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On a soggy day reading soggy poets
searching for something to say.

They moan of rain, drone about blackberries,
wail about trees and the meaning of mud.

What’s to be found there?
Even footprints are lost.

Gray matter marinated in meter and rhyme
wordy intoxicants abound till nothing matters
– much.

My dog bathed and brushed
fluffy as a puppy.

The other snoring lightly into a comforter.

Haikus cradle the ferry road.

The sonnet sea wombs our island dear.

And I fan a spark so hard in the dark.

But alas there’ll be no flame tonight.



© 2018 Robert C. Leung
miartus - Latin
to be amazed/surprised/bewildered (at)
to look in wonder/awe/admiration at
.
I know this place,
light stone avenues,
fig, pear, apricot and apple,
trees that line in rows,
cut paving with neat gutters
**** white granite buildings,
as ferns and creepers
cascade from roof gardens,
the green shining vivid
in appreciation of being alive.
And I connect across the aeons,
this place was my home,
from centuries long passed,
yet reaching out to be found.
The avenues mimic my mind,
long straight and narrow,
broad and winding,
leading to sedate squares
to sit and feel the sun,
to bathe in beautiful isolation.
And the trees sway
casually in a breeze so soft,
it caresses the branches,
enough to tickle the leaves
and cool the ripening fruit.
Here, the forest erupts,
circles around this sanctuary,
forming a natural hedge
to this garden of tranquility,
this oasis in the maelstrom,
this home in my heart.
Flowers of honeysuckle,
jasmine, of clovers and lily,
adorn walls and buildings,
bright in contrast
to the shadows of the trees,
bloom with the intensity of colour,
riotous in hue and arrangement,
yet, ordered to Nature's Law.
Paradise wrapped in image,
slicing through time and space,
my place a thousand years ago,
my place to claim forever,
and the wind carries me home,
I know this place,
because it lives inside of me,
because I made it.


© Pagan Paul (06/06/18)
.
O mighty, tiny heart,
One thousand blessed beats a minute,
beating time, beating gravity, beating death
O mortal metronome
ticking seconds into that certain future
Little wonder Aztec gods bow,
and Nazca lines testify to your
glorious, thirsting, bursting
hummmmmmmmmmmmmmm of life

now still

An opening closed you could not see.
Hummmmmmmmmmmmmmm

O purple thud
O feathery fall from grace
cradling leaf and Gulliver’s hand,
hourglass of heartbeats run out,
lived and gone as never was
Are we responsible for the things that die
because of things they cannot see
things we cannot see
things we cannot

(The Nazca Lines  are a series of large ancient geoglyphs stretching for miles in the Nazca Desert, in southern Peru. One portrays a hummingbird.)
Sappy accidents aside
why not be silly?
Nothing makes sense anyway?
Up is down and down is up
until you’re down and out
of the loop.
You’ve missed the scoop!
The one with extra sprinkles.
So now you stoop
to pick up the  ****
cause you're the group
that’s in the soup.
For pity sake let them eat cake
or ****, cause this is all fake
news is blues and while we snooze
cheers turn to boos
and so we lose the thread
to the ties that bind us
In a bind that says
we’re bound for glory.
And though that story is somewhat hoary
It’s not the allegory we were looking for
Mr. Goodbar can attest to that.
Nobody owns life
but anyone who can pick up a frying pan
owns death.


© 2018 Robert C. Leung
.
The emptiness is full of lost joys ...

The heft and fall
          of a wood axe
                    splitting down winter logs
The sight of girls
          pretty and fair
                    exposing flesh in the sun
The smell of flowers
          scented breeze
                    and fresh mown grass
The pint of real ale
          quenching thirst
                    after a long days graft
The company of friends
          killing loneliness
                    laughing and telling stories
The piquant moments
          of happy and sad
                    when tears flow easily
The arms of lovers
          on a cold night
                    and raising a heartache
The taste of fruit
          so ripe and lush
                    dribbling juice down chins
The feel of a smile
          crossing lips
                    releasing hormonal pleasure ...

The emptiness is full of lost joys …



© Pagan Paul (03/06/18)
.
Follow up poem to My World posted in February.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2321764/my-world/
.
 Jun 2018 Pauper of Prose
Myrrdin
I know what it is
To want revenge
To believe that
Killing my own
White Whale
Would give back
What I've lost to it
I know what it is
To lose all of myself
To the things
That only wanted
Parts of me
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upon which all,
we, enthroned poets,
the world-over,
do rule

the honor you
bequeath me  
to be,
a first follower,
your very own
first responder,

it, cannot be
disdained
nor
diminished
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a novice revival,
heart transplant,
makes it
the sweetest blessing
to be the first—

let us be
the quencher
of a desert thirst so long
in the parching,
the throat burning,
by a desert sojourning,
of a now ending
forty times
four hundred years

so come to me!
message me a message,
find me a find,
your poem fine,
so now we vow,
our embrace will
ne’er be broken

give me this
honorific!
let us together
be terrific,
raise our glasses,
with arms entwined
toasting you and
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breasted chest of yours,
full bursting from
its future~contains,
of which,
its full release,
brings a fuller life
for us both

I am a father.
I am a grandfather.
I am a First Follower.
and a First Responder,
for all who need a leg up,
so step upon my heart,
it be but a first step upon a
ladder with no top, no end ensighted

my legs are as old as time, but,
measure me not by the rings and 
the metered scales of gray hair aging,
shock of white, a cain mark, wizard-wizened
but
by the muscles
of my deep affection,
the solemnity of this,
my irrevocable promise
this,
the blessing
we both make and earn, 
when you write,
and while we wait,
in quiet attendance -
for all of your good works,
your kept promises

Blessed
are You Lord our God, 
Ruler of the Universe
who has given us life, 
sustained us until now,
allowing anf alloying
treader and the writer, 
to reach,  meet, embrace
and greet this day,
this new born poem,
with hallelujahs
whispering and shoutings
together, one
love to chat & encourage new poets
lightly edited Aug. 2025

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