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Emmie van Duren May 2022
Now why am I not living in the You Essay so we could get together and have coffee, say,
and really dig down deep in order to discuss the reason we are living in this universe?

Instead I'm left bereft on this side of the world - a harder place to live, now that my love lies cold.
My arms are empty, it's too hard to start anew - unless, of course, I find another heart that's true.

So in your search for meaning, if you come across the great Creator who designed this universe,
please ask Him to remember me and send someone to keep me company 'til this earthly life is done.

For in the end, as we each close our eyes in death and walk into eternity with final breath,
we'll find the only memory that's left to prove we lived at all, was held in someone else's love.

Their thoughts of us live on, their telling of our tale will guard our triumphs, not the places where we fail.
2017
Emmie van Duren Feb 2022
Oh, wondrous ******* made of prawn
you make my sense reel
My knees grow weak, my tongue hangs out
your seafood touch to feel.

How longingly my taste buds crave
your prawny, crispy cling
See how they seek most anxiously
the taste that makes them sing.

Not quite of lobster, not quite crab
elusive is your flavour
The crunch that locks onto my tongue
then melts, is one to savor.

All locked in light deliciousness,
your taste just makes me *****
and tho' I can't describe it well
it's definitely prawny.

Let's play a game with good, hot oil
I'll pour some on your back
You must be male, I see you grow -
expanding with a  'crack'!

Come to me now - I crave your touch
You need to be in me
my longing is a raging fire
I love you utterly.
© Emmie van Duren-Cranney-King 2022
Emmie van Duren Sep 2019
At what stage does a poem become a short story? How many words can I squander or squash to fit a category?  
I think I know how to tell the difference between prose and doggerel but the rhythms change as pictures in my mind morph into another kind and thumb their nose at boundaries and realign themselves to squeeze just one more nuance in the theme - a poet's heavenly hell.

© 2017
Emmie van Duren Sep 2019
It's dark outside now,  darling - tread carefully as you go.
That pallid crescent in the sky will soon be gone and so
make haste. Don't linger in the shadows.....

Jan 2019 © Emmie van Duren
Emmie van Duren Nov 2018
The Race That Stops A Nation is an exaggeration promoters love to trumpet out - but it’s imagination. ©
Emmie van Duren May 2017
Rumbling and grumbling, with colours a’scumbling,
clouds carry rain over expectant land.
Stopping and dropping, tall mountains a’topping,
they empty their bounty from God’s mighty Hand.
Roaring and soaring with rich foam outpouring
there thunders the waterfall over its ledge.
Swishing and splashing with sun sparkles flashing,
the ocean deposits its lacy white edge
Murmuring, mumbling, smooth rocks a’tumbling
carries the river its flood tide away.
Gabbling, babbling, bubbles a’burbling
hurries the brook down its liquid highway.

Gushing or trickling with nostrils a-prickling,
we let out our sorrow in tears of release.
Wearing those guises, earth’s water surprises,
by vanquishing dryness and offering ease.
© Emmie van Duren  13 May 2017
Emmie van Duren Apr 2017
It's dark outside except for the pale glow of a fingernail moon sailing through the starry sea of night.
The wind has tucked itself to sleep with the birds, weary of bustling about and playing with my hair.
The whippet snuffles his way along the rabbit trails, delighted with this late night walk, white tail wagging in the air.
I wander down by the edge of the swamp, grass all soft and dewy 'neath my feet and spy the pallid uoow reflected upside down,
between the reeds along the creek.  
The constant, shrilling chorus of frogs and crickets drills my ears yet I find it strangely soothing -  a well known voice across the years.

I turn to walk back, whistling the dog and notice in the low fields,  the usual ethereal  fog begin to form.  
I look up at the dark shape of the house and see light from my
kitchen window painting squares upon the lawn.
Amphibean bodies seek the brightness, bellies pressed against the glass and if you warm them with your finger on the other side, they move.  
My man and I  bet kisses on whose frog would move the most -  one of those silly games you play when you're in love.
As I close the door behind me, grabbing logs to feed the fire, the dog flops down upon the hearthrug letting warmth dry swampy mire.
I make cocoa in my blue mug then pull down the kitchen blind - cutting off the froggy light source - abruptly silencing the choir.
© Emmie van Duren  25th April 2017
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