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 Nov 2013 Pauvel Jétha
Marian
The beautiful leaves
Are turning color
It is Autumn now
Smoke twirls from chimneys
And bitter Autumn winds
Sting my face and hands
Leaves are falling down
And because of mighty winds
The trees are standing bare
Springtime birds are flying south
To escape the howling winds
And falling snowflakes

Birdies now with golden wing
Join the harp to sweetly sing
Over the meadow and in the skies
Oh how Autumn so quickly flies!
Weeks and days quickly pass
Enjoy Autumn while it lasts
Days quickly die
And years rapidly fly

*~Marian~
I know, this probably doesn't sound as good as some of my other poems,
but I hope you enjoy it anyway!!! :) ~~~~~<3
Human Observations (the woman pees)

if you walk the world
with pen and paper,
sure as the sunrise,
the pen will leak,
when wearing
white and so
will the
words,
right
after.

when you can't sleep,and you
slam your fist into the
pillow, know that the
pillow is silent
thinking, sir,
now, you
really ain't
got a
prayer.

fallen asleep in the soaking tub
a thousand and one times,
ain't never drowned like
the warning ones say
I will do, but
really, in my
night sleep
in the
safety
of bed,
I have
drowned
a million
times.

the woman pees, safe and secure,
comforted by the knowledge
that we have bathrooms
separate, her toilet,
man *** free, tho
we just finished
making sweaty,
fluid swapping
***.


she does not, won't put on makeup
to take out the garbage,
that is why she keeps
me around, her love,
firm, unwavering
once a night.

when you tell your child
that you love them, and
they do not reply,
it is not that they
don't love you back,
it is that they have
yet to learn how to
love themselves,
something
that can't
be taught.

the more trinkets I buy her,
more she screams stop,
but never not once
has she said,
here, take it
back.

if you don't believe in Faeries,
try, for then you have a
chance of getting the
missing sock,
back, intact.

If must look up the time where
you love is currently residing
then the probability is more,
> than 1.000, that you no
longer love them enuf.

you know it is time to
hang up the pen put
down the iPad, give up
on this poetry gig
when you really prefer
the autocorrect
suggestion.


More to follow.
More to follow
11/24/13
I don't dedicate poems

nope.

the dedication is in the
composition.

In the composition is:
the ceremonial fire

the ribbon drawn tight
ready for cutting

the struggle, heavy breathing,
the ****** of completion

the satisfaction of having
torn off a piece of you,
and in doing so, you
are even more whole
than before

when it is done
I don't dedicate to you

I surrender it, grant and give it,
push it away, can't even
remember it days later,
cause it ain't mine,
ain't mine no more
from the second
I push that
black n white
Save Poem
button.

someday I am gonna plagiarize myself,
and then laugh and laugh all the way
home.
11/24/13
on the phone with her sister,
a 9:00am, a Saturday, weekend ritual,
and I hear say "even..."
and I wait,
knowing she can't
remember my name,

so I help her out,
filling the blanks,
and say out loud

the guy in bed next to me,

but that makes it worse,
cause now she is
laughing so hard,
tears are rolling,
she can't talk at all.

me, I'm writing this
down and
done.

not much of a poem,
agreed,
but a moment,
a slice of the day,
forever captured,
and someday,
when she stumbles on this,
when I am no longer scribbling,
here's hoping she starts
laughing all over again,
like you are now.
Men of few words are the best men
Shakespeare's Henry V
(Act 3 Scene 2. Line 41)


yet men still
pleasure themselves oft,
the music of their voices
soothes their conscience,
even as it irritates
those unchosen few
who must deign
to listen to the
ration of their excuses.

I fare not well
in this endeavor,
for as poet and
recorder of all that be
known as human folly,
more is always best
or at least, better!

for no man knows
the limits of his import,
his web of self-deception
cast far and wide,
for it must perforce
hold him aloft,
on all the tissued lies
he hath convinced himself
to be the absolute truth,
and nothing but...  

so let us ascribe
to those fools
who call themselves
mistakenly, men
a smokey, fleeting honour,
for many words
they do employ to
plead their case,
proving well in
a fashion most
contrary and contradictory
that their worth is
worst, when they speak
long and eloquent of their
vainglorious heroics and medals,
watch their words ascend,
and like smoke, forever disappear.

that is why, young reader,
heed the lesson of the
American cowboys
who say little,
but walk tall,
and sit straight
in the saddle,
and sing consoling songs of
lonesome love around the
dying fire.
for Barry and Tina*

Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.

But I look to my father’s hands and see
all twelve-thousand morning mists
he has seen.

A gristmill heart, grained hands
and workshop walking feet are
all hidden from view.

He writes in capitals, written
with precision, and crosses the T’s
as he goes along,

So not to prolong the sentence writing chore,
making more time, conjuring up the minutes
to potter around and mend unbroken objects.
-
Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.

But I look at my mother’s hands
and see remedies read about in those magazines,
all to look younger in the staff canteen.

A watermill heart, smooth iron fingers
and contoured, sculpted chiselled
corridor feet are all hidden from view.

She scrawls her sentences; they become the tide
hiding letters and numbers in the swell
of punctuation and dotted I’s,

The T’s cross themselves and she moves on,
another phone call to attend too or
a new BBC this-time-more-accurate historical drama  to view.
-
Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.

But if you keep on going, stay out of strong sunlight
so not to rot, those years will pass
as a striking blur leading to coastal Big Sur
roads, where the next 50 miles
bring just as many smiles as the last 50.
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