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  Apr 2014 Jedd Ong
betterdays
dimble dumble,
caught a, thimble thumble
of precious morning dew.

dimble dumble, took his thumble thimble,
full up to rimful.
on his nimble rambull
wooly stu,
careful not to lose,
a drippity drop
of the delicious dew.

they flimble, flambled,
up and overed,
down and undered,
till dimble dumble,
with his thimble thumble, filled to rimful,
on the wooly rambull... came to stumble.

his face a crumble,
as the rimful,
roamed and overflew,
the thimble thumble walls.
a dribble drabble did scribble scrabble,
down the rambulls hide.

dimble dumble
chewed his bottom lip
and cried.
"do not fret my little pet, look there is still enough inside"
wooly stu decried.
"i'll be more staid,as we ride our fortunes, soon will be made."

so,dimble dumble
and his rambull crew,
with thimble thumble recovered,
from the tumble.

on they skedoodledaddled. being careful to protect the remaining morning petal's dew.
after a while, time,
flew with dove like grace and dimble dumble,
with his dudes came
to the the very place, of the rimble romble rumble
and royal rapture rap parade

dimble dumble
and rambull stu on bended knee
and really humble
presented their
thimble thumble
not quiet full to rim still
but delicious and felitious morning dew
to the king awaiting
his purchase and perview.

before its spoiling,
it was boiling,
his kettle singing,
songs a ringing,
to the beauteous,
but not so bountious, morning dew.

dimble dumble
watched the
thimble thumble steam
and bubble blip away.
hands flipping flapping
nose jinkling wrinkling
as the fog blew,
his way boiling dew,
tea leaves darjeeling
with daphne blossoms
was the flavour of the day.

dimble dumble
with thimble thumble
empty now
and too, wooly stu
caught a peek of teacups platinum
holding royal blossom brew before the butler,
with a silly stutter,
sent them on their way,
with dimble dumble
all a fumble,
with a thimble thumble
of goldenboldens,
as his hard work's
reward that day.
napowrimo day 22
prompt; write a poem for a child, it may rhyme it may not.

a poem for my boy Tod,
with themes inherit
always keep trying
hard work pays off.
Jedd Ong Apr 2014
The book folds to reveal
The real world,
Beneath my crouched knees

Untied sneakers sprawled
All over the floor, muddy.

There is a silent joy in
Watching others consume
Realities all too
Different,
And all too
Common to
Yours—"unreal,"
Ethereal.

Perhaps all too so.

For the past two days
I've caught the people
Crouching beside me
Sniffling.
Jedd Ong Apr 2014
I.
The burnt patches on your
Index finger have quietly been
Snuffing out the cigarettes you've
Been inhaling ever since
The start of this
****** conversation—
All too deep, I suppose.

II.
Your cigarettes remind
Me of my shriveled up crayons:
Wayward patches of yellow and
amber in between
Countless granules of
Fairydust;
Gaudy amalgamation
Of mirthless colors.

III.
As you leave the downtrodden
Sods of my mind,
I can't help but pick up
The stubs you've been grounding
Out all night.
Light a match.
Listless.

IV.
You'll be delighted to know
My bedroom walls now
Come in different
Shades of gray.
Jedd Ong Apr 2014
I'd imagine the severance
Of man
From God as
The severance
Of day
From night—

Blissful half wrought in eternal
Darkness—heat—light
Led to believe that

Wholeness is but
The reduction of an appendage
As to allow
The imminent struggles of
Grip
To make you stronger

Somewhat more
Intense,
Insistent the feelings of
Despair and grief
And ultimately
Illusory

Joy.
  Apr 2014 Jedd Ong
irinia
In the silent mornings or in the silent nights
there is a hunch there is a thigh there is a panther
I try to catch your shoulders using a violin
as a butterfly net
but if your hair chimes it's because it's dreaming
if your eyelid blossoms it's because of the wind
if your hand howls it's because it's night
if your ears sleep it's because they're famished
if your shoes laugh it's because they're thinking
and if your shoulders take flight it's because it's very late

If your hand falls silent it's because it's a seashell
if your veins race it's because of the mandrake
if the thigh listens it's because there are still leaves
if the blood foams it's the fault of the umbrellas

If your frock screams it's because it's dying
if your shadow flickers it's because it's burning
if your fingernail sits on the curtains it's because they're violet
if your foot whinnies it's because of the clouds
if the lungs fall asleep it's because it's dark
and if your shoulders choke
it is assuredly because of the trees.

Gellu Naum, Vasco da Gama and other pohems, Humanitas Publishing House, Bucharest, 2007
"Gellu Naum (1915-2001) may be said to have been the last of the Surrealists in the proper sense of the world. He was the last living link to that revolution of the human spirit which first defined itself in Andre Breton's Manifeste du surrealisme of 1924. " Alistair Blyth

I posted two of Naum's poems because I like the freshness and freedom of his associations and poetical images. I like the unexpected of his verse and its dream-like quality.
  Apr 2014 Jedd Ong
betterdays
bring the pizza,
pour the beer,
turn off the phones,
draw the blinds,
lets pretend,
we are not here.

we will be as quiet,
as mice in a church.
eat in the dark,
put the child,
early to bed.
mute the tv.
make love slow,
and silent,
lit by it's flicker.
before we dance naked,
one for the other.

eat cold pizza,
and drink warm beer,
with no one knowing
we are here.
Jedd Ong Apr 2014
Latin purifies.

And so do the other languages
That ring foreign to my ears.

And prayers sound lovelier
When they are honest.

When honestly,
There is nothing to be understood—
No silent covenant.

When "God"
Is but an uppercase letter
Uttered with the utmost clarity.

Or if not,
With the utmost sanctity.
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