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Feb 16 · 364
Lunes
My coffee was cold.
Even Mondays in May made what
the Scientists,
the Politicians,
the Polar Bears feared most
appear paradoxical.
To the Brazilian girl, it's crimson fruit,
it's the precarious nature of
Spring's rain.

Her honeysuckle,
laden with Mother's Milk
never smelled more like
home.

But to me,
it was a blissful pain,
it was a snuggled sip between
salvation and
the last word she wished she hadn't said. 

She summoned sunshine,
displacing the haunted memories of a past
which refuse to recede;
she poured hot coffee.
May 2018 · 474
Hai-chu
Seth Keplinger May 2018
Honey bee sneezes
dusty daisy, pink petal
spring convolution
Seth Keplinger Mar 2018
I've got the shakes again, and
we've lost the arts.
Caramel coffee is for trolls,  
calamities are uninvested conversations.
Your selective ignorance
are their political polls;
cocoa conundrums; coagulating
serotonin serums inhibiting innovations.
I've got the shakes again, and
we've lost the love;
you turtle dove.
Historical happy hours,
rhetorical- the ring on her finger
indigo indiscretions linger
bloom a bouquet of flowers.
I've got the shakes again, and
we've lost the respect.
Ignore Tesla, the moon;
******* by his diamonds,  
instant gratifications- new world addictions.
Hats off at my table!
Shake hands, shake social frictions.
I pump my brakes again, and
I've lost invitations;
my blinded observations.
Soulless shoes sully love,
subtle self proclamations.
Societies vicarious vices,
subliminal author's themes;
my presumption suffices.
Johnny's mother screams!
I've got the shakes again, and
I've lost my mind again;
dubious is an art of repetition.
In this war of attrition,  
monkey business is the real oppression;
***** color schemes
deter my nightlife's daydreams.
Premeditations- self induced depression.
First amend, then reprieve
a society in genocide,
murderous screaming thieves.  
I've got the shakes again, and
he's lost his midnight train of thought;
his ****** obsessions.
Espresso and ****** expressions,
prerogatives- propaganda bought;
the bad vibrations.
Battling a vertigo,
temptation i fought.
Dancing amongst the constellations;
these must be his
coffee drunken genius inspirations.
Mar 2018 · 508
ever so often
Seth Keplinger Mar 2018
They danced the bow,
an ole' burning skiff;
never taking his hands from her helm.
Did he even blink?
Blinded by the heat of her omnipotence.
He tried to discern her face proximately;
the impermeable remnants of
the flame impaired his vision .
Frère Charles couldn’t distill an elixir strong enough
to manipulate his compass’s rationale.
The ripest grapes, the deepest roots,
her herbaceous lips; his soulless old boots
laced with diffidence.
A despondent moon, a tear,
the asymmetry in her shadow.
She, whom he blindly confided in,
is painting a landscape of a fairytale.
The lily’s blossom eternally,
the dirt taste like chocolate,  
her oceans motions
propagate love.  
When?
He’ll never know.
His imagination undulates in wildflowers,
while she swims inauspiciously
in stormy seas.
Inevitably, a slave to the wave,
he thank her forest for the oak he step.
The old oak is opinionated,
and charred.  
Heedless it seem,
full mast against the wind;
somewhere their currents will convene.
A confluence relentless and unyielding;
even Moses ponder.
Feb 2018 · 379
sweet nothings
Seth Keplinger Feb 2018
Listen to his dreams,
impetuous heart beats
distal, two
a conundrum
like melodies in the palms,
whimsical Winds,
Whistle
Whiskey;
he'll always succumb.
Pull his tongue,
implore for a
chore
imaginations can't refuse
consequently this wrist,
it's always
A twist
beneath a Palmetto moon
dance a blind man's muse.
Pick his brain
humble he mumble;
stumbled
weak in the knees.
An Athens meadow
undulation in her hair
flowers Blossom,
Buzz
Bees;
Aphrodite he discern
winsome dimples,
he envies.
Palate his promises
swallow his Last Word
top shelf spirits
and lie-bations
heckling *****
Buzz
Blues;
veracious blue eyes
drunk love,
she accuse.
Feb 2018 · 366
Eclectic Vinyl
Seth Keplinger Feb 2018
Amongst all reflections,
glass proclamations
they sit, stare, and
superficially surmise.
Coffee aromas and
veracious Blue eyes.
Why the disguise?
The rainbows, the waterfalls
into puddles of
Tupelo Honey, for
the Giddy Butterflies.
The sublime silence
composes a void
between the notes.
Mozart envies
the way the
music floats;  lost amongst
winter's sinister breeze.
Dancing between the
New Moons,
Frusciante's guitar strings
ocean melodies and
a song Yogi sings;
2 souls exhume
from the depths,
a groupie swoons.
Dec 2017 · 590
Rutledge ave.
Seth Keplinger Dec 2017
I miss
my friends.
While they
laugh, revel
and skip.
I miss
the point
While I
hide, cower
and drip.
I miss
my friends.
While they
fly, displace
and ascertain.
I miss
the invite.
While I
spin, clot
and complain.
Dec 2017 · 406
Perennial swoons
Seth Keplinger Dec 2017
She's an innocuous ghost,
another figment
of her own imagination.
Her tongue has no translation,
eyes of a celestial creation.
An architect,
the author of my day dreams
the puppet master,
my heart tied to the strings.
Butterflies undulate
March's melancholy melodies,
and a forlorn song
Cohen sings.
She dance,
it's more than a notion
poetry in motion
writing fantasies,
and mixing potions.
Impeding the flowers from wilting
in an abstract meadow,
blooming blossoms of
emotion.
She's a conversation piece
Neruda's muse, chilly
and abused.
Complications he excuse,
her past fragile
another heart bruised.
Discerning an impossible future,
chasing the shadow of
A Ghost,
whom he refuse to lose.

— The End —