes over for her Chance—unleashed. Thirty three years have passed yet she remains A part of me, and full of looks like me, Blue, new skies of Fall, the air is clear And sharp; I watch my breath as clouds break through Great peaks—this mountain journey continues, Linger heavy thoughts of her life; she’s free! Like birds, my daughter soars inside my heart, Her sight and strength in spirit, I do weep, Another mother-daughter fate it brings, By nature we will be dear friends again. I love this season of her temperate birth— My greatest pain, she fills a crucial role To be my joy and light this time around. As I walk perilous steps until my Death, My lifelong prayer that mine will come before And she will be the last to know what’s best.

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