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There is rutabaga, and ratatouille, gotta love alliteration
Then Albuquerque and Tallahassee, are somewhere in our nation

And Saskatoon, Saskatchewan found in Canada, my dear
In old colloquial, there were hooligans and shenanigans, I fear

At school I use a dongle it connects me to my work
I hope I didn't bumfuzzle you, didn't mean to be a ****

Just one more word on my short list and to see what it can do
Find the one you love and in sweet soft voice just turn and utter **"pooh"
^^^
we were just like
two numerical numbers
from the opposing sign
added together
and the result is zero*

©IGMS
-1+1=0
<>                                                              ­          



                      
(                      

                     )


^^^

ain't so pretty

"""""

( but ---         I know

How hard it is to      Dare to live

How hard it is to          be alone )



Such simple gifts

( gentle soul )



Lost in the middle of AMERIKKKA

But too   "Good" to be         Critical

••

All your     "Friends"     with broken wings !

||||

Strange !

( seein how YE never tried to fly )

••

... watchin YE fall ..... seein YE die ....

Sorta funny

( don't YE think? )
He’s no musician.
He doesn't make melodies through violin and guitar strings.
Yet he composed, haunting ballads in dramatic tempos,
Rhyming every lyric,
Harmonizing, making it dance in a musical euphony.

He’s no seamster.
Yet he cuts and he traces,
plain words and printed phrases;
Then he sews and he weaves it skilfully,
into a lovely concrete poetry.

He’s no painter.
He just has a palette of pigmented letters,
splashing colorful lines on his blank canvass.
A blast of contained evocative memories,
Streaking and shading mixtures of kaleidoscopic imagery.

He’s no storyteller.
Yet from him, I heard the most romantic tales-
One, of the moon and its lover sea.
Reciprocating shy glances, whispering I love you’s,
while kissing behind the sprawling mountains.
Though the dawn will come, they do not fear.
For after the majestic tribal sun leaves his stage,
There’ll the lovers be once again reunited.

He's no poet.**
Yet he writes--
stanzas and verses.
And oh! it revives,
every strand of emotion,
every sense of intuition,
Inside me.
A lyrical perception,
Sheer perfection,
Arousing perpetual reactions,
From me.
I am not good at this. I just want to express my pure gratitude, appreciation and awe for you.

"I am no poet. Never thought of myself as one. Just a guy dabbling clumsily in words"
Yet even, everything you do amaze me.


Thank you all wonderful people on Hello Poetry. I just realized this moment that this poem was featured as Daily poem yesterday.  I have never imagined any of my work will be posted as daily. Thank you all for the hearts, re-post,share, comments and messages. You really made my heart and soul so happy. :)
And most of all, thanks to the man who inspire me to write this one. :)
(04.14.2015)
 Apr 2015 Devin Tinnin
Cody Root
I carried boxes of burnt possessions from the tattered tavern walls
Watched as you sat in silence, as if to anticipate the fall.
I pieced your life together through ***** pictures and broken frames
Joined the crowd as it approached just to lift up your name
Through piles of wet clothes and these burnt tavern walls
We have created love and hope, disaster being the cause
I hope someone snapped a picture to look back at this day,
Just a reminder of how fast this could all slip away.
It was a lonely kind of smile

that painted my face

the moment you smiled at me

I hid my melancholy

—-

It was a lonely kind of smile

one without a trace

of any kind of glee

as you gaze at me

—-

It was a lonely kind of smile

before I looked away

Not minding your looks

So again I won’t be fooled

—-

It was a lonely kind of smile

and I start to think

Though I’ll never resist you

I’ll try my best to……
 Mar 2015 Devin Tinnin
Gaitano
She's bugged my brain
When there was butterflies hanging around,
I was told not catch any.
Make it easier when they left, dig?
Well I guess the child I am won't stop touching everything.
As the wind blows the white in hair away from her face,
She can't hold eye contact and well,
I have no reason to feel trapped.
I just...
I guess...
Let me just forget why I came before I get on the train.
Peace out lame ***
 Mar 2015 Devin Tinnin
wordvango
it seems came her

adrift on mellow breezes
faintly scent o' strawberries

red dawn golden lashes  in rhythms
upon a meadow painted by
Emerson words and Van Gogh splashes

so lightly afoot
so not to spoil any of nature

listening
relaying

being
her.

— The End —