The oversized killer baby
Rose from the cot
Swatting the elephant flies
Who were trying to suck
The yellow spots of apricot
From his polka dot top.
Yanking the mast from the yacht,
He wiped the pendulum swing
Of the dripping snot,
Which looked like a slimy stopwatch.
The meteorite plummeted from the sky;
Killer baby’s eyes lit up,
As he pulled the lamplight from the ground
And took an awesome shot;
Unbound with a resounding growl;
The meteorite catapulted sky high
Punching a hole in the sun.
The plants, realising the evening’s demise,
Awakened and marched in a mass exodus
Towards the tempestuous tot.
They had raided the local allotment for spuds,
Which they used for bullets,
Taking a collective pop.
But the toddler laughed and swallowed the lot-
Burping with a bang, as a prickle of porcupines
Charged, and the killer baby bellowed
As he burst into a pile of Licorice Allsorts.
Auburn waves of splendor
permeate the air
heat seeking survival
tangled strands of hair

incendiary delights
exploding through the night
internal sparks of wonder
mounted in every bite

crave and you shall succumb
a succulent sip of sin

wrap your legs around me
stroke my very being
still these demons burning
in every yearn you free
I fell in love within a dream
It’s the damnedest thing!
A lady I’ve never ever even seen
Somehow I knew we were meant to be
And somehow I’m sure
She’s somewhere out there, looking for me

Of course infatuation plays the biggest part in this
I wouldn’t believe that she exists but my heart insists
She’s so deliciously wild yet elegantly tame
Her beautiful eyes drive me madly insane

All these emotions emerge from this lucid dream
Yet I can hardly describe what this most lovely lady really means
In my heart she’s hope in a world grown cold
In my passion she flames igniting my soul
In my mind’s eye she’s perfect, pure, and free
She’s obviously the fulfillment of all that I need
Traveler Tim
She's a Poetess also!
Oh, Cardinal
You great scarlet bird.

You hop along my porch rail
But you don't say a word.

So Defiant
Of nature's camouflage.

There is no way to hide
Your bright red entourage.

Bright yellow.
Your sharp pointy beak.

Gathers the worms and the seeds
All the meals that you seek.

Feed her.
This mate that you court.

Such a noble young man
You dance and cavort.

Sing sweet
You and your friends

I'll love your songs every morning
'Til winter comes 'round again.

Your babies
I'll meet them come next year.

When in the spring, they'll alight on my porch
And bring my morning's cheer.

Oh, Cardinal
I'm so glad you're here, you see.

I knew your parents and now you have come
Singing just for me.
I live pretty far out in the country. The birds here are really awesome. I love to go out late at night and listen to the Barred Owl or sit in our back meadow and watch the Peregrine Falcon.

But every morning as the sun rises and I have my coffee on the back porch ... the Cardinals always seem to be the early risers. Their songs begin with the very first crack of light. They seem to have gotten used to me, as they now land on my porch rail, pretty close to me.

They sing and court mates and sometimes, I swear, they just kinda bop around on the railing and watch ME!

They are simply beautiful and I LOVE having my coffee with them each morning!
Projecting outwards
There's a lot of silly fools
We've all been bent or broken
Branded by the rules

Looking inward
I see a long lost ghost
Forever searching
Worlds apart
I miss myself the most

Gathering it all together
Spread out before my eyes
It all come a bit more clear now
It's great to be alive!
Traveler Tim
Back when I
Was still with you
Roses were ripened
Violets were skewed
All of our love'n
Laced in lewd
Oh the things
We use to do
Acts of madness
Unnaturally crude
Tied up, tied down
Blindfolded moods
Lustful passions
Lacking rules
Back before we
Became improved
Traveler Tim
Which Is Greater?

I break a vow.
A serious vow.

In a place, in this site,
Where the fluid pain
Is the water of the world,
The element that is crux,
The amniotic liquor of creative flux,
The morning juice,
The afternoon caffe,
The first beer of the day,
The liquid that we rinse and spit out our every day,

I will write about pain,
Arrogantly, as if there is any unused combination of
Letters, vowels and consonants left unspoken, unwed,
Having sworn not to, for pain is cumulative.

Asking myself,
Which is greater?

The pain of creation, inception, origination and birth,
The pain of  wreck and ruin, destruction and death.

Homework Self-Assignment: Compare and Contrast

Suddenly, I am expert.

Creating a poem a day is very painful.
A poem that is the sum of
Reflection, research, and purging.

Once I wrote:

The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.

The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.

Suddenly, I am  expert.

My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.

I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown,
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
she ever possessed to the atmosphere,
One breath at a time.

Is that painful?
It is for me.

Now you complain. They're different, not to be compared, et cetera.

Pain is pain,
Whether it is in the service of creation, or
Creative destruction.

Once I wrote:

With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poem's birth diminishes me.

So, one and the same?

Nope. Yes. But. Cannot one be the greater?
Yes, one is greater.
When I lay on my deathbed,
I will exhale the answer
Into the atmosphere
For your retrieval.
Greater. Think upon it.
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.  

Critic, speaker, writer,  
her fiercest feat,                    
her leading role, creator.      
A near century of memories  
her legacy, memories that  
linger not, for incised,        
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being              
of her descendants.            

Her faith in Almighty,            
unflagging, for he did not    
forsake her in the time of      
her old age, when                  
her strength failed.
Love doesnt hurt
Hurt are those who have
Never taken the risk to love
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