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 Dec 2017 Dave Cortel
Amy Lowell
On winter nights beside the nursery fire
We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals
Builded its pictures. There before our eyes
We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone
Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung
With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;
And all along the walls at intervals,
Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,
And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves
Divided where there peered a laughing face.
The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,
A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.
High pointed windows pierced the southern wall
Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires
To stain the tessellated marble floor
With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;
And in the shade beyond the further door,
Its sober squares of black and white were hid
Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob
Of lackeys and retainers come to view
The Christening.
A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng
About the entrance parted as the guests
Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.
Our eager fancies noted all they brought,
The glorious, unattainable delights!
But always there was one unbidden guest
Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.


The fire falls asunder, all is changed,
I am no more a child, and what I see
Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.
The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:
Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name
Which honors all who bear it, and the power
Of making words obedient. This is much;
But overshadowing all is still the curse,
That never shall I be fulfilled by love!
Along the parching highroad of the world
No other soul shall bear mine company.
Always shall I be teased with semblances,
With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile
Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy
Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering
Strews all the ground about with coloured shards.
So I behold my visions on the ground
No longer radiant, an ignoble heap
Of broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,
Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps
Force me forever through the passing days.
too lost in you
to actually know
what love
should really feel like.
 Dec 2017 Dave Cortel
Oka
When your heart moves to another,
hurt me so that I grow
hatred and anger,
shatter my love to dust
and leave me wounded and scarred.
So that I detest missing you
and run away from your reconciliation
I will love you seven days a week.
I will tell you tales, and love you as we speak.
I will love you today,
And I will love you more each day.

I will love you like Monday.
Like how the Moon loves to kiss the bay.
Like what happened on July 20, 1969,
I will take the risk like my life is on the line.
Because this day will be the start,
Of a one giant leap for my heart.

I will love you like Tuesday.
Like how Ares loves to slay.
I will fight for you till the end of the week,
And claim you as the prize that I seek.
Because even the God of War,
Lost the battle to the one he adore.

I will love you like Wednesday.
Like how Hermes loves to play.
To your heart, I will become a guide.
Everything that you'll need, I will provide.
Every problem we will outwit.
We will face it together, we won't quit.

I will love you like Thursday.
Like how Thor loves to throw his hammer away.
I'll try to be perfect like him,
Even though I am weak and I am slim.
And when our love meets Ragnarok,
I will remind you how I love you again like an alarm clock.

I will love you like Friday.
Like how Freya loves her beauty to be portray.
On this day I will adore your beauty,
I'll touch and give pleasure to your body.
I'll bring you gifts and other thing,
And I'll hope that one day you'll wear that diamond ring.

I will love you like Saturday.
Like how Cronus loves to eat a new-borns buffet.
How I hope I won't suffer the same fate,
Because did you know what happened to this mate?
I promise not to be a Cronus.
I'll love you and our children as a bonus.

I will love you like Sunday.
Like how the Sun loves to give us a brand new day.
This may be the end of the week,
But my love for you won't end, this I speak.
For I love you seven days a week,
And I'll end everyday with a kiss on your cheek.
it's made for her again. and if you notice, i made it with accordance to the name of the days and the root of its names.
 Dec 2017 Dave Cortel
Pitch Hiker
Its about time
The years come to its end
Its about time I realize
My failures
Its about time I recognize
My successes
Its about time I remember
All the events this year has brought
Its about time I acknowledge
The people who shape me
And make me
Its about time
I write something....
Something meaningful
With truth and a lot of poise
Something that expresses the universe
Inside my head
All the buzzing all the
Click, click clicking's
With the long long
Beeeeeeep
Something that touches your heart
Crushes your heart holds and bears its pieces
Something that mends and heals your heart
Making it stronger than ever
A poem that make's you question your thought
One that reaches your frequency of thinking
One that never stops your wondering
Something subtle in an abrupt way
One that builds your dreams
Feeds your nightmares and ends in the perfect battle
Keeping you on your toes to see if you
Built your dreams strong enough to fight
What scares you most
This is my toast of a new year
That maybe by next year
I will write the poem
That expresses the universe of me
One that will tell you of my every
Galaxy
I just at I am made up of the people I have met
And have been influenced by
I am made up of thousands of stars and planets
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