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 Dec 2017 Ako
Cné
O Painter
 Dec 2017 Ako
Cné
~
O Painter
with thy own eye
                        would thee
paint me in mine own natural hue
prithee paint me as i am,
imperfections
            and blemishes true

Load thy brush
                      with colors sundry
to maketh yond first pure sweep
across the ****** frieze,
fill'd with pangs of hunger.
paint me as i standeth
                  bethought, in deep

With mine own love and mine own desire,
blurring the edges unclean
with mine own regrets
                  and mine own mental gyre,
in mine own natural age,
               of deep forest green

O Painter
Paint me sinister turquoise,
in lavender and maroon,
combine the amethyst and amber
blend the iceberg
       and the indigo moon.

Paint me as i standeth,
       prithee see with thy eye
a mistress in yond lady plight
Prithee paint me all i am
i cullionly
a mistress in all yond lady might

Paint me in the optimistic
                             silv'r of dawn,
but don’t miss the purple
to shade the bruise
                              of the bygone.
paint me in the sky blue journal

O Painter
Paint me as a unique template
smudge black white and grizzled
merging all the colors of thy palette.
col'r me a rainbow
                            in a rainy drizzle

Paint me tall so yond i standeth
loftier than any mountain
Paint me as a dram bird, delicate
with soft feathers silken

Paint me harmony, as a violin
so yond i can sing thy solitary tune
paint me as thy poetry
         with song and melody
wrapp'd in a cocoon

O Painter
paint me as a dream yond rises
                               in did saturate colors
with a steady upbeat flight awry
tint, a fluttering
             of a quite quaint butterfly

Portray me with endurance
imbue so bold and bright
doth not hesitate
                to depict mine own mind
in profound fuchsia and white.

Useth the colors yond thee would borrow
Thy palette not yet exsufflicate
Paint mine own loss and mine own sorrow
in search of a shade so ******

Adorn mine own heart in glowing garnet
at which hour thee paint mine own love
add a true broken blue shade
of the cloud and the rain above;

Study mine own dry sorrow
                              in mine own soul
useth any shade thee plaited
soften the edges of control
in a tinge of xanthene.

O Painter
Prithee paint me
Mine own passion and mine own spirit
shall has't a crimson r'd hint
mine own remorse and mine own regret
shall reflect an ink stain print

Paint me in mine own eye so true
O Painter
but add a dash of courage too

~
When I paint, I’m never quite satisfied as I see all my mistakes, blemishes and colors not quite right. I tend to keep painting to try and get it all right. At some point, I arrive with the conclusion, if I keep going I’m going to mess it up. I stand across the room and, it’s then that I’m amazed at what I have created. I like to think that I’m seen in the same way by my creator.
 Dec 2017 Ako
Cné
“T'was the night before Christmas ...”
and Santa was busy.
The reindeer were antsy
the elves in a tizzy.

The missus was tending
the ovens like mad
And turning out cookies
to make children glad.

The wood chips were flying
the sawdust was thick
The workshop was bulging
with toys from St. Nick.

Contractors from Sega,
Nintendo and Sony
Were working on games
(and a robotic pony).

Iphones and Ipads
(with virus removal)
Were packed in their boxes
and stamped "Elf Approval".

Last minute touches
were added with flair
While elf stylists tended
to Santa's white hair.

Elf tailors were making
some last alterations
To Santa's red coat
and his waist tribulations.

The weather was fair
as the weather-elf stated
The routes were approved
and departure was slated.

Bells had been polished
and harnesses buffed
While repairs were addressed
for the hoofs that were scuffed.

The antlers were festooned
with ribbons and bells
And the reindeer were covered
with elf flying spells.

The clock approached
midnight as Santa was seated.
The countdown began
as the flight crew was greeted.

H-hour neared
and the tension was growing.
Outside it grew cloudy
and then, began snowing.

But Santa just grinned
as the weather-elf winced.
"Don't worry, my friend.  
Our time has commenced."

For the weather was nothing
to Santa's conveyance.
His reindeer and sleigh
were immune to"delay-ance".

With a whirl of his whiskers
and a flick of his wrist
The reindeer were launched
in a flash of white mist.

And I heard him exclaim
through his teleport ray:
"ALERT TSA. Tell 'em
I'm on my WAY!"
 Dec 2017 Ako
Kewayne Wadley
If you were a song you'd be number one on my playlist.
No matter how much time would past.
I'd never get tired of hearing you.
Theres not enough radio time for how much I think your voice needs to be heard.
You are too beautiful for words.
Finding time for all of your songs is like making love.
The two of us lost in a moment hung on continuous repeat.
A grin spread ear to ear.
Nominated for the grammy of my heart.
Your fabulous taste in music.
The vocals that feel like they were written for me.
Within the first ten seconds I am in complete ecstasy.
The advance my heart makes.
Skipping it's beat to the rhythm of your heart.
If I can be the next venue you choose to perform.
You'd never have to question why'd it take so long to appreciate you.
Bobbing my head to the vibe you give.
The smile spread across my lips.
Your the only thing I need circulating through my headphones
 Dec 2017 Ako
Traveler
MY WORDS
 Dec 2017 Ako
Traveler
These are not merely words
Spun across a page
In unequal syllables
Phonics enraged
Chaotic break downs
Inconclusive
At their peak...
Oh no, no no
These are my words
Eccentrically unique
....................................
Traveler Tim
 Dec 2017 Ako
Paul Jones
Dyad - 98 -
 Dec 2017 Ako
Paul Jones
In the frozen earth,      a seed is buried.
Memory rests, waiting      for the warmth of spring.
16:20 - 30/12/17
State of mind: deep thought; mellow.
Perspectives: natural; philosophical.

Thoughts: from thinking - if an idea is to come to fruition, construct an environment from which it can grow.

If an idea cannot die, it is only because it has left traces of itself in as many places as possible. A thing is not dead if its memory can be passed on.

Questions: If a memory is altered slightly with each passing, how can an origin be known if its current state resembles nothing of its original?
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